A girl ran out. She looked to be about four or five, with dark curls whipping around her head that made Rosemary miss little Olivia. Though to be sure, this girl was soft and round where Olivia was all bones and angles. The joy on her face was the same though.
The little one charged directly toward the carriage, even as a call of “Elowyn!” came from the house’s door.
The girl ignored the command heavy in the name. She didn’t seem to notice Rosemary or Kenver at all, so intent was her gaze upon Peter Holstein as he stepped down. “Uncle Peter!”
He laughed. It was a good laugh, without any of the hesitation that filled his words. Warm and comfortable and . . . and good. Rosemary turned a bit, just in time to see Elowyn hurtle herself at him and him stoop down and scoop her up, the package abandoned on the ground.
Being the favorite of his friend’s child didn’t make him a good man. Didn’t make him loyal to England. But Rosemary couldn’t help but draw in a deep breath as she watched him swing the girl around and settle her on his hip. And when she let said breath out again, she couldn’t help that some of her irritation with him leaked out with it.
Her attention was snagged by other footsteps. These came at a more reasonable pace, but they belonged to a woman obviously Elowyn’s mother. She had the same black curls, and her dress was too fine for her to be a nursemaid.
Silk, and with an intriguing design. The top was in a kimono style, a pale green with bold pink insets. It looked like two rectangular panels sewn together, leaving a bateau neckline and wide sleeves. Rosemary could make something like that easily, if she could find the right silk. Though she would have to see what the under-dress looked like. A simple sheath, probably. Easy enough to replicate. She would sketch it when she got home and show it to Willa. One of the family was bound to need a new dress soon, and this had the look of the height of fashion. It would, she thought, suit Retta best.
This woman wore no necklace—it would have interfered with the neckline of the dress. But the bracelet embracing her wrist was studded with diamonds, and they looked real. As real as the gem on her finger set in ornate gold. And they weren’t so distinctive that a fence would have a hard time moving them. Not to mention that the bracelet had a sliding clasp that was so, so easy to slip without the wearer noticing.
Not that Rosemary planned on slipping it. But really, didn’t people think of these things?
Mr. Penrose was exiting the house as well. In self-defense, Rosemary turned away from his bludgeoning scowl and back to Holstein and the little one.
The little one had a scowl every bit as bludgeoning as her father’s and aimed just as squarely at Rosemary’s head. “Who are you?”
She may have felt a bit of affront—children usually loved her—had the arm Elowyn slung around Holstein’s neck not gone tight and telling. Rosemary smiled and held out a hand, gentleman style. “Rosemary Gresham, Miss Penrose. At your service.”
Green eyes remained wary, but Elowyn reached out and shook. “You came with Uncle Peter?”
She really was an adorable child. She had dimples, and a fan of impossibly long lashes framing those pretty green eyes. Rosemary nodded. “I did. He’s just hired me on to clean out his library. Have you seen it?” She leaned closer and pitched her voice down. “He should have hired someone ages ago. Not that I’m complaining that he didn’t.”
Elowyn’s lips hinted at a smile, then the frown won the battle. “Papa says no one was mad enough to take the job. But they don’t let me in there. They say a pile of books might squash me.”
Rosemary chuckled. “They have the right of it.”
The scowl only deepened, and the arm around Holstein’s neck tightened. His face went a bit red, but he made no complaint.
Elowyn lifted her chin. “I’m going to marry him someday, you know.”
And so she disliked any woman who showed up with him—an astute young lady. Rosemary widened her eyes. “Congratulations! Have you set a date yet?”
The frown lessened. “Christmas Day in 1927. I’ll be eighteen then.”
Rosemary’s wide eyes went genuine. “You are quite good at mathematics, Miss Penrose. I’m impressed. Do remember to send me an invite closer to the time, won’t you?”
There, the smile won. And lit her eyes as well as her lips. “I will. Do you want to see my room?” She squirmed to be put down.
Holstein shook his head. “Forgotten . . . already. And I came with . . . with a gift.”
