Measured, stomping steps. “Something funny, Pomeroy?”
Perhaps this Pomeroy bloke was too drunk to catch the note of warning in Kenver’s tone. Or too arrogant to care about it. Or perhaps too much of a fool to understand it. Because his next grunt of laughter was all the louder. “Aye, something’s funny, all right. Tell me, Kenny—is it the damage to your darling boss’s property what has you upset, or the thought of one of your darling horses being in danger?”
Shattering glass made her jump and apparently did the same for many others, because a chorus of startled shouts arose.
Kenver’s voice outdid them all. So much for his calm control. “I could have been killed, you blighter! Or Benny or Cadan—Treeve’s got a burn on his arm. How’s he to work now, huh? How’s he to help support our folks if my darling boss doesn’t do the kind thing and keep him on even so? Did you think about that? Did you?”
“Take it easy, Kenny, it weren’t me! I swear it! Must have been Foote. Or maybe FitzSimmons, he—”
“I don’t care which of your cronies it was! You hear me now, all of you. You got a problem with Holstein, you face him like a man and tell him so. Scurrying around throwing rocks through windows and putting our lives in danger with fires does nothing but prove you a coward and villain. Do you hear me? You want a war, you wait for the king to declare one and sign up. Don’t bring it here. Because if you declare war on Kensey Manor, I’m telling you now, I’ll take down every last cursed one of you with my own bare hands.” He punctuated his rant with a few words in Cornish she’d never heard but whose sentiment she understood perfectly well.
Apparently set on making a grand exit, Kenver resumed stomping, heading toward the door. Rosemary didn’t turn to see him go—better to keep listening.
What she heard was a soft, feminine voice calling from the back of the room. “Kenny—is everyone all right? Treeve?”
“You gave up your right to care about Treeve two years ago, Eseld.” A door slammed, and the footsteps came from outside now.
Rosemary pressed a hand to the exterior wall. There was a world in there, just as there was at Pauly’s. One full of old resentments, of loves that had flared and faded, of rivalries and friendships and courting. Were she to guess, she’d say Peter Holstein had never even set foot in this pub. But he was a part of it too. Did he know it?
Those inside did. The chatter sprang up in Kenver’s wake. A few claims that he’d got what was coming to him, a few shouts that they were glad someone had delivered a message to the German.
Then that feminine voice again. Eseld’s. “Shame on you all. Think what you will about Mr. Holstein, but it’s our people working that manor, keeping it alive. You hurt it, you hurt them. You hurt Treeve!”
A swinging door sounded, followed by a hush that wasn’t so easily broken. After a few minutes, glasses began to thud again, forks to scrape plates, murmurs to sound. But they spoke of nothing. Weather and the races and the latest cricket match. Nothing.
Rosemary eased away from the window. She’d met Treeve only in passing, had no idea what history he might share with this Eseld. And she had no doubt that Mr. Holstein would see to his care and would keep him on, no matter if he could work or not. What she didn’t know was whether that would matter to anyone here. Because the loudest defense had been Eseld’s, and it hadn’t been for Peter Holstein—it had been for the Cornish people he employed.
His neighbors didn’t trust him any more than she trusted Mr. V. Any of them. Because of his silence? Or did they know something she needed to?
Perhaps she’d find this Eseld sometime. If anyone had a fair opinion, it might be her.
Satisfied with that semblance of a plan, Rosemary eased away from the window.
Her nostrils flared. A chill clawed over her shoulders. Her head snapped to the right, to the back of the pub. Someone was there.
Someone who apparently hadn’t expected her to be there. She caught only a low curse, the sound of a foot pivoting on loose gravel, and then footsteps pounding away.
Every street-born instinct within her told her to chase after whoever it was. But four fleet steps and then her body had other ideas. She had no reserves of energy left to go sprinting after anonymous shadows.
But her toe connected with something in the dark. Something soft and hollow-sounding. She bent, caught up the object, and frowned at the familiar feel of felted wool under her fingers. A man’s hat—a bowler.
