Giving another grin, she nodded and reached for the box.
“Careful.” He steadied the package with a hand beneath it. “It’s . . . it’s breakable.”
Her eyes went wide, visible as she positioned herself sideways on his lap. “What is it?” Her fingertip traced the ribbon.
“I believe . . . the idea is to . . . to open it and see.”
First she smiled up at him, eyes filled with that pure, unquestioning love. “Thank you, Uncle Peter. I’m sure it’s lovely. Whatever it is.”
He smiled back. “Even if it’s a . . . a warty toad? Or . . . or a slimy worm?”
Her giggle was joy as she pulled the ribbon from its bow. “You wouldn’t give me those! And they’re not breakable.”
He may have teased a bit more had he not made the mistake of glancing up and spotting Miss Gresham ambling in beside Jenny, thereby rendering his tongue utterly useless. Not that the ladies were paying any mind to him. Jenny was leaning close to examine Miss Gresham’s . . . shoulder? As if it contained all the secrets of Locryn James’s past.
“But it’s perfect! I can mend a tear or sew on a button, but skill like that . . .” Jenny straightened, eyes as wide as Elowyn’s could get. “You have real talent, Rosemary. If ever you tire of books, you could open up shop as a seamstress and I could send you dozens of customers.”
“Oh.” The hand Miss Gresham pressed to her waist was less self-conscious than absent. Her expression less flattered than baffled. “I had never even considered it. It isn’t something I enjoy so much as something I must do if I mean to look as I should. I cannot afford to hire anyone else.” But her eyes stayed thoughtful. Almost confused, it seemed to him. As if she had never once considered doing something other than what she did.
Which was odd indeed. Surely no young woman grew up with such single-minded determination to be a librarian.
“If your position does not support you so well, why choose it?” This shot came from Gryff, who apparently forgot that he had given up his dislike of her. “It was hardly an easy path for a woman, I should think.”
Miss Gresham arched a brow that reeked of challenge. “Indeed it wasn’t. Especially, sir, since a woman does not garner pay equal to a man for the exact same job. But that’s the way of things, isn’t it? And as I have a dozen siblings to support, I count myself lucky to find anything not in a factory, and I make our clothes so that I can look the part I need to play. Aiming at a better-paying position is hardly an option for someone born absent a silver spoon already in her mouth.”
Peter lifted the box for Elowyn so she could rid herself of the paper she had folded away from it. And he tried not to be so impressed by a too-thin woman with a manner as inviting as a steel trap.
But there it was. Had he not been born to a life of privilege, he was none too sure he would have had gumption enough to rise above his birth and fight for something better. To make his own way. Especially in a world that labeled one less simply because of one’s gender.
Or last name.
He lowered the box again for Elowyn and held the bottom while she lifted off the lid. His chest felt a couple sizes too tight. He wasn’t sure he had the gumption to fight for fair treatment now, either, when his silver spoon did nothing to protect him. When the friendships he had made put him at risk—and put those friends at risk too.
Not that King George or Prince Edward had anything to fear because of him. But if Gryff defended him in the village, it could well turn opinion against him too. And he hated to even think about how old Mr. Arnold could suffer—would his Austrian heritage put him in any danger? If so, Gryff would have said something.
But the very thought of a rock coming through one of these windows, frightening Jenny and Elowyn . . . and what if Mr. Jasper really did accuse him of espionage? Could Gryff be arrested too, being his barrister and friend?
“Oh, she’s beautiful.” Elowyn drew out the doll, hands gentle and reverent, eyes wide as she took in the dark curls and the perfect face painted upon the porcelain. “Look, Mama! Isn’t she beautiful?”
Jenny stepped near them, making obliging oohs and ahhs.
Miss Gresham kept to her post nearer the door. She was smiling, but he had the distinct impression that it was simply over Elowyn’s reaction, not over the doll itself. Or his buying it for her. Which mattered not the slightest to him—he had gotten the thing to bring delight to the girl he thought of as a niece, not to impress anyone else. Certainly not a prickly librarian he hadn’t even known when he saw the doll on display in a toy shop window in London.
