Who knew what monsters lurked in it? She had heard snapping twigs from the woods. A thrashing sound. And an otherworldly hooting too.
A bird. An owl. Her logic told her so.
She shut the door and leaned against it, wishing her logic were a little stronger in the face of darkness. Because at the moment, she was pretty certain that owl was ten feet tall and capable of snatching her up like a field mouse.
“Rosie, there you are!”
She jumped, squealed, splayed a hand over her chest. And then threw her handbag at Willa’s head, where she sat at the table. “You know better.”
Willa didn’t smile. She just dodged the handbag and stood. She wore her overcoat, the one they’d rescued from a rubbish bin last year and painstakingly cleaned up. And she had her valise. “I’ve been waiting ages. What took you so long?”
“They have ridiculous numbers of courses at dinner.” Rosemary pointed to the luggage. “You’re leaving. I thought you were staying the week. Has something happened?”
Willa’s nostrils flared. “I had a telegram when I got back to my room. Barclay.”
Rosemary shrugged out of her wrap and dropped it onto the table so she could reach for Willa’s hands. Barclay didn’t send telegrams. Telegrams were expensive. And they were easily intercepted, easily traced. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Olivia. She’s sick.”
“Sick.” It must be more than just a normal sick if it had Barclay sending telegrams. Rosemary squeezed Willa’s hands tighter, her stomach threatening to make some sick of her own. “What is it?”
Willa shook her head, but her eyes were a swarm of worries. “Didn’t say. You know you have to pay per letter. The wire just said, Liv in hospital. Come.”
“Hospital?” The word emerged as a tremor. They never—never—went to the doctor, much less the hospital. The cost was too great. The best they could ever do was a trip to the apothecary. When she blinked, she saw little Olivia, only six, lying on a colorless bed. Colorless herself. Nothing but skin and bones and misery. She dropped Willa’s hands and spun toward the kitchen’s exit. “Give me two minutes. I’ll be packed and—”
“You can’t.” Willa grabbed at her shoulder. “If you leave this job, there’s no way we’ll be able to pay for whatever she needs. You’re her best hope right now, Rosie, but only if you stay here. This money from Mr. V—it has to be the only way they could take her to a doctor. But what will that man do if you leave here? If you fail to complete the assignment?”
Her throat was too tight to swallow. Her eyes too blurry to see. “I don’t know. I don’t know what he’ll do.”
“Exactly. What kind of man is this you’re working for? What if he takes his displeasure out on the family or has you arrested?” Willa shook her head and wiped at her cheeks. “You stay. I’ll go. I’ll send you word just as soon as I know anything, cost-per-letter be hanged.”
“But—”
“I know, Rosie. I do. But I’ve been sitting here two hours turning it over and over, and this is the only way.”
The blurry Willa gripped her hands again, then pulled her in for a tight embrace.
Rosemary sniffed, squeezed her back, and then stepped away. “Is there a train or something this late?”
“No, but there was a family at the inn going to London tonight. They were there in the dining room when the telegram was delivered and offered to let me ride with them.”
Good people. Rosemary nodded. “Don’t lift anything from their pockets.”
Willa rolled her eyes. “I only bite the hand that refuses to feed me.” She leaned down and picked up her valise. “They’ll be waiting for me at the crossroads in ten minutes. I almost thought I’d have to leave you a note.”
Glad she’d turned down the pudding, Rosemary reached for the door latch and tugged it open for her sister. “Hurry, then. And send me word the minute you know something.”
“I will. You know I will.” Willa hurried to the threshold but paused on it. “You’re doing your part, Rosie. More than the rest of us can do right now.”
Then why did it feel like she was abandoning the precious little girl she’d rocked and sung to for the past four years? Olivia had been just a baby when they’d found her crying in an alley. A baby, toddling around on unsteady feet, crying for a mama who lay there covered with blood. The woman had been barely coherent enough to beg them to see her baby to safety. She had no family.