Mr. V? She couldn’t tell, in the dark, if it looked like his. And didn’t know why she should assume it would. Why would her employer, after all, be here? Many a man wore a bowler hat. And she couldn’t picture Mr. V running from a confrontation with someone in an alley. No, that didn’t fit him at all. His step was always measured, calm.
She tossed the hat back down to the earth, spun back toward the street and the road out of the village. And cursed. In her two seconds of brilliant planning, she hadn’t bothered with one rather vital question.
How in the world was she going to get home?
Fifteen
Peter opened the pot of salve, inhaling the dual scents of honey and lavender. He mustered a smile for the young man sitting at the kitchen table with gritted teeth and wished he had the gift of conversation to put Treeve at ease. “R-Ready?”
It was hard to think of him as man rather than boy. Seven years his junior, Treeve had been a presence at Kensey Manor as long as Peter could remember, eventually taking over his father’s job in the stables. But for most of Peter’s memory, he’d been a child. Running about chasing butterflies and squirrels as often as he was helping in the stables or with errands.
His arm screamed, loud and red, when Peter unwound the bandage from it. The worst of the burn had healed—Mrs. Teague or Grammy could probably stomach dressing it now, though the first day they’d both fled the room to lose their breakfasts when they’d tried. Hence why it had fallen to Peter.
Oh, he could have found someone else. But the boy had been hurt saving his property. If anyone should tend him, it should be Peter.
“Does it s-still . . . hurt?”
Treeve’s fingers curled, then went flat against the tabletop, worn smooth from years of service. “Not nearly as much. I should be able to get back to work soon.”
Peter set aside the old bandage and dipped his fingers into the salve. Scooped up some, waited for it to drip. Applied it as gently as he could to the raised, bumpy skin. It wasn’t hot to the touch anymore. Hadn’t been for a while. “I am . . . I am less concerned with th—that than with . . . with your health.”
“I know.” Voice low, Treeve kept his gaze focused on the wall. In their daily meetings here in the kitchen, the young man had done his best to avoid looking at his arm altogether. “And I appreciate, sir, that you haven’t replaced me during these weeks when my arm’s been all but useless.”
Peter focused on applying the honey to each bit of burned skin. If the scarring ever faded, it would take years. The doctor had declared it one of the more severe burns he had seen—though thankfully not large. Had infection set in, it could have spelled disaster for the boy.
But they had been diligent. The honey had done its job.
“Re . . . replacing you was never . . . never a c-consideration.” He wiped his sticky fingers on the damp rag he’d set on the table for that purpose. Then reached for the fresh bandage awaiting him. At least Treeve he could help. Miss Gresham reported that her little sister was still battling infection, but Gryff’s man in London had failed totally in locating the family.
Which made precious little sense. He’d tried to find an address on her outgoing post again, but if she was writing to her family, he never saw the letters.
“It would have been for most. So I wanted to say it. Thanks, I mean. And for doing all this when it certainly ain’t your job to do.” Treeve lifted his arm six inches off the table, held it straight out.
Peter began the meticulous wrapping. They’d found a rhythm in the last fortnight. And usually perf
ormed it in silence. He wasn’t quite sure why Treeve had gone chatty today. “A s-small enough way to . . . to say my thanks. For your . . . your f-family’s loyalty.”
“Mr. Holstein.” Treeve shifted on his chair and latched his gaze onto the table. “I . . . are you going to that big bash on Saturday? The one what Mr. Arnold throws?”
Peter’s fingers paused. He looked up at the young man’s face, not sure how he ought to react to such a question from such an unlikely source. “No.”
Treeve’s jaw went tight, making him look more like his older brother than he usually did. “You need to.” He glanced up just long enough to meet Peter’s gaze, showing his own to be as hard-set as his jaw.
Peter frowned. “Why?”
“Because everyone in the village says you won’t. That you hate them all too much to go. You got to prove them wrong, Mr. Holstein.”