But would it kill her to relax half a degree?
Elowyn fussed with the lace of the dress the doll wore, then toyed with the curls. “I shall name her Rosie after you, Miss Gresham! Doesn’t she look like her, Mama?”
“That’s perfect, Elowyn.” Jenny smiled.
Miss Gresham’s smile went warmer too. Though her shoulders didn’t relax any. She may have curls of the same shade of brown as the doll, but any resemblance ended there—she certainly wasn’t all soft stuffing from the neck down.
Jenny let Elowyn chatter on about her new Rosie for a few minutes more, but then she held out a hand, her smile that particularly unshakable one that meant argument was futile. “All right, chiel. Time for you to go back up to Janey.”
“But Mama—”
“Now don’t get teasy. You knew you’d have only ten minutes, just as you know well that Uncle Peter will come back to see you more on another day. For now, you must have your supper and get to bed.”
Miss Gresham’s brows puckered. “Pardon me—teasy?”
“Sorry, a bit of local dialect. Fussy.” Jenny smiled again.
Elowyn didn’t. With a long sigh too weary for a five-year-old, she wrapped an arm around his neck and gave him a mighty squeeze. “Thank you for Rosie, Uncle Peter. Will you come back soon?”
“Of . . . course.”
She kissed his cheek and then scurried down, pausing to dip a wobbly curtsy to Miss Gresham before putting her hand in her mother’s. “Good to meet you, Miss Gresham.”
Miss Gresham chuckled. “Likewise, Miss Penrose. Have a lovely evening.”
Peter stood, now that his lap wasn’t occupied and it became loudly obvious that he had neglected to do so when the ladies had entered the room.
Gryff did as well and motioned to a chair. “Please, Miss Gresham. Make yourself comfortable. Jenny will be back in just a minute.”
She edged toward a chair, though the look she sent them was as baffled as the one she’d given Jenny over the thought of a different profession. “Thank you.” Posture as careful as her tone, she eased to a seat on the very edge of the chair’s cushion.
Peter sat back down too, as did Gryff. Which she seemed to find either confusing or amusing, given the twitch of her lips.
“So.” Gryff toyed with his pipe again. “How went your first day in the cave?”
“Oh.” Her fingers fluttered once against her dress. Went still. The smile she put on was confident . . . and inscrutable. Showing nothing of her thoughts. “A trifle overwhelming, but quite interesting overall.”
“You weren’t frightened, I hope, by the rock’s intrusion last night?” Gryff arched a silver brow. She would have had to be a fool to miss the veiled challenge in his tone, though why he was directing such a challenge at her, Peter couldn’t determine.
She lifted a brow in return, a parry to Gryff’s thrust. “Why would I be frightened by a rock? It is a coward’s way of sending a coward’s message.”
Gryff’s smile was far more easily deciphered than hers. It said he liked her attitude, despite himself. And because his wife’s acceptance had told him he should. “Good. Well, I hope you like pasties, Miss Gresham. Jenny makes the best pasty in Cornwall. Which, of course, is the only place that knows how to make them at all.”
A happy breath leaked from Peter’s lips. It had been too long since he’d had one of Jenny’s pasties.
Miss Gresham still wore that noth
ing-smile. “I look forward to it.”
“You’ve never been to Cornwall, have you? I told her I didn’t think you had. But she maintains that if you come to Cornwall and don’t have a pasty, you might as well be in England still.”
Now her brows drew in. “We are in England still.”
Peter choked on a laugh. “Don’t . . . don’t say that too l-loudly in these . . . these parts, M-Miss Gresham.”
“Ah.” She said no more. Just smoothed out her brow and kept her face in that pleasant, neutral smile.
Peter’s brows puckered. Why would someone develop that particular expression? It had the look of a mask. No, more a cloak. Meant to render one invisible. Not to hide feeling so much as to hide oneself.