But she had one now, did Olivia. Brothers and sisters who doubled as mothers and fathers. Who would do anything in their power to keep her safe.
Even if it meant staying too far away, sorting through stupid books so she could prove a man a German spy.
Ridiculous. What could it possibly matter whether Holstein was loyal to England or not, when Olivia was in hospital?
Willa stepped into the night, clicking the door shut behind her.
Rosemary stared at the darkness, waiting for it to pound its way through the windows. To seep in under the door and slurp her up. She listened for Willa’s footsteps, but after a few seconds there was nothing. Just monster owls hooting and the hum of the lights and the lingering whiff of cigarette smoke that the door had caught and had pushed inside, which faded again in half a moment.
She stood there. One minute, two, perhaps a hundred, she didn’t know. She just stood there until her pumps started to hurt her feet and she was sure Willa wouldn’t be coming back. Though of course Willa wouldn’t be coming back. Willa was needed in London.
“And you’re needed right here.” The words, whispered into the room, fogged up the window in the door but had no other effect. They may be true—but they meant nothing.
Eventually she turned away from the door. Standing there would do no good, would do nothing to help Olivia. Rosemary sniffed back the tears that wanted to fall and pulled off her shoes, let them clatter to the floor by the table. She turned lights on as she went toward her bedroom, until most of the cottage was aglow.
The room still looked as it had a few hours before, as she’d dressed for dinner and told Willa about her day—the luncheon with Holstein, the impossible attitude of the housekeeper, the breakfast that never appeared. But none of the same things mattered now.
What if Olivia died? Rosemary sank down onto the mattress that fluffed out around her. Her little sister would be on a hard hospital cot even now. No soft mattress filled with feathers. No blankets so smooth they made one aware of the roughness of one’s own skin. She was probably being sneered at by nurses and doctors who knew, just by looking at her, that she was an urchin. A nobody.
But she wasn’t a nobody. She was Olivia. So what if they’d never known her last name? She would take one of theirs, when she needed one. Gresham or Forsythe or Pearce. Sayers or Archer. Plenty of names to choose from—it was just a matter of picking which sibling she wanted to claim in such a way, once she was old enough to care.
Rosemary sniffed again, but this time it didn’t keep tears from trickling down her cheeks. They should have given her a last name—voted on it years ago. She deserved a last name. Olivia, with her beautiful curls in fair brown. Her big eyes in sapphire blue.
What if she died without a last name?
Arms wrapped around her middle, Rosemary stood again, moving to the window just because it was there. The pane was as cool as the night. And though her bare arms were cool too, still she leaned her forehead against the glass. Olivia, I’m here. I love you.
God, do you see that little girl? Do you care?
He didn’t. She knew He didn’t. When had any of their prayers ever been answered? Maybe God was blind or deaf. Or maybe . . . maybe He was a gentleman. Only caring for His own. The people born with bursting bank accounts and fine things. The ones who didn’t ask Him for much because they already had it all.
Maybe it was anger that swelled in her veins. Or desperation. Maybe her ears were still ringing with the easy, confident words of prayer Mr. Holstein had spoken over their dinner. He knew God, that was w
hat His words said. He knew Him, and the Lord listened when Peter Holstein prayed.
So be it. If God would only hear men like Peter Holstein, then Rosemary Gresham would play that game. She could humble herself—for Olivia’s sake.
Nearly tripping over the hem of the gown that was too long with no shoes on, she scurried out of the bedchamber again, to the stack of paper at the little secretary in the other room. She’d managed to write one letter this afternoon between coming from the library and preparing for dinner. Now she’d write another. For Olivia’s sake.
You seem to be on good terms with the Almighty. I need you to pray to Him for me—for my little sister’s sake.
She told him what she knew—which was precious little. About Olivia being in hospital. About Willa cutting her holiday short to go home to London. Of how dire it must be.
