She still didn’t know what had inspired Jenny to fall in love with him. Why, the other day when Rosemary had gone into the village with Mr. Holstein to choose some thick paper with which to cut down cards for the library catalog, she had seen Penrose in deep conversation with the constable. The constable!
It wasn’t natural. She had rather thought distrust of the law something that existed from birth in one’s bosom. But perhaps only if one was born below a certain financial threshold, so that the law viewed one as the cause of trouble rather than one to be protected from it.
“Well, I daresay you’re desperate for fresh air. Come.” Jenny linked their arms together and tugged Rosemary toward the door. “Let’s escape while Elowyn is regaling them with her latest exploits, before she remembers that I’m here.”
Rosemary smiled. She had learned last weekend that, as eager as Jenny was for an hour or two with only adults for company, she hurried home at the end of it to scoop her little girl into her arms again. “All right,” Rosemary responded. “If we could just stop at the cottage on our way out, I’ll get my handbag and hat.”
“Perfect.”
It took only a few minutes to navigate the halls, step out into the sunny day, and fetch Rosemary’s things. Granted, she stole a minute while at the cottage to smooth her hair, even though she knew it was a lost cause—the wind always seemed to be gusting in these parts, and it would be all the worse in the Penroses’ open-topped automobile. But a girl had to try, didn’t she? She was soon back out and climbing into the auto beside Jenny, who took the wheel.
Rosemary, as she had a week ago, ran a hand over the wood paneling on the door. “I rather enjoy the ride in this. Why do you suppose Mr. Holstein hasn’t got one?”
Jenny snorted and waved to Kenver, who had cranked the car for them, then started down the drive. “I would have thought you’d noticed by now, having been here more than an hour—Peter is, let us say, a bit old-fashioned. Honestly, I think he would have resisted electric lights had his mother not insisted. They had them installed just after his grandfather passed away.”
Rosemary hadn’t yet pieced together much about the late mistress of Kensey Manor. While the name Holstein appeared in a shocking number of history texts, she hadn’t found von Roth in any but that first. Figuring out why the previous Mr. Holstein had returned to Germany for his bride—and if it had any bearing on to whom this current Mr. Holstein was loyal—was going to be far harder than organizing the library. “Did you know them? Mr. Holstein’s parents, I mean.”
“Oh, of course. All of Cornwall knew them, I think. They were so very good.” Jenny eased to a halt at the end of the drive, let a carriage and four trot past, and then turned onto the road that led to the village. “If anyone needed help, they were the first there to lend a hand. Everyone adored them. Honestly. I can’t think of a single person who spoke ill of them.”
Rosemary knew her brow was creased but couldn’t manage to smooth it. Had it been a deliberate attempt on their parts to ingratiate themselves with the locals? A long-reaching, sinister plan to deeply root themselves so no one would suspect their treason? “Why, then, is everyone so suspicious of their son?”
It wouldn’t sound like an odd question, not after Sunday. Rosemary had agreed to attend church with Mr. Holstein and had decided in short order never to subject herself to that particular torture again. Oh, Mr. Trenholm’s homily had been rather interesting, but the people. They had actually snubbed Holstein. Literally turned away when he approached, noses in the air like a bunch of hounds sniffing the wind.
And why? They hadn’t seen his notes in that odd gibberish. They weren’t wading through all those books where his family name was mentioned.
But still she’d heard whispers when she’d stepped outside the church, whispers wondering if he was a British subject or a German national.
Mr. Holstein’s mouth had gone white. He felt the accusation keenly, clearly. But why—because he was a subject and resented the question, or because he wasn’t and didn’t want to face any consequences that could come of it?
He’d said nothing, not all the drive home. Just kept glancing over his shoulder as they left town as if he expected someone to be following him.
There hadn’t been. She could have assured him of that, but it might have seemed a bit strange for her to offer the information out of the blue. So instead she’d just chattered about his neighbors. It had earned her a few hints at a grin. A stride, or so she told herself, toward him trusting her.
