“You didn’t make an appointment.” The other man scowled. “I’ve yet to meet a librarian who isn’t fond of making appointments. So do tell me, Miss Gresham, what brings you to Kensey.”
Not a question. And she was rather glad she had taken a week in London to work out all the details and make acquaintances. Now she could beam as she reclaimed her hand. “Of course, sir. I have been working with a Mr. Hall in London, who is delving into the history of the royal family—upon His Majesty’s request, of course—and he mentioned that you have been looking for some assistance with your library, Mr. Holstein.”
Not that the chap, even with his tongue loosened by gin, would have recommended her for the task. But hopefully the name itself would do the work.
It appeared to do so. Holstein rocked back on his heels and sent the other man a look that said . . . something. Rosemary couldn’t quite decipher it.
The other gent sighed. “It’s worth a conversation, I suppose. Though we both know she’ll run for cover when you show her the cave, like everyone else has.”
Cave? Rosemary adjusted the hat that the wind was trying to tug free. “I’m a resilient sort, Mr. . . . ?”
“Gryffyn Penrose. Barrister.”
A lawyer? It took considerable effort to keep her smile in place. She’d never liked the blighters. Though they were better than bobbies. A bit. “How do you do, Mr. Penrose.”
“Very well.” He didn’t return the greeting or reach to shake. Rather, he folded his arms over the slight paunch that his jacket did little to hide.
Holstein sent his lawyer—friend?—another look, this one more easily interpreted. “D-Don’t be r-rude, Gryff.” He offered Rosemary a smile. A smile peaceful enough to seem odd, following that stuttered command. “W-We were j-just discuss . . . discussing . . .” He cleared his throat but looked neither embarrassed nor frustrated. He merely nodded to Penrose.
The lawyer sighed again. “We were just discussing Mr. Holstein’s need for a librarian to organize, as well as to help locate certain family documents. I’m sure Mr. Hall mentioned why.”
He had, at that, on his third pint. A rather slurring story about how the blasted Germans were littered through London society, thanks to the king’s family. Including the mysterious Mr. Holstein, who had certain powerful sectors in an uproar. Apparently there was some question as to whether he was even an English subject.
What he hadn’t mentioned was that the man couldn’t even speak a sentence coherently. And yet people were worried that he had the ear of the king? Obviously there was more at work than she could see in a single glance. “He gave me the gist, sir, and let me know where I could find you if I wished to apply for the position, and perhaps help you with your family history as he is helping His Majesty.”
Never had she imagined she would utter a sentence that linked her, however distantly, to a monarch. What had Mr. V gotten her into?
But Holstein returned her smile, his shoulders even relaxing a degree. He nodded. His chin, she noted, had the slightest of clefts. Elinor would swoon. “You are an answer to p-prayer, Miss Gr—Gresham.”
Well, that was a first. And made a strange little something wiggle around in her chest. “Am I?”
He turned toward the house. “C-Come. I’ll show . . . show you the l-library.”
Penrose fell in beside Holstein, leaving Rosemary to bring up the rear. What an odd pair they were. They were of the same height, give or take a smidgeon, though where Penrose looked settled and commanding, Holstein bordered on underweight and could have easily appeared timid. Yet he didn’t, not really. He was the one who led the way, his step sure.
Of course, it was his house. No doubt that lent one a certain something when it came to authority. Rosemary followed with her valise still in hand.
Penrose cast another suspicious glance over his shoulder at her. And didn’t bother lowering his voice to ask, “Pete, are you sure—”
“Yes.”
“But there are—”
“No.”
Penrose huffed. “You are impossible once you’ve made up your mind.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Holstein!”
They all stopped at the new voice, one that perfectly matched the aged but hardy fellow who rounded the far corner of the house, waving a hand. He had a ragged hat over white hair, dirt on his knees and hands.
Yet Holstein didn’t hesitate to detour from his path to greet the old fellow, nor to grip the grubby hand. “Teague. Hello.”
