That made Jenny laugh all the more. “Delightfully. I’ve been waiting a decade for someone to put that woman in her place, and there’s no better way than with an accent not Cornish.”
Still. Rosemary had worked hard to make her speech more polished than it was by rights. They all had, and they were teaching the little ones the so-called proper inflections from the get-go, always speaking “correctly” at home. They couldn’t blend in with the high crowd at a gala glistening with gems if a working-class accent clung to their lips.
Jenny pulled her into the closest shop, a bell tinkling over the door as they entered. The shopkeeper greeted them, obviously well familiar with Jenny Penrose. And apparently also knowing why they’d come in today, as she immediately proclaimed that some new patterns and silk had arrived just yesterday.
Though she followed her new friend and the tidily dressed shopgirl away from the door, Rosemary’s mind didn’t leave the street quite so easily. That self-righteous horse could rub anyone the wrong way. Surely it was that, and only that, that had made defense of Peter Holstein spring to her tongue. Because, really, she didn’t like the bloke. And she certainly didn’t think him innocent of the charges anyone could lob against him. But the more his neighbors accused him, the more defensive and careful he’d be, making it all the harder for Rosemary to discover his true loyalties.
By which logic, she ought to help get the town to like him. It was logical, right? Perhaps?
Or, she granted as she smiled at Jenny and accepted the new book of patterns handed to her . . . perhaps she was just doing as Barclay always accused her of and rationalizing a bad decision.
Blast it all. She should have let the horse-hound go on sniffing and flaring her nostrils. What was it to her?
Twelve
Right . . . right here.” Peter came to a halt between two massive trees where the undergrowth provided a good screen for anyone hiding. Whoever had been here last week would have had yet another unhindered view of the manor—this time the side opposite where he’d been before, of stables rather than the cottage. Of the drawing room rather than the parlor. Of Peter’s study rather than the kitchen.
His fingers curled into a fist inside his pocket. There were no new cigarette butts here today, of course. But he suspected they’d find some elsewhere, if they searched.
Gryff hummed and craned his head around to check on Elowyn, who was behind them on the path, picking wildflowers. “But you’ve not seen the actual person anywhere on your property?”
“No.” And a collection of cigarette butts wasn’t enough to say for sure that it was an intruder. He knew that.
“A collection of cigarette butts isn’t enough to prove it an intruder.”
Peter chuffed.
“Which you know. And we’re not trying someone in court, we’re investigating. I know. I alerted Constable Newth to the presence of Mr. Jasper’s man, of course, so he’s keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.” Gryff rubbed a hand along the back of his head, knocking his hat askew but not seeming to notice. “Look, old boy, I trust your instincts most of the time, and I do question that man’s sudden presence in our neighborhood, but this . . . It could quite easily be one of the staff.”
Peter shook his head. “The only . . . the only smoker is Cadan. But he doesn’t . . . not that much. One a day, he says. Because . . . because of the expense.”
Gryff pursed his lips. “Perhaps Benny’s sneaking off. Boys have done such things before.”
He’d have to be sneaking off for hours at a time and lighting one cigarette directly from the previous one to accumulate such a mass of refuse. Peter shook his head. “He’s been . . . been accounted for.”
“Someone from the neighborhood, then—and likely still a boy trying to hide from his mother.”
Perhaps. His family had always made it known that anyone was welcome to use the paths through their wood or along their cliff. But there was no shortage of paths. Why would absolutely all of the places he’d spotted with this smoking rubbish be in places offering good views of the house? When his property was far fuller of places that didn’t?
It didn’t add up. Not unless it was someone watching them. Watching him.
Which inevitably brought him back to the grey-haired man in the bowler who was always there whenever Peter ventured into the village.
Which in turn took his mind back to the letter that had kept him up all last night for worrying.
We regret to inform you, Mr. Holstein, that the documents in question could not be located in the National Archives. . . .
Did Jasper have ties to the Archives? Could he have had the Holstein papers moved—or destroyed? Stolen? Would the man stoop so low as to hire a . . . a street thug to do him such damage?
With that perpetual shadow in the village, it was hard to convince himself of the absurdity of the idea.
Well, he’d just have to find his own copies of the records. That was all. Surely not as daunting a task as it seemed.
Gryff turned away from the view, back toward his daughter. She’d sat down on the path to weave together the flowers she’d picked, no doubt turning her white dress brown. Which would have made Jenny object heartily and loudly. Gryff didn’t seem to notice. “Well, there have been no more rocks through windows. No other trouble. So try to relax.”
Peter heard the words, but he also saw that his friend’s shoulders were tight, his spine rigid, and that line chiseled into his brow that bespoke worry far more loudly than his lips spoke ease. “Did you find anything . . . about the coin? My search proved . . . proved futile.”
Gryff’s shoulders didn’t relax. “I translated the Latin, anyway. Their name means ‘Ancient Order of the Realm’—as vague as any other ridiculous society’s name. But everyone I asked about them had never heard of them—but for one. And he thought they were one of the insurance groups. But I don’t know that they are, or they wouldn’t be so secretive. Those things only work with many members.”
