Rosemary leaned back in the chair as she read the rest of it, as he spoke of The New Machiavelli, which she had picked up last night, and Wells’s way of speaking of Parliament. Of Moby Dick and the soul’s quest for God—adding that, yes, he had the complete works of Melville, and she was welcome to borrow them.
Her lips tugged up at that, especially when he went on to inquire about the brother she’d mentioned.
Barclay would have an apoplexy over the fact that she’d mentioned him at all. But she had already claimed Willa as her sister, and how was she to be around all Barclay’s favorite novels and not bring him up?
At the end of the letter were a few quick lines of instruction that reiterated what he’d mentioned yesterday—that in addition to organizing the room, her focus should be on finding a set of journals that his father and grandfather had written. And that if she could look through any books that might mention his family history, he would appreciate finding some solid information as to why the Holsteins had left Germany and that expounded on their ties to England rather than the Fatherland.
He knew, then, of the suspicions. And wanted to be able to meet them head-on.
Well, she was far more likely to find what she needed—evidence to the contrary.
All of which promised to make her eyes ache, and she was happy to ignore the daunting stacks a few minutes longer. She drew out a sheet of fresh paper from her valise, along with the fountain pen she’d purchased in London before she’d left but hadn’t yet had cause to use.
Her hand hovered above the page. Her writing wasn’t so neat, so tidy, so elegant. She’d learned her letters, after all, behind Pauly’s bar, on a stray piece of slate he’d dug up for her somewhere. No fancy tutors or expensive schools.
Would he expect something more from a librarian? Would she be giving herself away with her very hand?
“Drat it all.” She put down the pen and stood again. She would do better to focus on slaying this many-paged dragon.
Should she begin in the corner and work her way around? Or from right here at the table and work her way to the outsides of the room? Or maybe take a sampling from each section and see if there were any classification within it at all?
Or perhaps she’d start at the door. There was a certain logic to that. Then she might not have to fend off claustrophobia just by stepping inside.
Notebook in hand, she headed that way and knelt on the floor to trail a finger down the spines of the first stack. The two on top were religious works. She made a note, jotting down the authors—one English, one German.
The book beneath those, on the other hand, appeared to be . . . mathematics? She slid it out of the stack. Essay on the Theory of Numbers. For a moment, she could only stare. Who in the world could spend a hundred pages theorizing about numbers? Now, if they were attached to a pound sign and one was discussing what to do with them—but plain, simple numbers?
Copernicus lay beneath that one by Dedekind. But beneath him was a book on floral arrangements.
Floral arrangements.
She shook her head and wrote that down too. Perhaps these by the door had been looked through more recently and put back in here helter-skelter. Perhaps in other parts of the room, there would be more order.
She turned to the other side of the doorway. Boxes were stacked upon boxes there, all of them closed up. Rosemary took the lid from the topmost one and peeked inside. Unbound papers filled it to bursting, all of them unfolded but bearing creases. Setting lid and her notebook down, she pulled one out.
A letter. Addressed to Peter from . . . her eyes went wide. The signature merely said George. But there was a crest under it, one everyone in England knew. She held in her hands a letter from the king himself. Only inviting Holstein for a game of cricket on some Thursday long since past, but still. And there, a reference to Peter’s last letter to him. I have been pondering your words.
What words? That was the question, wasn’t it? But how was she to know only from the letters he received? She would have to try to piece together from the responses what he’d written in his. Leaning against the wall, she read that last line again.
The wall shifted—or rather, the stack of boxes she’d mistaken for the wall shifted. Swayed. Teetered. “No!” Tossing down the letter, she reached to steady the stack.
She only made it worse. The two top boxes came crashing down. They were so densely packed, their contents didn’t even spill, but they did send a stack of books tumbling, which created such a din that it would surely bring the whole house down upon her.
“What a start to a new job, Rosemary,” she muttered under her breath.
The door to the library opened, and Holstein surged in, brows up. “Miss Gresham, are . . . are you all right?”
She shoved back a curl that had slipped free and knew her smile was more frustrated than reassuring. “Sorry. Clumsy me—I won’t knock over everything, I promise. Just not quite used to how close everything is.”
“No n-need to a . . . apologize.” He wove his way through the room, frowning at the boxes now on their sides on the floor. “You n-needn’t worry with . . . with those. They are m-mine. Just . . . letters.”
Letters from the king. She smoothed down the linen of her jacket over her hips, reminding herself not to overstep. “Excellent. I’ll just move them to a corner, then, shall I? So they’ll be out of the way and I won’t knock them over again.”
“I can h-help you.”
“No need, sir, I assure you. I can manage a box of papers well enough.”
But he had already arrived at her side and crouched down to retrieve the lid to the formerly topmost box. And her notebook, which he glanced at.
So much for keeping her handwriting from him. Her cheeks went warm when he squinted at her scrawl, and she snatched the book from his hand. Then backed up a step—she was well used to using close proximity to strangers to her advantage, but it seemed different in an otherwise unoccupied room. Far too . . . friendly. “Forgive my script, Mr. Holstein. I was by nature left-handed, you see, but forced to learn with my right, and . . .”