But she had thoughts ricocheting through her mind, he knew she had. They had snapped out at him plenty today, yelling from behind her polite lips. Keeping her shoulders as sharp as blades and her fingers utterly motionless now in her lap. She had thoughts and she had judgments and she had opinions well beyond the few she had voiced.
Perhaps, if shared meals ever wore away the unfamiliarity between them, he would learn to decipher some of her opinions. It could prove interesting—she obviously had grown up in circles far different from his. She would have different points of view on almost everything.
That was invaluable. He needed more perspectives than his own if he meant to write convincing characters.
“Now then.” Gryff leaned forward, frowning, but in that way that said he was intrigued. “Have you really a dozen siblings?”
Her smile shifted. A slight change, but enough to turn it from a cloak to a ray of sunshine. “Well, counting me. Barclay is the eldest, and then me and Willa. Retta is next, and Lucy, then Elinor and George. Then we have the little ones—Jory and Olivia and Nigel and Cressida and Fergus. Not that Cressida and Fergus appreciate being called little ones, as they both are eleven.”
Gryff blinked. “Twins?”
“Eleven months apart. Cress will be twelve in a month.” A shadow whispered over her features. “I suppose I shan’t be home for it.”
“You’ll have to send something, then. If Cressida is anything like Elowyn, the idea of getting mail will send her over the moon dreckly.”
She didn’t question the Cornish dreckly as she had teasy—perhaps it sounded enough like “directly” that she assumed that was what he’d said. Perhaps because she was too caught up in examining the idea. Her gaze went a bit distant, her lips turning in a curious way that was neither a proper smile nor belonging to any other category he knew. “What a good idea. She’s never got a letter in the post. None of them have—I ought to write to each of them while I’m away.”
She would need paper, then, and he doubted she had brought any stationery with her, since it seemed to be an idea she’d never entertained. He would deliver some to the library for her—heaven knew he had no shortage.
Jenny soon returned, and a minute later she and Gryff led the way into the dining room. The maid stood sentinel, ready to unveil the food from the shining silver dome holding it captive. Peter went to his usual chair, on the far side, next to Gryff at the head.
Jenny touched a hand to Miss Gresham’s elbow. “You’ll sit by me. A bit unconventional, I know, but that way we can chat while the men devolve into their interminable discussions of books and politics. I cannot tell you how glad I am to have another level-headed female to keep me company.”
Gryff laughed. “So you can talk of level-headed things like dress patterns and hats?”
Jenny’s scowl was playful. “And children. Rosemary said her youngest sister is near Elowyn’s age, so no doubt we can exchange many stories about their antics.”
And of course, Peter oughtn’t to have gone to his usual chair—he ought to help Miss Gresham be seated. He rounded the table before anyone noticed his oversight—hopefully—and pulled out her chair for her as Gryff did the same for Jenny.
She sat in time with their hostess. Nothing awkward or uncertain in her movements. But her shoulders were blades again.
Peter rounded the table once more and took his own chair, across from Jenny. After Gryff spoke a blessing over the food, she gave the nod to the maid, who lifted the silver dome from the plate.
No doubt Miss Gresham, if she lived as modestly at home as it seemed, was unaccustomed to formal meals. She didn’t seem to be watching any of the rest of them too closely, but her actions were still a half second behind everyone else’s as she picked up her napkin, placed it in her lap, smiled her thanks as the maid served her, and then reached for her fork.
Peter frowned. She held it in her right hand—none of the left-handed people he had met, even if forced to write with their right hand, also ate with their right hand.
Perhaps her parents had insisted on binding her left arm even when at home.
Or perhaps . . . perhaps she had lied. Though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine why she would have.
Eight
Rosemary stretched the kink out of her neck and moved toward the window open to the stiff, damp breeze. It made the room less stifling. Though it also made the whole place feel sticky.
The humidity probably wasn’t good for the books. But knowing the window was open helped with the feeling of being penned in on all sides and suffocated. She leaned onto the frame to look out at the damp, misty world.