So then, nothing. Nothing but a veiled threat from a sneering man in London. And his lackey here, watching Peter.
“The best thing I can tell you is to tread carefully but not be too alarmed, old boy. They can’t be too terrifying if no one’s ever heard of them. We’ll keep our eye on the fellow in the village and our ears open for any other muttering against you. Though of course no one says anything negative about you in my hearing. Everyone knows you’re my closest friend.” Turning his face back toward Peter, Gryff drew in a breath. “And it’s high time they all understand why. You need to get out more, Pete.”
He seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for an answer—Peter let his own out in compensation. “Gryff, you know that would be . . . that would be disastrous.”
“It would not. How do you think you’ve made the friends you have? You’re a blighted genius with brilliant ideas that people can’t help but find intriguing and a gracious heart that presents them in a way that makes you endearing rather than off-putting. You are a picture-perfect friend. Let people see that.”
It was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. “I am . . . am hardly a genius.” He had a way with words, was all. So long as he didn’t have to speak them aloud. That hardly qualified.
“Oh trust me. I know more people than you, I’m the better judge of comparative intelligence.”
Though he breathed a laugh, Peter also shook his head. “And no one finds me . . . gracious.”
“Their perception that you aren’t is solely because you’re such a recluse, as well you know. Come out. Visit your neighbors. Eat a meal in the dashed pub now and then. Something.”
He’d come to church, hadn’t he? And that had been a mistake. Aside from the Penroses and Mr. Trenholm himself, no one had received them warmly. What impression must that have made on Miss Gresham? No doubt she now thought church—and by extension Christianity—utter rot. And she had a point. Well, not about the extension, but about that particular church. Paul may have instructed them not to forsake t
he gathering together of believers, but when the church first forsook you because of your last name, what else were you to do?
He would worship at home, as he had always done. The vicar would come on Mondays. God understood, even if Peter’s neighbors refused to.
“What you need to do is come to the Midsummer Ball.” With a glance to the north, away from the coast and past the wood, where Holstein property eventually butted up against Mr. Arnold’s, Gryff made the pronouncement in his barrister voice. The one that was all certainty. More command than request. And filled with nothing but wishful thinking.
It didn’t even deserve a response, so Peter brushed by him and headed back toward Elowyn along the path. No point in hovering here where someone had hovered before. They’d left no clues but the butts he’d already picked up and discarded. But one of the butts had been smoldering still last week when he’d found that second collection. He’d nearly caught the person, whoever it was. Maybe next time he would manage it.
And then what? How did he mean to hold the culprit? And with what could he really charge him?
Gryff kept pace beside him. “It’s still three weeks away. Plenty of time to prepare yourself, and I know well Mr. Arnold invited you, as he always does. You ought to do him the honor of accepting his invitations now and again, don’t you think?”
One sideways look at his friend ought to have sufficed to silence him. Not that anything ever silenced Gryffyn Penrose.
“He did especially mention you to me the other day when I saw him.”
“Well, I had . . . had tea with him on Wednesday.”
“And no doubt he had some sound advice. No one is looking askance at him. But then, he’s out and about all the time. As you should be.”
Not to mention that his surname happily sounded English enough. Had he a name that ended with stein, it may well be another matter. Well, not that anyone was likely to pour their hatred upon an eighty-year-old man who hated Germany even more than they ever could. And who couldn’t even walk without a cane. And whose miniature dog inspired coos from everything female.
Peter’s lips twitched. Even so. “I’ll not . . . not go to the ball.”
Gryff clapped a hand to Peter’s shoulder. “He’ll convince you, I bet, when next you see him. You wouldn’t have to go alone this year, you know. You could take Miss Gresham.”
A ridiculous notion. Though it could prove entertaining. Her discourse on his neighbors as they drove home from church last week had been diverting, to say the least. But he wasn’t going to the ball.
Interesting, though, that Gryff had suggested it. “Have you . . . have you accepted Jenny’s opinion of her, then?”
Gryff sidestepped a root and stopped a step away from his daughter, who looked nowhere near ready to proceed on their walk. She had dozens of daisies scattered about her waiting to be woven into a crown. Or, given her current progress, tied into knots that refused to stay together. “It still seems highly unusual that she didn’t bother making an appointment before just showing up. But her references all seem to be in order. And were rather glowing, at that.”
“Good.” Peter probably should have followed up on that sooner. But he’d only to look into the library to see that she was competent—he could actually see the floor now. Another week or two and the shelves would have order as well. She’d even promised to create a card catalog for him. Opa had purchased the cabinet itself but had never gone to the trouble of filling it.
If only she could locate those journals . . . and he really ought to tell her to keep an eye out for their naturalization documents as well. And the deed to Kensey. But it would sound so suspicious to ask that of her.
No, those he ought to find himself. Somehow. Somewhere. Unless she just happened across them in the library, in which case she’d surely ask him where to file them, right?
He watched Elowyn carefully select another daisy and happily mangle its stem as she tied it to the previous one. “What about . . . about the investigator? Has he found her family?” Every day as he prayed for little Olivia, he prayed for that as well.