It was Pauly’s excuse for his poor penmanship, and it seemed to appease her employer. He slung his hands in his pockets and made no move to get any closer. “Are y-you sure you . . . you d-don’t need any help?”
“Quite. Though I do appreciate the offer, I don’t want to keep you from your business.” She darted a glance toward his study.
“Ah.” He edged back in that direction, gaze latched on the open door. “Right. Then . . . if you need any . . . anything, j-just let m-me know.”
“Certainly, sir. Have a pleasant morning—oh, and thank you for having breakfast sent out.”
He disappeared into his study with a wave over his shoulder, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Rosemary pursed her lips. She ought to be paying attention to him as much as to the documents in this room. And to be sure, he had some odd quirks. But then, how many of them stemmed from his unfortunate inability to speak properly? That would be enough to make anyone a bit of a hermit.
So then . . . how had he come to be such chums with the king—a man at least a decade his senior? She’d have to go through those letters. And she’d have to be discreet about it, since Holstein could burst back through that door at any moment.
For now, she did as she’d said she’d do. Moved the boxes into a corner—which required first scooting out the stacks of books that had already been there. Books that ranged from French poetry by some chap named Baudelaire, to a Latin something or another that went well beyond her comprehension, to an English tome two inches thick on how to cultivate cotton. Cotton!
Within half an hour, she’d shed her jacket. After another hour of shoving, pulling, stacking, and sorting, she flung open the windows. She couldn’t be sure she was organizing things as anyone else would, but it at least made sense to her—she was making stacks for each subject. Shoving into the corners the ones she couldn’t see having any bearing on his family histor
y, and putting in the middle of the room the ones that might.
By noon, she couldn’t tell by looking at the room that she’d done a thing, but there was a line of perspiration trickling down her back, and curls that had slipped free of her chignon were sticking to her neck. She’d tossed the spectacles onto the table after they’d all but rubbed her raw behind the ears. And her growling stomach was reminding her that she hadn’t tried any of that lovely-looking marmalade on toast.
She needed a rest. Some water wouldn’t be ill-placed either, but she was a bit too tired to venture into the kitchen just now. The table looked inviting though, so she took a seat again. She ought to pull forward one of those volumes she had set aside that seemed as though it might deal with Holstein family history.
But the letter was already out, before her. She looked at it again instead. Never in her life had she gotten a proper letter. Willa had left her a note here and there, when she’d slipped out before Rosemary awoke, but those had always been scrawled with chalk on that same slate—they hadn’t funds enough to waste on spare paper.
She picked up her pen. Her first proper letter deserved a response.
Are we confessing our insecurities? Then I shan’t be left out. I have always been afraid of the dark, and I noticed that the library is the one room in this lovely house of yours without electric lights. Cruel irony, sir. Though I shall further confess that my flat in London doesn’t have them either.
What it does have, however, is family, about whom you asked.
My family? Positively huge. And we always, always encourage one another. I can’t imagine life without them. My eldest brother is the one I mentioned last night, Barclay, who seems to share your taste in fiction. My sister Willa is a year younger than I—she is the one who drove me out here yesterday. And there are scads of younger ones.
I do see your point about the power of fiction. That is, perhaps, why Willa and I both like stories with a bit of romance to them. They remind us that there’s always hope for happiness tomorrow, no matter how bleak today might be.
Her new pen was perhaps too smoothly flowing, too easily used. Why else would she have written so much, and all of it true? Screwing the cap back on, she folded the letter. She wouldn’t give it to him. He certainly didn’t really want to know about her family. Or why she would take Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester over The War of the Worlds any day.
Except . . . he had asked, hadn’t he? And why would he have done so if he didn’t want to know? He was under no obligation. If it were nothing more than polite interest, then this was nothing more than a polite response.
She opened the page again, and the pen. Glanced at the letter from him. He’d signed it Peter, which seemed rather familiar, but what did she really know of letter-writing? Perhaps that was how one always signed a letter, with one’s first name.
So be it, then. She had practiced her name more than anything else and could write it with a fair imitation of beauty, she thought. A looping R, careful middle letters, and a long, curling tail on her Y.
She stood, grabbed up the paper. He obviously received a mountain of correspondence. This would mean nothing to him—just an answer to his question. That would be that.
A breeze came through the open window, ruffling the pages of a magazine and soothing the heat trapped under her collar. She enjoyed it for a moment and then moved to the door joining the library to his office.
No click-clacking. No dings. She rapped on the door.
Nothing.
Well, he did say she could borrow a novel, didn’t he? She opened the door slowly, peeking in. Empty. Good. Breathing more easily, she strode over to his desk. And gaped.
Last night it had been so neat. Now there wasn’t a spare inch of space on it anywhere. The entire top was covered with papers and books and half-filled teacups, a plate with crumbs, and miscellaneous rubber bands and paper clips.
The rock that had made such an ignominious acquaintance with the window anchored down a pile of papers.
The typewriter sat empty. And none of the papers strewn about had anything typewritten upon them.