And then . . . then she just wrote, not quite sure what words were coming out. Her eyes were too blurry, and her hand probably went from bad to nearly illegible, but she didn’t care. God wouldn’t hear her, but perhaps Peter Holstein would. Enough to say one of those non-stammering prayers for Liv anyway. Surely, even though Rosemary was nothing to him but a new acquaintance, he would spare a few minutes for her sister.
He knew what it meant to love a child. He had little Elowyn. If she were in a hospital, he would be on his knees for her, she knew he would be. So if perhaps he would give Olivia just a portion of that time, of that effort. Perhaps that would be enough to make God take note.
Were the darkness not so very deep, she may have run the note to the big house now. But he was probably not in his study anymore, and she knew no other place to leave it. He wouldn’t see it until morning anyway.
Still, she went to the window, the folded sheet in hand. Which room was his? Was it visible from here? Would she even know it if she saw light shining from it to tell her he had retired? She hadn’t paid any attention last night.
No second-floor windows were alight though. A faint glow came from the kitchen on the ground floor, but that was it. Nothing to indicate he was in some parlor or drawing room or other chamber with an important name. Just that light in the kitchen. And one on the topmost floor, coming from a tiny little window she hadn’t even noticed was there until it was lit.
Servants’ quarters, no doubt. Probably the Teagues or Kerensa or . . .
A figure passed in front of the window. A strangely shaped one, part slender man and part square box. Her brows knit. It could be anyone. And surely was nothing. Someone moving a box about—no matter to her.
Except that it looked distinctly like Peter Holstein’s form. Not that a man didn’t have a right to move things about in his own house—attic, probably. But wasn’t that what he had servants for? To do such heavy lifting?
As she watched, he leaned just out of sight with the box, looking to be putting it on top of a stack of something, or on a shelf perhaps. Something that required sliding, pushing, but no bending. Then he fiddled with something in the same place and a moment later passed fully by the window again with something in his hands.
He vanished, but the light didn’t move off, even though it had the distinct color and slight flicker of a lamp’s flame. She watched for another minute, two, and was rewarded with the sight of him coming back into view, pivoting, retreating again. Pacing.
With a letter in his hands—well, some sort of document. The light half-shone through the paper.
It could be just his personal correspondence. But why hide it away in the attic? Why read it in the attic?
Something with the weight and tang of disappointment settled on her shoulders. She turned from the window, went to put the note for him on the kitchen table. Then just stood there with her fingers holding the folded paper shut. Hoping with all that was in her that God didn’t care if Peter Holstein was a spy for Germany. Because she really needed Him to hear his prayers.
Ten
Dawn was barely a kiss on the horizon when Rosemary tramped across the path to the big house. In her satchel, tucked under one arm, she had the note for Holstein, the letter to Cressida, and This Mad Caper—just in case she decided she’d rather spend the hours before her work officially began doing something other than working. But she had to get out of the cottage, away from the questions it screamed at her every time she saw something Willa had touched or a chair she had sat in.
In her hands she carried her plan for survival. A pitcher, filled with cool water from her kitchen sink, and a glass. It wouldn’t help if breakfast never appeared again, but she hardly cared about that. She was none too sure her stomach would accept food anyway, until she knew what had happened to Olivia.
Smoke puffed from the kitchen chimney, and a warm light glowed already from the windows. Grammy would be up, whether the rest of the staff was or not, preparing Mr. Holstein’s breakfast. Letting bread rise. All those other things cooks did in the early-morning hours that were more mystery and myth to Rosemary than things she’d observed. But she’d seen the products of their wee-hour labor in bakery windows.
Cliché torture for a street rat.
The door, when she reached it, was locked, despite the light coming from its panes. Rosemary clenched her jaw. She could knock. Or go back for the tools from her handbag and pick the lock—which would be far more entertaining. But no, she wasn’t about to tip her hand to these people. They already disliked her. Best not to show them her true colors or they’d do far worse than withhold meals.