Elowyn was either too politely bred to clamor over such a thing or too spoiled with gifts to be excited about another. She didn’t even glance at the package, just reached up and took Rosemary’s hand. “You can bring it up after you’ve talked with Papa, Uncle Peter. I want to show Miss . . . Miss my new book. I’m going to learn to read it.”
The girl had a tug every bit as forceful as her scowl had been, and she used it to pull Rosemary forward. She had little choice but to follow. “An excellent thing to do with a book. Far better than just stacking them about a room until the walls vanish.”
Elowyn giggled. So did her mother.
Penrose did not. And Rosemary didn’t turn to see Mr. Holstein’s response.
The missus stepped close, her smile natural and welcoming—at least until a raindrop had the audacity to spatter on her face, at which point she frowned up at the sky. “Better hurry in. I’m so glad you could join us, Miss Gresham.”
“Likewise, ma’am.”
The lady of the house led the way up the three stone steps and through the door that still stood open, a black-clad young man holding it so for them. And shutting it directly behind as the wind kicked up and new raindrops raced to keep up with their friends.
Elowyn didn’t give her time to pause, just kept on tugging. “My room is upstairs. It’s still the nursery, even though I’m not a baby. I’ll get a different one, Mama says, when I’m just a bit older.”
Mrs. Penrose stilled her daughter with a hand atop her head. “Ellie, where are your manners? Do we pull and tug upon new acquaintances?”
Elowyn paused, apparently having to consider that, given the scrunching of her face.
Rosemary tamped down a smile. “Do you know, I have a sister who goes by Ellie sometimes.”
The little one’s eyes went round. “Is she called Elowyn too?”
“No.” Unable to resist, she reached out and smoothed down one of the plump curls springing from Elowyn’s head. “She’s called Elinor.”
Elowyn didn’t seem to mind the attention. “But will that not get confusing? Having two of us who are Ellie?”
Her mother sighed, no doubt ready to point out that it was something people dealt with all the time, with the abundance of Georges and Jacks and Marys running about England.
Rosemary grinned before Mrs. Penrose could speak. “You’re right. Perhaps instead I’ll call you . . . Wyn. Or Winnie.”
“Oh!” The little one’s eyes went wider still, and twinkling. “Oh, I should like that very much. Wyn. It sounds terribly grown-up. Yes, you should call me Wyn. Everyone should call me Wyn!”
The chuckle that came from behind them was far too warm to be Penrose’s. “Here all of a . . . a m-minute and renaming their d-daughter.”
Rosemary’s gaze flew over to Mrs. Penrose’s. “Sorry! I didn’t mean—”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Gresham.” The lady was wearing a smile that looked like laughter. “Last week she insisted we all call her Rufus for some reason I could never discern.”
“Because it’s the neighbors’ dog’s name, and he’s the noblest dog in the whole world.” Her voice a singsong, Elowyn gave another tug on Rosemary’s hand. Discreetly, so her mother wouldn’t see.
Rosemary followed the urging. “Makes perfect sense. And while we’re still on the subject of names, you needn’t call me Miss Gresham, ma’am. Rosemary will do quite nicely.”
“A lovely name. Thank you. And you’re welcome to call me Jenifer. Or Jenny.”
Tension that she hadn’t known
she’d carried seeped right out of her shoulders. She didn’t know what she’d been worried about. Mr. Penrose might be a scowling blighter, but his wife was an absolute delight.
Seven
Peter followed Gryff into the parlor, not bothering to hide his smile as his friend’s expression went from frown to one of bemusement. It finally settled on resignation, and Gryff lowered himself into his favorite chair with a grunt.
Peter slid the package for Elowyn onto an end table and took his usual seat on the twin to Gryff’s chair. “Ready to admit you . . . you were wrong?”
Another grunt. “I can’t remember the last time she invited someone to use her first name within five minutes of meeting.”
“Well, as you say . . . Jenny is an excellent judge . . . judge of character.” Which made a bit of guilt prick for having turned Miss Gresham—or someone who borrowed her physical description anyway—into a villain. But she would never know, and one had to take one’s inspiration wherever one could find it when one was struggling to finish a book by one’s deadline.