Jenny sighed. “They wouldn’t be suspicious, not if they knew him as we do. He’s every bit as good as his parents. Every bit. He just can’t express it so well.”
Well, if he could just write to everyone in the village . . .
Rosemary pressed her lips together. He seemed to write to everybody the world over. She’d seen the post arrive the other day, and there had been a pile of letters for him that made her eyes go wide. How did he even have time to read them, much less respond? She’d managed to thumb through half the stack before Mrs. Teague had come by. There had been return addresses from the Americas, from all over Great Britain, from the colonies.
And one from the king.
High company she was keeping, given that he’d been writing to her as well. Every morning when Rosemary came down, she found a new note from him on her table, folded and impeccably elegant in its script. And every evening, she slid one under his door.
They meant nothing to him, surely. Just another missive for his stack, from a nobody living in his cottage.
She wasn’t quite sure what they meant to her.
Jenny glanced over at her. “How is your sister? Have you heard more?”
Rosemary tried to offer a smile, but it wouldn’t stick. “I had a letter yesterday. Her spirits are good. They have her at home now, of course, but . . . but a telegram came this morning.” It had consisted of one word—one terrifying word. “Infection has set in.”
She knew what her note to Holstein would say tonight. Why? Why, when we have begged everyone we know for prayers, is sweet little Olivia going through this? Why is God not healing her?
He had said God was not deaf to her cries. He had said that the Lord loved the poor, the downtrodden, the outcast especially.
He could claim it all he wanted. Quote Scripture to back it up. But it didn’t change facts—and the facts were that the rich waltzed through life pretty as you please, while the poor were hated by everyone from God on down the line.
Jenny made a sympathetic noise. “How terrible. Is there anything we can do? We can inquire about good doctors for you, make introductions.”
And pay for them how? That sum from Mr. V was quickly shrinking—Rosemary had spent too much of it to outfit herself for this job. She oughtn’t to have bought that tweed. Nor the cotton for the shirtwaists—really, what did she need with so many? One would have sufficed. She could have just washed it in the sink at night and worn it again in the morning. And the shoes—she could have worn her old pumps. Perhaps they wouldn’t have looked so tidy, but they would have done the job.
Then there was that splurge on sweets. The children would have gotten along just fine without the pound of chocolate.
Apparently her silence was too loud. Jenny sighed. “Let us help, Rosemary, please. I realize things are tight for your family—with so many to support, they have to be. But we could help a bit with the bills. It would be our honor.”
And be beholden to Gryffyn Penrose? Rosemary would never put a price on Olivia’s life—but she knew better than to welcome a gift horse without looking deep into its proverbial mouth. “I appreciate the offer, but we’re managing right now.” Things would simply have to get better, that was all. Liv would improve. The others would get back to work. Just before she’d left, Barclay had accepted a job from some nameless chap on the Continent with more silver than sense, so that would help. He only had to steal a Monet from a museum in order to get paid. The others would help him, and he had their experie
nce with the British Museum to draw on for it. They would succeed. They must.
And she’d have more coming from Mr. V once she completed this task. It would be enough, surely, to cover any medical bills and then some.
She needed to find time to get into the attic and Holstein’s study.
Jenny sighed. “If ever you can’t manage, please come to us. I know we’ve only just met, but I consider you a friend, Rosemary. And I’m an excellent judge of character, ask anyone.”
Was that guilt that made her chest go tight? Or perhaps confusion? Why, really, did Jenny like her? Rosemary could only smile and hold back a curl that the wind was blowing straight. “Thank you, Jenny. I shall certainly keep that in mind.”
Jenny navigated the car around a tight bend, after which the village came into sight. “Shall we talk of happier things, then? I could use your help. If you’re not opposed.”
“So long as it doesn’t involve organizing your bookshelves.”
Her companion laughed. “Not at all. Another of your talents, rather. Would you help me with a gown? My seamstress is traveling to visit family in Derbyshire, but I need something new to wear to old Mr. Arnold’s Midsummer Ball.”