But blast it, she didn’t want to deal with contempt today. Not today. Today she just needed some quiet and some pretense that everything was all right. In privacy, so that if tears surged unexpectedly, as they’d been doing all night, no one would see.
The door opened, and a flush-faced Grammy stood before her. “Miss Gresham. You’re up and about early.” The woman’s plump cheeks sagged in a frown. “Those are some kind of circles you have under your eyes. Didn’t you sleep, girl?”
Those blighted tears surged. When Grammy stepped aside, she sidled past, careful to keep her face averted. “I won’t be a bother to you, ma’am, don’t worry. Just passing through on my way to the library.”
It ought to suit the cook just fine. So why did she put a warm hand on Rosemary’s shoulder and say, “Now, hold you hard. I know the look of a girl with something weighing on her heart. Tell Grammy what’s wrong?” There was something melodic about the way it sounded in the Cornish accent. The way the r rolled through heart. Or ’eart, rather.
Melodic or not, she didn’t mean to show any vulnerability to this woman.
Though Olivia could use all the prayers she could get. And perhaps God listened to gentlemen’s staff members—how was she to know? Maybe it was just urchins He ignored. Still refusing to look at the woman, she swallowed. “My littlest sister is in hospital. I don’t know yet what’s wrong. But if you’re the praying kind, I’d appreciate a word or two on her behalf. She’s called Olivia. She’s just six.”
“Oh, dearover!” The way Grammy said it, Rosemary wasn’t certain if the dear was Olivia or her. And hadn’t a clue what the over was for. The Cornish way of saying of her perhaps? “Of course I’ll pray. Do you need to go to her?”
A sob tried to rise, but she let it do no more than shake her shoulders. Once. Then she wrestled it back and drew a long, steady breath through her nostrils. “I can’t. If I leave this job, they’ll never be able to afford the bills for it. The others will take care of her, I know that. Barclay and Retta and Willa. She’s not alone.” But I am.
Grammy made a tsk sound that was, somehow, comforting. And slid an arm around her waist. Rosemary had never had such a plump arm around her, such an ample waist pressed to her side. It felt . . . lovely. “Poor dear,” she said, and this time Rosemary knew well she meant her. “You sit down at the table here and let Grammy get you a nice cup of tea. Or coffee, whichever you’ve a mind to have.”
She’d never win the battle against the tears if she did that. Rosemary shook her head. “Thank you, Grammy. But
no. I . . . I just need to get to work. Keep my hands and mind busy. Willa will send a wire just as soon as she can, and then I’ll know more. Until then . . .”
“All right, then.” But rather than let her go, Grammy just urged her forward, toward the door, that soft but muscled arm still around her. She took the satchel from under Rosemary’s arm and put it under her own instead. “I’ll help you get all those lamps lit in the library. It’ll still be as dark as a vooga in there—a cavern, I mean.”
A shiver flew up the path the sob had made, quaking her before she could dampen it. She hadn’t thought of that, to be sure. “Thank you.”
The woman made no mention of the pitcher of water in her hand, of the glass. She had to have noticed them, but if she took it as an indictment of her hospitality, no apology came for it. She just chattered about when the son of some bloke Rosemary had never heard of had gone to hospital. He’d apparently emerged whole and well. Rosemary was apparently to take that as encouragement.
Rosemary had no idea how to accept such encouragement.
Grammy led the way into the dark-as-fear library, still talking about good doctors and medical advancements, and had she heard about the new gas they’re using for surgeries? Then she released Rosemary’s waist and turned to look for the lamps, finding one just inside the door. With hands steady and confident, she removed the glass chimney, struck a match, and had the wick flaming in half a second.
Its light was feeble indeed among all the towering shadows, but just enough to give Rosemary courage to advance a few feet. To put down her water and glass on the table and hurry to another of the lamps.
Between them, she and Grammy had a dozen chimneys glowing within a few minutes, and the room looked nearly cozy in the golden light. Nearly.
Rosemary offered the cook a tight smile. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate the help.”
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