“The missus said you’d made it home—and good it is to see you, sir.” Teague shook Holstein’s hand, going so far as to clasp it in both of his, transferring more dirt. Rosemary glanced at Penrose to see if the lawyer would object—since that seemed to be his natural response to everything—but he was smiling. And ignoring her.
Suited her just fine. She looked back to the greeting in time to see Holstein pat the pocket of his jacket, frowning. He then rolled his eyes and held up a finger. “Study. On my . . . desk.”
The old man grinned. “Aye, I’ll get it. Did you see the gladioli?”
“Beautiful. Ab . . . absolutely beautiful.”
The gardener, presumably. Which certainly explained the dirt. Rosemary set down her valise, her gaze snagging on Penrose’s shoes. They were pricey-looking, more so than his clothes. But now that she was closer, she could see a gleam of gold from a watch fob—and his cufflinks were certainly silver. He must do well for himself. Holstein’s were of even better quality, though the styles were understated. Obviously a man who didn’t care to call attention to himself.
Even the gardener looked well cared for. Though the clothes were filthy, they didn’t look over-mended. And he certainly didn’t look like he ever missed a meal.
Not that she intended to help herself to anything while she was here, to be sure. She had a far bigger payday coming than any of their pockets would give her. Though a week or two of steady meals wouldn’t go amiss.
Holstein came toward them again—and now he looked embarrassed. “F-Forgive me, Miss Gresham. L-Let me h-help you with . . . with that.” He reached for her valise.
It took her a moment to get over her shock—he, a gentleman, master of the house, reaching for her bag?—and object. “Oh! No, sir, that isn’t necessary. I can handle it, I assure you.”
“N-Non . . . sense.” His mind made up, he turned back for the stone steps looming before them.
Penrose sighed. “I see you plan to stay for a while, Miss Gresham. And who was that who drove you here?”
“My sister.” She had claimed it so often, it felt more truth than lie to her tongue, and she put a bounce in her step. “She’s always wanted to see Cornwall so came along for a bit of a holiday while I’m here. We’ve a room in the village—I only brought that with me now because it has my notebooks in it.”
The door opened before them. Holstein, already up the stairs, looked over his shoulder at her as he crossed the threshold. “If . . . if you d-decide to st-stay and help, there’s a . . . a c-cottage. You may . . . it’s empty.”
Willa would never agree—she wanted to be in the village where she could find what opportunities were to be found. But a cottage on the grounds would certainly give Rosemary better access to everything. “That sounds absolutely perfect, Mr. Holstein. If, of course, you decide to hire me. I do understand that a female is hardly the usual person for such a job, but . . .” Her breath caught as she stepped inside.
Perhaps, as Willa had said, it wasn’t so grand as other manor houses. They had passed bigger ones on the journey here, to be sure, visible from the train’s windows. And they had blustered their way into balls in London hosted in some rather impressive venues.
But this was different. This was a house, a home, and yet like nothing she’d ever seen. The words she used to describe the things in her own flat—walls, floor, chairs, tables—didn’t seem to do justice to the features here. Such rich colors, from the woods to the fabrics. Gleaming metals. Fresh flowers in pe
rfect vases.
The men stopped to look at her, leaving her little choice but to exaggerate her response. She pressed a hand to her chest. “What a lovely home you have, Mr. Holstein. I don’t believe I’ve seen lovelier anywhere in London. Is that tapestry French?” Did the French even specialize in tapestries? She was as bad at naming decor as she was composers.
Holstein, thankfully, didn’t appear any better at it. He shrugged, his lips curling up in a hint of a smile. “All I . . . all I can tell you is th—that it’s r-red.”
Her smile went genuine. “What a keen eye you have.”
He chuckled and headed toward a hallway to the right. She followed, forcing herself to focus on the important things—that none of the windows or doors had electro-magnetic alarms affixed to them. So unless he had a vault somewhere, the place was largely unsecured.
Penrose, scowling, held up to walk beside her. Not, she suspected, a friendly gesture. “I trust you come with references, Miss Gresham, even if not an appointment?”