A third grunt from the chair. Which was really quite redundant. Gryff rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, and one corner of his mouth pulled up. “Can’t blame a fellow for being protective of his closest friend, can you?”
“Never.” Inhaling deeply, Peter tried to put a name to the particular scents wafting through the house. Whortleberry pie, perhaps? Hard to tell, what with the heavy aroma of roasting meat covering it. But blueberries were his favorite, so he’d be willing to bet Jenny had made a pie for him with what she’d preserved last summer.
She was the only woman he knew who could afford a cook but still chose to prepare all the meals herself. She took joy in it, she said—and everyone else took joy in her taking of it too.
Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to London this year. Never mind that it had been at the invitation of King George himself. He should have stayed here, where he belonged. Where friends defended him and made his favorite dishes. Where children ran to greet him and declared him their favorite.
Where neighbors threw rocks through his windows.
“How goes the writing today?” Gryff sent his gaze upward as he asked it, to where the floorboards overhead squeaked enough to assure them that Miss Gresham was well out of earshot.
Peter nodded. “I’m getting . . . getting back into my rhythm.”
“That didn’t take you long.” A bit of relief entered his friend’s eyes at that. No doubt he hadn’t wanted to be the one to contact the publisher and beg for more time. “I’ve a box of correspondence for you too, that just came today. Probably all six months out of date, of course. If you wouldn’t insist upon such a circuitous route from the publisher . . .”
Peter saw no reason to dignify that with a response. Gryff knew well that his privacy was of the utmost importance to him. Even his publisher didn’t know who he really was. Just that all correspondence should go to a solicitor in London, who sent it to one in Bristol, who sent it to another in Devon, who sent it to Gryff here.
It wouldn’t do for his readers to find out who he really was. If anyone knew that Branok Hollow was really a stammering German, he’d fall out of favor so quickly the impact would likely break a few bones. His career—the one thing he’d earned for himself rather than inheriting, the one thing that wasn’t rooted in generations of German heritage—would be gone.
Silence tapped an impatient foot on the rug. One beat, two, punctuated by Gryff’s raised brow. And chased off by his, “Well? Haven’t you anything you mean to tell me? About rocks coming through your windows, perhaps?”
There were definite drawbacks to making one’s home near a small village. He could only guess as to how word had reached Gryff within a day—someone from Kensey could have said something to a brother or cousin or neighbor.
Or the perpetrator could have been boasting of it in the pub, for all he knew.
Peter shook his head. “Your gossip source has . . . has failed you. It was only one rock. One . . . window.”
Gryff didn’t look amused. “Did you report it to the constable?”
Peter glared at him. And rolled his eyes for good measure. Locryn James may think himself smarter than the law and so never engage them, but they all knew Peter Holstein was no renegade swashbuckler.
Gryff sighed. “Of course you did, as it was the reasonable thing to do. Have they any idea who did it?”
“If they . . . did, I would have . . . would have told you sooner.”
Laughter echoed down through the floorboards. Two lower notes, and one high, making a chord of happiness. Laughter always followed Elowyn about. Though, much like her mother, she was a bit choosy about whom she let partake of it with her.
He would admit it—he felt better about having Miss Gresham in his house, knowing Jenny and Elowyn liked her. Their reaction was confirmation of what he’d felt certain the Lord had done. And just now he could use all the confirming he could get.
“Mr. Arnold came by to tell me about it, when he heard it at the post office this morning. He was, of course, concerned for you, so you may want to pay him a visit soon to relieve his worry.” Gryff reached for the pipe sitting on the table at his elbow, though he didn’t light it. He wouldn’t until later, after Elowyn was abed. She detested the smell. “I bet it was Jack Foote. He’s been rather loud about his opinions of Germans. Or Pomeroy. He’s been all but walking around with his nose in a newspaper, shouting out all the anti-German sentiments to anyone who will pause two seconds to listen.”