Gryff’s brows drew together. “I had a note from him this morning. It’s a curious thing, he says. There’s a Parker family at that address, but it’s only four sisters, the youngest being eight. No Greshams at all.”
“Hmm.” Did they perhaps have more than one flat, there being so many of them? But that didn’t seem right—that would cost more. Slinging his hands in his pockets, Peter tilted up his head to watch a lazy white cloud meander by. “What of . . . of the hospitals?”
“No Parker or Gresham had been admitted to any of them last week. He’s still trying to sort it out based on description, but that’s a considerable haystack.”
Indeed it would be. But he’d find her eventually, because Peter had no doubt of the truth of the story. Not after watching the shadows in Miss Gresham’s eyes these last ten days, deepening and darkening with each new sliver of news that reached her. One couldn’t fake such concern for a family member, no matter what Mrs. Teague muttered about ploys for attention.
“Tell him . . . tell him to go back to that Parker address. See if one is . . . Cressida. If so, it’s her sister. We can . . . we can send money there.” Even if it wasn’t where Olivia was, they were obviously connected. Sending to one would see it got to the other.
But it was curious. And his mind, so fond of unraveling mysteries and composing stories, kept turning it over. Why the different surnames? And why did they not all live together if they all supported one another?
Something didn’t add up. Or perhaps he was just missing a few vital parts of the equation—but how to get them? He wasn’t one to press a person for information. That required conversation. And while Miss Gresham seemed happy enough to chat incessantly, even about her family, when one sat down to examine the content of her words, one quickly realized she talked a lot about the people but never about anything that could help a body find those people. No mention of the names of places they visited. Of schools attended. Or churches. Nothing to indicate a neighborhood of residence, beyond vague references to the tube and “Pauly’s.”
It was curious indeed.
He looked up at the sky. Still blue and inviting, and if it held tomorrow, he would suggest that trip to Marazion and St. Michael’s Mount. That would give him ample time in her company to try to figure it all out.
Rosemary waited in her cottage, watching. After nearly a solid week of rain that had started last Saturday night after she got home from shopping for cloth with Jenny, the sun was shining. Or, rather, promising to do so properly once it finished burning off the fog. She ran a finger along the edge of the book in her hands, though she’d finished it an hour ago. It had taken her forever to get through it, but it was no fault of the story. Branok Hollow knew how to weave an intriguing tale. But most of her evenings this past week had been spent on the silk Jenny Penrose had bought.
Measuring. Measuring again. Marking with white chalk. Measuring again. Cutting, breath held and praying she had measured aright. Pinning it together in the pattern they had decided on. Exhausting eyes already tired from reading half the day and sewing into the night.
Not something she wanted to turn into a profession, much as Jenny might praise her for her skill. Making clothes was something she did because she had to, and something she did well because the effort was useless if not done properly. Constructing a garment wasn’t unlike picking a lock—one had to have the right tools, but more, one had to apply them in just the right way.
Perhaps she could become a seamstress, if it came down to it. Maybe. Though she would hate it after a week.
She slid the book onto the table when movement from the kitchen door of the manor house caught her attention. Finally, the staff was leaving for church, just as they had done last Sunday even when Mr. Holstein had stayed at home. Rosemary had followed the master of the house’s lead, though Grammy had invited her to ride along with them.
Not a torture she cared to repeat
, thank you very much.
She counted them as they left. One, two, three . . . the Teagues and Grammy, looking deep in conversation, given the sweep of Mr. Teague’s hands. Four—Kerensa. Tugging on the hand of . . . five. The adolescent boy named Benny, who looked none too pleased to be going to church either.
Rosemary’s lips tugged up. The boy obviously had more sense than the rest of them.
There was another housemaid, but she didn’t live on-premises, as she was only needed three days a week. And the stable staff would already be outside. Cadan, Kenver, Treeve—those three were all brothers, apparently—and a few groundsmen whose names she hadn’t learned in her time here, given that she had no cause to venture into their domain.
That was all the staff, then. They had no doubt left Mr. Holstein with a nice breakfast and a hot pot of coffee, which he would, if he followed last week’s pattern, be enjoying in his study with his newspaper and a book of some kind. There had been no click-clack-ding last Sunday, but he’d stayed in his study most of the day still. She had hovered in the library through much of it, not working—on his insistence—but claiming she enjoyed the room and wanted to read in there.
Really, she just wanted to know what his pattern was when the staff was all gone and he wasn’t at his infernal typewriter.
The answer had suited her well enough. She hadn’t ventured about her tasks last week, to be sure—observation was key before action—but this week she would. And be done and back down before she was to meet him at ten for their trip to St. Michael’s Mount.
The staff would take the old carriage to church—she watched them head toward it now. A curricle was also out already, its matching pair of horses tied to a post. Waiting for Mr. Holstein and her, no doubt, though they had an hour yet. But better for the horses to wait, she supposed, than for a gentleman to sully his own hands with tack and harnesses. She was somewhat surprised to realize he would have to drive the thing himself—there was certainly no room for a driver otherwise.
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