“Of course, sir. They’re in my valise there.” All provided just yesterday by Mr. V, after she’d sent him a note telling him what she needed. They looked genuine to her eye, and she was an expert at spotting a fraud. But it hadn’t occurred to her to make an appointment. It should have.
Penrose grunted. “We’ll take a look once we’re in the cave, if you dare to venture that far inside.”
Rosemary lifted her brows and adjusted the spectacles. They were making her ears hurt. Perhaps they hadn’t been such a smart addition after all. “Are you not fond of libraries, Mr. Penrose?”
“Libraries are delightful. This particular room is more the site of an avalanche of books.”
“Now, Gryff. They are . . . they are not in p-piles. Just st—stacks.”
At the end of the hall, Holstein paused before the final door and drew a breath that looked, oddly, as though it were meant to bolster him. He set his gaze on her—his eyes were a deep blue-green—and inclined his head. “D-Don’t be . . . alarmed, Miss Gresham. There is . . . there is an—an order.”
Penrose grunted again. “No living creature has ever determined it, but certainly. An order.”
Oh gracious. She pasted a smile in place and drew up an image of all those crisp pound notes. All those lovely zeroes to follow, promising her enough income to support the whole family for the rest of the year. They’d be able to get new coats before winter—nice ones. Shoes nearly as sturdy as the ones Mr. Penrose wore. She could make a real Christmas for the little ones. Books for Barclay—new ones, not used. A new bow for Willa’s violin. Paints for Retta.
How bad could a library really be?
She had her answer when Holstein swung the double doors open, inward. Perhaps, once, the room had been majestic. The ceiling soared high overhead, a magnificent mural painted on it. The chamber stretched the whole width of the house. Shelves lined the walls, floor to towering ceiling. Lined with books, all of them. Then with books stacked in front of them. Books stacked on the floor. Books stacked on the chairs, the tables, lining the windowsills. Boxes of them. Random cases of them at odd places.
She couldn’t help the gasp. But surely Rosemary Gresham, librarian, would be in love with the sight. Right? She stepped inside. “Oh, it’s heaven.”
A place she’d long known the Almighty would never let her enter—now He’d plunged her into its opposite, right here on earth. Perhaps it served her right in the eyes of His ultimate justice, but really. She was only trying to survive, to feed the mouths He’d placed in her care. What had she really done to deserve this?
She took another brave step inside and turned to look at the men again. Who hadn’t, she noted, ventured beyond the threshold. Still, she smiled. “What would you like done with the place, Mr. Holstein? A general organizing? Or, as Mr. Hall indicated as a possibility, are you looking for family documents?”
“Ah.” He set down her valise, straightened again. His eyes flitted over the room. “Both. I am n-not . . . not sure wh-where their . . . journals are. They m-must be found. But books. Could be r-relevant. There are . . . some there. And there. And h-here. Some perhaps . . . perhaps there.” His hand started at the left and moved to encompass everything. Absolutely everything. “Plus g-general . . . organizing.”
She spun back to face her certain destruction. Never mind her estimation of a week or two. It would take her months to go through it all. Years. She might never get done. And librarian or not, she figured that would daunt anyone. Her fingers tugged at the lace of her collar. “Oh dear.”
“And much of it’s in German,” Penrose declared with far too much amusement. He was leaning into the doorway, looking downright jolly. “Will that be a problem for you?”
She wondered again how Mr. V had known. He knew, it seemed, everything. Which couldn’t be good. But it had gotten her hired for this job, so she wouldn’t question it. Her lips returned to their smile. “No problem at all, Mr. Penrose. I’m afraid I speak it atrociously, but I read it passably well.”
Holstein sent Penrose one of those looks, this one bright and cheerful.
Penrose pushed off the frame. “Those references, if you please.”
“Certainly.” They would pass muster. They must. Which meant she’d be stuck for the foreseeable future here in this shaking tower of tomes ready to suffocate her. Praying to that irony-loving, ever-unhearing God that war would hold off until she had made significant headway. She picked up the valise from the floor and prepared to seal her fate.