Father’s chuff sneaked out. He forced his hands to continue their task. “Is th—that even . . . even possible?” He ought to try. He knew that. Mr. Arnold had advised as much during their shared tea last week. And Gryff repeated it every time they met. But a ball, with all those people ready to sneer at him? “Maybe I’m . . . maybe I’m j-just a coward.”
“A coward doesn’t act like you did at that fire, sir. You would have taken that beam instead of me if you’d been half a second faster, and we both know it.”
But he’d been too slow, hadn’t had time to do anything but shout a warning when he saw it coming down. He could still see it all, playing out so slowly in his mind’s eye, whenever he tried to sleep. He had lunged, ready to push Treeve out of the way. But the flaming beam had been faster, had fallen, caught the boy, forced him down. Trapped that arm.
He was lucky it hadn’t caught his face or his chest. That Kenver had been there to help Peter lift the thing long enough for Treeve to roll away. All in all, God had preserved them that night.
Funny how it was easier to trust Him to do so in a flaming stable than in a crowd of gala-goers.
He pinned the bandage in place.
Treeve unrolled his sleeve to cover it. “Look, Mr. Holstein. We’ll all stand with you—but in order to do so, you got to stand too. For yourself.”
Peter rubbed at his temple. And realized he’d missed a bit of honey on his fingers, or gotten more on during the wrapping. “I don’t . . . I don’t know. A ball?”
The man-boy chuckled. “You sound like Kenny—though let it be noted he met his Tamsyn at the servants’ ball last Midsummer’s Eve.”
“But K-Kenver isn’t a . . . a stammering G-German.”
Treeve grinned. “Nah. Just a talkative idiot as like to put his foot in his mouth as anything. You need to go. Sir.”
Had Gryff put him up to this? He would have asked the question were the answer not pulsing from the young man’s dark eyes. No one had put Treeve up to it. It was his own idea, of whose merits he was thoroughly convinced.
“I’ll . . . consider it.”
Treeve nodded and reached for the cap he’d taken off and set on the table. He pushed to his feet. “Take Miss Gresham, she’ll help—she’s been in the pub a good bit this fortnight past. Making . . . friends.”
The way he said it left no question as to who her new friend was. Peter winced on Treeve’s behalf. “I’m sure she . . . she didn’t know.”
“I don’t mind if she likes Eseld. Everyone likes Eseld. What matters here is that everyone’s also becoming quite fond of Miss Gresham. Take her with you and they’ll all be kind, I think.”
Or maybe Gryff had gotten to him. “I d-don’t see why—”
“Just trust me, sir. Please. For your own good, and for all of ours. No one fancies finding anything else set ablaze.”
His chest went tight, his stomach turned. Treeve was right. He had a responsibility, not just to himself and his family’s good name, but to every last person who had aligned themselves with Kensey Manor. They were all at risk so long as he was at odds with the neighbors—and were all convinced it was a local who had done it. Constable Newth had questioned the stranger, but it seemed the man was taking his dinner in the hotel’s dining room at the time in question, seen by all.
Funny—he preferred thinking the danger from a stranger and a political adversary in London than that his own neighbors despised him so. Even if the man in the bowler had put someone up to it, it hadn’t apparently taken much convincing.
Peter gave one short nod.
Treeve pulled his cap on with his good arm. “Good. I’ll tell Kenny to have the carriage ready for you that night, then.”
Peter stifled a groan and managed another nod. As he cleaned up his mess and prepared to get out of Grammy’s kitchen before he could be in the way, he told himself it would be a good thing. It had to be. Perhaps it would be a few hours of discomfort, but what was that in the long run, if it could help his people?
He heard Treeve outside the door, informing someone—presumably Grammy—that she’d not need to prepare any supper on Saturday, as the master would be going to the ball. Grammy’s excited—and relieved—exclamation chased Peter from the kitchen before she could come in and gush approval all over him. Best they all keep that in check until they saw whether he made a mess of it or not at the ball.
He stowed the salve and bandages in the linen closet that held all their medicinals and hurried to the main hall.