Had anyone but Jenny said it, with anything but that imploring smile, Rosemary may have called into question that “need.” But she wouldn’t scoff at this woman who claimed they were friends. “Of course. How can I help?”
“Oh, with everything. I haven’t even chosen fabric yet, because I couldn’t settle on a pattern. Have you any ideas? And you should find something for yourself too—Gryff’s primary goal of the day is to convince Peter he cannot skip the ball again, not this year, and he has no one else to take with him, so you’ll have to go.”
It was a good thing Rosemary wasn’t the one driving or she would have slammed a foot to the brake pedal so she could better stare. “Have you gone mad? I am hardly a proper choice for him to escort to a neighborhood ball.”
“Rubbish.” Slowing as the first buildings of town came up beside them, Jenny waved at a passerby and scanned the street. “By the time the ball rolls around in another three weeks, he’ll be far more comfortable with you than with anyone else he could consider taking, what with working together every day.”
That tightness in her chest multiplied. She didn’t mean to make him comfortable with her. Or maybe she did, if she intended to gain his trust, his secrets. Blast it all, confidence schemes had never been her game. “We aren’t exactly working together though.”
“Close enough. Please, Rosemary.” Slowing to a near-crawl when they came upon a wagon, Jenny angled a look her way. Begging. “You have to help convince him to come out. He needs to be more a part of the neighborhood.”
And this fell to her why? She knew she looked every bit as uncomfortable with the plea as she felt and couldn’t think of a single thing she could do to change that. “I don’t know how I can if Mr. Penrose fails to do so—I’ve scarcely known the man ten days.” And already she had thrice had him look up at her in complete exasperation and ask her if she would please stop talking. Thrice. That first time was bad enough, but he’d said it even during her so-called allotted times with him, as he worked through a question she’d put out.
Peter Holstein obviously needed to learn how to think when someone was speaking. Or one of these days she was going to throw something at him. Which of course would make him fire her. And then what would she do?
Jenny laughed. “He’ll say no to Gryff far more quickly than he would anyone else.” She eased the car to a halt in front of a row of shops and set the parking brake.
“Oh, I don’t know. He seems properly expert at saying it to me as well.” Checking her hat with a quick flutter of her hand, Rosemary let herself out of the vehicle.
“Good day, Mrs. Penrose.”
Rosemary looked over to find a matronly woman approaching with a wide smile aimed at Jenny. The woman’s clothes were of moderate quality. Her shoes atrocious. No jewelry, easy to lift or otherwise. The only thing of promise she could spot on the woman was a bulging handbag—though it could well be bulging with yarn and knitting needles rather than pound notes. Not worth the risk, even had they been on the streets of London, where risks were worth taking.
And she’d called Jenny Mrs. Penrose. During their outing last week Rosemary had learned that if someone didn’t address the lawyer’s wife by her first name, it was because said lawyer’s wife didn’t like said person enough to invite them to do so. Even if it was highly unusual for a lady to be so familiar with so many.
Not that anyone would know Jenny’s feelings now to see her bright smile. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Gladstone. How are you today?”
“Oh, I won’t complain, though my back has been bothering me something awful and my rheumatism is so bad I can scarcely straighten my fingers,” she said, straightening her fingers perfectly well in demonstration.
Jenny blinked, her smile holding fast. “I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll be praying for you.”
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Gladstone’s gaze wandered in Rosemary’s direction. “Is this a friend of yours? I heard you were out last Saturday with a young lady no one knew. A cousin, perhaps? Your mother’s people weren’t from Cornwall, I know.”
And from the way she said it, it was a sin for which Jenny would never be forgiven in this woman’s eyes. Rosemary decided then and there that she didn’t like Mrs. Gladstone much either. And that it was definitely knitting in her bag, given the way it moved as the woman gestured with her hands. Probably didn’t have but a shilling or two on her.
Jenny, of course, didn’t miss a beat. “Mother was from Cornwall, ma’am—Kilkhampton. Though Miss Gresham hails from London. She’s working for a while at Kensey Manor, helping Mr. Holstein to organize his library. She’s a librarian, you know.”