Peter cleared his throat.
Gryff didn’t wait to see if he had anything to add. Gaze distant, he tapped the pipe to his palm. “Or . . . or Michael FitzSimmons. He—”
“Right.” Peter had to fight the urge to borrow one of Gryff’s abundant sighs. Or bring Father’s chuff to life again. But he forced his lips up. “So what you’re . . . what you’re telling me is that it could have been . . . anyone. Anyone at all in the village. They all . . . distrust me.”
“It isn’t you. Those men would turn on their own grandmothers if it suited their panic.” Another tap of the pipe and Gryff leaned forward, sudden humor blazing in his eyes. “You know what you need to do to put it all to rest?”
Given his recent conversation with the elderly Mr. Arnold, Peter could well guess as to the advice. “I still feel . . . uneasy. About selling. My cousin said . . . he said someone has been buying up . . . stock. Trying to gain majority holds. If I sell . . .”
But Gryff shook his head. “That isn’t actually what I meant, though I do think that ridding yourself of those German holdings will be wise in the long run. But immediately—be seen. Be seen as one of them, one of us. Come to church on Sunday. Have dinner at the pub with me and Santo on Tuesday.”
Peter could only pray his face didn’t really twist in distaste as badly as it felt like it did. He got along well enough with the younger Penrose brother, but they weren’t exactly friends. And Gryff knew well that he had a hard time worshiping among so many people—and the vicar understood too, which was why he came over for dinner every Monday, if Peter didn’t make it to church. They had conversations on whatever Mr. Trenholm had studied for his homily the week prior.
Of course, he’d just promised Miss Gresham they would take dinners together, and luncheons too, to discuss whatever she found in the library that day, any questions she had. He would have to make Mondays the exception to that.
Gryff’s eyes grew still brighter. “And you know what would make it even better? Go out with Miss Gresham on your arm. She’s obviously of fine common stock—the villagers would love her. She’d make you seem . . . rooted.”
Peter folded his arms over his chest. “You are, as always . . . hilarious.”
“Aren’t I?” Chuckling at his own joke, Gryff leaned back again. “Though listen, old boy, it’s not as bad an idea as all that. Go out. Be seen. Remind everyone of my excellent taste in friends.”
A quick laugh tickled his throat, insisting on being he
ard.
Gryff waved his pipe in the air. “If I know Jenny, she’s already making plans with Miss Gresham to go to the millinery or whatnot this week, so people will soon be seeing her. And if Jenny likes her, everyone else will too. And they’ll all know she’s working at Kensey. So then if you’re seen with her now and then . . .”
“Gryff. I will not . . . not put on a . . . a show.”
The amusement in his friend’s eyes snapped away, quick and sure. “I’m not talking about a show. I’m talking simply about convincing her of what an upstanding character you are, and then letting her chatter about it. Heaven knows you’ve ridden into town now and again with your staff. Do the same with her. I’m not saying to pretend there is some romance there, simply to let it be seen there is respect. Good feeling, even though she hasn’t known you forever as I have. That will suffice.”
Peter’s fine mood seeped out onto the fading Turkish rug beneath his feet. Always good to know that his dearest friend had so little faith in him that he knew nothing Peter did would convince anyone to hold him in esteem—but that if Miss Gresham just chattered for a few minutes to the baker, all would be well.
He was right, but that was hardly the point.
The floorboards squeaked again, and within moments the distant feminine laughter grew louder. More distinct. He could pick out Elowyn’s easily, and then Jenny’s. Which in turn identified Miss Gresham’s.
The little girl skipped ahead of the women into the parlor and headed straight for Peter with that dimpled smile that always reminded him how blessed he was to be counted an uncle to her. He helped her clamber up onto his lap and chuckled as her gaze now darted to the wrapped package and was held there as if by glue. “Would you like your . . . your birthday gift now, Ellie?”
She twisted her neck around to send him a scowl. “You mean Wyn.”
That would take some getting used to, if she held to it for more than a week. But he smiled. “Right. Wyn.”
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