The library door stood open, as it generally did. His first glance made him think it empty, but Miss Gresham had an uncanny knack for hiding from him. Not that she tried to hide, but he had gone in search of her several times only to discover she’d been in the library all the while, hidden behind a piece of furniture or a shelf.
He stepped into the chamber. The visible progress of two weeks ago had reverted to new stacks of books on the floor last week as she set about reorganizing everything left in here. But it still wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been before she arrived. And he now had a nicely organized secondary library upstairs. He wove around the maze of low shelves and books until, yes, he saw her. Sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, completely engrossed in whatever tome she had in her hands now. She chewed on a nail as she read, her lips silently forming the words. Must be a German book—those were the only ones with which she did that.
He knocked on the closest shelf to get her attention.
She didn’t even look up. Which was, he knew without question, payback for the way he inevitably kept her waiting when she knocked at his study door. But unlike him, she actually heard him. She’d look up when she’d deemed the punishment long enough.
At some point in the weeks since her arrival, it had begun to amuse him. He reached for a small silver key on top of the low shelf, flipped it around in his hand, set it down again. Then picked up a slender booklet sitting beside it and frowned at the title. How to Organize Your Library. . . . What would a professional in the study of such things need with such a handbook?
But then, had he come across one called How to Write an Adventure Novel, he would have read it too. Just to see if it agreed with his own methods.
Still, when Miss Gresham stood and walked to his side, he couldn’t resist lifting the book, and his brows.
She grinned and took it from him. “Thought perhaps your grandfather had used its methods, since it was in here.”
He kept his brows hiked.
She chuckled. “He didn’t.”
“Ah. That would have been . . . been t-too easy. W-What about the key?”
“I’ve no idea.” She set the booklet back down and meandered over to the window that stood open to the fresh June breezes. “Your timing is perfect—I had a question. Does your mother’s family, do you know, have any connections to Russia?”
She seemed to like the out-of-doors better than the in. Rather strange for a librarian, on the one hand. But he could understand it. He often preferred it himself. Just yesterday he’d happened upon her on the cliffs and had ended up sharing his luncheon with her.
It wouldn’t b
e a chore to spend an evening with her. Though it would be less of one if it didn’t involve the entire village. “Yes. My m-mother’s . . . stepmother. She was Russian.”
Miss Gresham turned her face back his way, though she kept her arms propped against the windowsill. “Did she know the Duchess of Edinburgh, perhaps?”
King George’s aunt? He didn’t know how she would have. “I . . . don’t know. But I have a . . . a question for you. I w-wanted to . . . to invite you to—”
“Dinner again with the vicar?” She turned fully from the window now, though the sunlight still clung to her. “As I told you last week, I appreciate the invitation, but I don’t need to spend a whole evening talking religion.”
An incredulous snort slipped out, halfway to laughter. “You don’t . . . don’t seem to mind it with me.” Not that he really spoke of such things. Much. But every morning there was a new letter on his study floor, with more questions.
The kinds of questions that said she was looking at it all with fresh, unaccustomed eyes. As if she’d never heard any of it before. Another oddity he couldn’t quite resolve with this Miss Gresham, who cut through a swath of books with speed and without hesitation. An oddity, but he rather enjoyed it. Sometimes that childlike perspective shed brilliant light on age-old questions.
Miss Gresham rolled her eyes and set the book she’d been reading on the top of a stack as high as her head. “It’s different. It doesn’t seem like talk of religion with you. It’s more . . .”
Warmth spread through him, even as she rolled her hand in a circle as if the right word would leap from the air into her mouth. He smiled. “Faith. But it’s . . . it’s the same with Mr. Trenholm.”
The wrinkle of her nose said she wasn’t inclined to find out.
An argument for another day. “That’s not actually . . . that’s not what I w-wanted to in . . . invite you to do. There’s . . .” Blast. Even speaking about it made his tongue go knotted. He’d be an utter dunce when there. “A b-ball. On Saturday.”
A Name Unknown Page 22