Mrs. Gladstone obviously didn’t know. And didn’t seem much impressed by the lofty false title. Her lips had pursed at Kilkhampton—it was northern Cornwall, wasn’t it? Near the border with Devonshire. Which apparently meant not Cornish enough. She narrowed her eyes the moment Jenny said London. Because if Kilkhampton wasn’t Cornish enough for approval, she probably thought London all but next door to Hades. And she actually huffed—a full-fledged harrumph—at the mention of Mr. Holstein.
She now looked at Rosemary as if she had something catching. “My condolences on that, miss. Were there not positions enough in Town, that you came all the way down here to work for him?”
“And pass up the chance to see Cornwall and all its . . . lovely people?” Rosemary made an effort to look demur, though it didn’t come nearly as naturally to her as it did to, say, Elinor. “I seized the chance to come down here when I heard Mr. Holstein might need help cataloging his impressive book collection.”
Another harrumph. “Bet you regretted that in quick order. Never in all my days have I met a man so rude as young Mr. Holstein. His parents must have been properly ashamed of him.”
“I hardly think so.” Rosemary didn’t know why the defense sprang so quickly to her tongue. Except, perhaps, that it was true. Not that such things usually inspired her to speak them. “Just because a man has trouble speaking doesn’t mean he’s rude.” Though, granted, he had ignored her for four whole minutes that first full day. Yet she couldn’t chalk it up to rudeness, not having spent a bit more time with him. He was, if nothing else, considerate. Just . . . distracted sometimes. Many times. All right, most times.
What in blazes did he think about so intently? That was the real question.
Mrs. Gladstone’s face mottled. “I beg your pardon. Even if he stutters, it’s no reason to avoid people completely.”
“When people treat him so rudely because of it?” Rosemary snorted. “I daresay it is.”
When the woman’s nostrils flared like that, she bore a certain resemblance to a horse. “As if he has anything to say worth listening to anyway—likely just a bunch of rot and German ideals.”
Rosemary lifted her brows. She had ten
letters from him now, tucked away in her room in the cottage. He’d shared his thoughts on fiction, on family, and quite a bit on faith. But not a single word that intimated any loyalty to Germany or her current politics. Even if he had them—on which she was banking—he certainly didn’t go around spouting them. “Do you think that’s what his parents taught him? I rather thought everyone agreed that the late Holsteins were beyond reproach.”
“Children are known to deviate from the path their parents put them on, you know.”
Rosemary cocked her head to the side. “Did you ignore your parents’ teachings, then? Or perhaps your children have ignored yours?”
Mrs. Gladstone just sputtered at that one. Jenny hid a smirk behind her gloved hand, trying—and failing—to cover it with a cough. The elder at length managed a “How dare you!”
“Look.” Planting a hand on her hip, Rosemary pointed at the woman’s heaving chest. “You want to judge him, I can’t stop you. And I got nothing invested here anyway. But the way I see it is this—better to hold your tongue and risk having people think ill of you than to go ’round blabbing lies and earn their distrust. So maybe you should take a cue from him and be quiet once in a while, hmm?”
“Well, I never.” Her nose tilted into the air—she was likely one of those hounds sniffing at church last week, though Rosemary couldn’t say with certainty—Mrs. Gladstone spun on her heel. “Good day to you, Mrs. Penrose. Miss Gristle.”
“Gresham.” She pasted on a smile, even if the woman couldn’t see it. “And good day to you too, Mrs. Sadstone. Very good to meet you!”
Jenny gave up on the cough and laughed outright, tucking her arm around Rosemary’s and tugging her forward. “Oh heavens.”
Rosemary smoothed her free hand down her hip . . . and winced at the echo of her own words. Oh, not at what she’d said. At how she’d said them. Had she really said noffing instead of nothing? She’d thought she’d obliterated that from her speech eons ago. “Is my Cockney showing?”
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