Maybe he didn’t need a storm—for beginning so dismally, this day had taken the best of turns. Peter whistled a happy tune and edged another step into the room while Gryff claimed the two square feet of empty table space to flip through the papers Miss Gresham had withdrawn from her case. It didn’t look so daunting. Not now that he had a trained librarian who hadn’t run for the hills, as Gryff said, the moment she glanced at the room. And if she’d been working with Hall, then she was the best. Capable of bringing actual order into the place.
He smiled and toed one of the boxes he’d dropped inside the door on his last trip home, full of letters from Wells, Doyle, Joyce, Baum, London . . . all of whom he owed letters back. And with this weight off him, he’d be in a better frame of mind to write them.
His glance went back to Gryff and Miss Gresham. True, her shoulders looked rather narrow to carry this burden . . . but the Lord had clearly sent her. Clearly. Within minutes of saying how desperately he needed a person of her profession, here she was, without even stopping at Gryff’s office first. And if he understood the Lord at all, then he must trust she was the perfect personage for the task, however unsuited she might look.
Nothing but prejudice on his part, he knew. A woman was perfectly capable of finding her way around a library, and Mother would have boxed his ears for even thinking otherwise.
Gryff straightened with a grumble ill-humored enough to signify he’d found nothing amiss in the references. “Looks to be in order. Of course I shall have to—”
“Gryff.” Really, sometimes he took the whole barrister thing too far. Peter widened his eyes and shook his head, needing no words to ask his friend why he was trying so hard to spoil such a good thing.
Gryff rolled his eyes. “Fine, have it your way. What think you, Miss Gresham? Do you dare to tackle such a monstrous room?”
“Well, of course!” She declared it cheerfully and stepped over a stack of periodicals, her sights set on something over by the window. Or maybe on the window, if she needed a reminder that there was still a world outside this overwhelming room. “I’ll just poke around a bit to familiarize myself, if you don’t mind, Mr. Holstein.”
“P-Please.” He waited for Gryff to join him by the door and leaned close. “See? She . . . she seems to actually . . . to like it.”
“Evidence of insanity. We ought to have her examined by a—”
“Gryffyn.”
“Well, other trained men didn’t last two seconds, so one must ask why she is so ea
ger. She could be about something foul.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Or . . . or need the . . . money.” Positions in her chosen field probably weren’t easy to come by for a woman.
“You are too quick to trust, Pete.” Pursing his lips, Gryff watched her as if she might try to pocket the miniature globe that sat atop a stack of biographies. “She doesn’t look like a librarian,” he said under his breath.
Mother would have boxed his ears too. Peter sighed. “And what . . . what, pray tell . . . does a librarian look like?”
“Like something other than she does.” He waved a hand, encompassing the brown curls twisted into some sort of a bun under her hat, the pale linen suit, the graceful gloved hands.
Really, she wasn’t bad to look at. No great beauty, perhaps, and he couldn’t even tell her eye color behind those spectacles. But if he were going to have someone underfoot for the summer, he could think of worse options.
So long as she was quiet. Though surely a librarian would know the value of silence.
“Hmph.” Gryff angled himself toward the door. “Bring her with you tomorrow, if she lasts that long. We’ll let Jenny get a look at her. No one can tell people at a glance like Jenny can.”
“Except . . . except her obvious breach in judgment when . . . when she married you.”
Chuckling, Gryff stepped out of the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Cheerio.”
Peter waved his farewell and then looked around the room. There really were twice as many books in here as there should be. Perhaps three times, if one factored in the newspapers and magazines and correspondence. He really ought to take his boxes of letters up to the attic. Perhaps if he did, it would begin to look more like a library and less like a cave.
It would be as dark as one in another hour too—though the rest of the house had electricity, the man had taken one look at this room and declared it impossible to wire. It had been years since he’d peeked in here in the dark, but he well remembered how the towering stacks had loomed like trees, dense and thick. Primordial.
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