“Hmm.” That twitch in her stomach told her she’d have to find out what he was typing at some point—but not without knowing his schedule and routine. If he would be happening back into this room in a matter of minutes, she didn’t want to be caught with her hand in a desk drawer. Wouldn’t do to be dismissed her first day here.
She put the note on top of the typewriter—that being the only space not already littered—and then turned to the shelves. He didn’t seem to employ any better order to his books here than he did in the library, but there were at least fewer of them. It took her only five minutes to find Moby Dick.
He still hadn’t returned, but that twitchy place inside told her he’d been gone long enough to be due back any second, so she slipped into the library. And jumped, squealing, when she saw a figure straightening from the table.
Mrs. Teague scowled at her. “And what are you doing in Mr. Holstein’s study, young miss?”
Her instincts had certainly been right on not wanting to arrive as a domestic. She could only imagine how unpleasant it must be to live under this woman’s thumb. If ever she were mistress of a house like this, she wouldn’t let her housekeeper lord over the rest of the staff. Holding up the book, she breathed, “He said I might borrow a novel.”
“And you were quick to take advantage, I see.” The housekeeper lumbered a few steps her way. “I brought you your meal—you will of course want to take it in here so you can keep working as you eat and get done all the faster.”
Rosemary fought the sudden urge to insist on eating it somewhere else—anywhere else. She dredged up a smile. “How thoughtful. Thank you.”
“You’re not fooling me, you know.”
Her pulse might have increased, but she had long ago trained herself not to show it. She had slithered right between two bobbies last autumn, hadn’t she, with a liberated bracelet on her wrist? And they hadn’t suspected a thing. She lifted her brows. “I’m not trying to fool you, Mrs. Teague.”
The woman pointed a chubby finger at her. “I know what you’re doing here, and I’ll not have it.”
Rosemary blinked. She may have thought she knew something, but she certainly didn’t know Rosemary’s real purposes. “You don’t want me to help Mr. Holstein with the library?”
“Oh, by all means. Help him with this heap of nonsense. And let that be the end of it, do you hear me?”
“All right.” Sidestepping the wide woman, she slid the book onto the table and tried not to ogle the tray of food. Sandwiches, fruit, even fresh greens.
“The Penroses may have invited you to join Mr. Holstein for dinner at their home tonight, but don’t think it’s for any purpose but to keep an eye on you.”
Strawberries. There were strawberries, and they smelled like heaven. “I’m not—pardon?” She snapped back around. “Penroses? Dinner?”
“Mr. Holstein asked me to inform you. You’ll leave promptly at seven, and don’t think Mr. Teague or I will so much as blink until you’re back again.”
Dinner with the lawyer? She had to stifle a groan. “How lovely. I look forward to meeting Mrs. Penrose.”
Given the housekeeper’s satisfied hmph, she had to wonder at what kind of beast she’d find in the lawyer’s wife. “And she’s looking forward to meeting you too, I’m sure. Now I’ll be off. Don’t want to distract you—and you’ll do well to extend the same courtesy to Mr. Holstein and keep that door shut.”
Unable to resist any longer, Rosemary swiped a strawberry from the plate. “What does he work on in there all day?” It was, she thought, a reasonable question for anyone to ask. And if she could get an answer with a simple inquiry . . .
Mrs. Teague pulled the door closed with a solid thunk, apparently not trusting Rosemary to do so. “I don’t know, nor do you need to. Mr. Holstein’s business is his own. You’ll do well to remember that—he’s our employer. Nothing more.”
Funny—she could have sworn the Teagues both greeted him with far more warmth than they would a mere employer. But she wouldn’t detain the woman any longer. She put the strawberry to her lips and took a bite, letting the juice trickle over her tongue.
Her eyes slid shut until the teetering stacks of books simply ceased to exist and it was just her and the fresh red fruit. There would be time enough to worry about overbearing housekeepers, foul-tempered barristers, and stuttering employers with clefts in their chins. Just now, Rosemary Gresham, librarian, was going to enjoy this life she’d borrowed.
Five
Peter finished the last bite of his sandwich, his gaze out on the churning waves, his free hand finding a stone beside him. Clouds gathered, out where sky kissed water, and the ever-present wind whipped past him with furious gusts. The storm he’d wanted yesterday would probably be here by morning, if not by dark tonight.
He lifted the rock, flung it out. Somewhere between cliff and waves it vanished from his view. Rarely could he ever see the plunk into the water. But still he tossed a few stones. And he remembered his grandfather’s voice in his young ears, as Opa threw a stone of his own. As he said, “They are like our prayers, ja? We send them out, and we cannot see, always, what they do. Once in a while we see their ripples. But more often we cannot. Still we pray. Because just like our logic tells us these rocks fall and gather and join the other rocks below, so our faith tells us our prayers whisper into God’s ears and gather and join the prayers of the other faithful. And His Word says the prayers of the faithful avail much.”
Peter’s lips curved up into a smile. All the prayers in the world probably wouldn’t stop war from coming—not so long as men were set in their courses and gave little heed to the Lord. And if war came, life would get complicated for any man in England with a German surname—especially one who had somehow managed to make enemies of a few vital politicians.
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