It wasn’t exactly early morning anymore, but fog still clung to everything, rolling in off the sea in a great wave of almost-rain. The ground had been soaked this morning when she made her way over from the cottage, and the rain had only stopped pounding just as she was searching for a brolly to aid her in her short journey. It had kept Willa in the village.
And, apparently, had kept Mrs. Teague from bringing her a breakfast tray this morning. When Rosemary had squished her way through the kitchen, wiping her feet, Grammy had promised that the housekeeper or a maid would bring her something “dreckly.”
She was beginning to think that “dreckly” did not mean “directly,” as she had assumed. Three hours had gone by, and the only sign of life she’d noticed was the click-clacking from behind Holstein’s study door.
What was it he typed every day?
Not that she wasn’t used to going without a meal. But she’d told herself she could have a break from the books when breakfast arrived and look more closely at that stack of very fine, very beautiful paper that had been waiting on her table when she’d entered.
Well, she needed the break, be there a nice cup of tea to go with it or not. She’d just spent those three hours moving books into stacks and moving stacks as out-of-the-way as she could manage, and frankly, her arms hurt from stretching so unnaturally. And her neck from being always bent. And her back from the constant up and down.
She stretched again and let the magnetism of the stack of stationery pull her toward the table.
His note still lay atop it. She’d glanced at it when she’d come in, just to make sure the paper beneath was really for her use, but that truth still felt wrong. He’d given it as if it were nothing. But she had looked at paper like this when she stocked up on supplies to come here. She knew how dear it was. This stack would have cost more than any of the gifts Lucy or Willa or Retta or Barclay had given her over the years. It was family policy to never give stolen goods as presents, which meant that gifts were rare. And modest.
She ran her fingers over the thick stock. It felt as decadent as cloth. And there were at least fifty sheets of it. At least.
Pulling out a chair, she picked up the note again. Sat. Read his few words.
I thought perhaps you would need this to write to your brothers and sisters. I always keep plenty on hand, so if you need more, do let me know.
P. H.
She touched a finger to the P. H. It wasn’t exactly an abbreviation. The first period looked less like a proper period than it did the beginning of an abandoned letter. As if he had begun to write the e and then changed his mind. The H was natural enough, but the pe
riod following it looked far too deliberate.
He probably meant to deduct the cost of the paper from her salary.
Her fingers wandered toward yesterday’s note, which she’d tossed to the table in a fit of pique solely because there was no fire handy to consume it and it had felt petulant to rip it to shreds when he left the library.
She flipped it open. Read it again.
It didn’t seem quite so infuriating today, after her stomach was full of Jenny Penrose’s amazing pasties and she’d had a good night’s sleep, what with the rain creating a welcome din on the roof. She still wasn’t sure that two meals a day with Peter Holstein was the best idea—really, what could they possibly talk about for that long?—but she could appreciate that he’d tried to think of a way to provide them both with what they needed.
Mostly.
Though why anyone would need so many hours of quiet . . . She shuddered at the very thought. This place hadn’t enough noise as it was.
Her fingers itched to write to the children straightaway, but that could take more time than she really wanted to use up just now, when she was supposed to be working. She’d do that later. Now, she granted herself only another two minutes.
Bypassing the fine paper—his notes to her were never on such stuff after all—she tore a sheet from her notebook and jotted a quick thank-you to him. Pursing her lips, she debated for a moment . . . and then tacked on a brief apology for being so angry yesterday.
He’d apologized—she sure as blazes wasn’t going to look like the childish one, refusing to do so.
Folding the sheet of paper, she recapped her pen and stood. Stared at the closed door to his study. The interminable click-clack-ding was sounding, as it had been since nine o’clock on the nose. She certainly wasn’t going to interrupt him. So she eased over to the door and, feeling a bit ridiculous, slipped the paper underneath it.
He could very well not see it. But she didn’t much care. He’d find it eventually, and it would prove that she’d done the polite thing.
So then. Back to work.
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