“Mr. Arnold’s Midsummer Ball, I know. It’s all anyone talks about in the village.” Her brows drew together, and she planted her hands on her hips. “You can’t mean to tell me you’ve decided to go. And that you expect me to go with you.”
He put on his most pleading look, the one that he’d used to wheedle Grammy out of an extra biscuit. “Please?”
Panic flared in her eyes. For a moment he feared it was at the thought of going with him, but the way she dug her fingers into her skirt said otherwise. “Are you mad? I’ve nothing to wear beyond those two dresses I use for dinner every night—neither of which are suitable for a ball like this. Jenny has been talking incessantly of what everyone has worn in years past, and they’re all . . . they’re all . . .”
“But it . . . it doesn’t matter. There are only a . . . a handful of women who . . . who can afford that.”
She didn’t calm. If anything, the opposite. “But you, Mr. Holstein, are the wealthiest man in the neighborhood! You can’t show up there with raggedy me.”
He tried to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. He did. It was hardly his fault he failed when her hair, bent on proving her point, slipped from its pins. Or half of it, anyway, giving her a lopsided look that turned her expression from panic to exasperation.
She pointed a finger at his chest. “Don’t make fun or I’ll throw a book at you.”
“Wouldn’t . . . dream of it.”
Huffing out a breath that would have made Father proud, she twisted the disobedient hair back up and jabbed it into place with the pins. “At least you see my point. I am not an appropriate companion for this ball.”
Peter leaned against the shelf at his back. “Nonsense. You are . . . are already better liked than . . . than I. Please, Miss Gresham. As a f-favor to me.”
“Mr. Holstein . . .” Her tone became every bit as pleading as his had been. “It’s not the same as driving me to Marazion or to church. I’m not a gentlewoman.”
“And I’m not . . . proposing m-marriage. Just a ball.”
The pleading hardened into what could only be termed stubbornness. “I can hardly dance.”
He folded his arms across his chest to deflect that stubbornness back at her. “Nor c-can I. We’ll be a . . . a matching pair.”
“But—”
“I don’t . . . don’t want to go either. But I must, and . . . and it would mean a lot. To have a friend beside me.” He straightened again, cleared his face of all exaggeration. Leaving nothing but the raw truth.
Her arms fell to her sides, and her latest exhalation sounded blessedly resigned. “I’m a friend?”
Should it have surprised her? Probably—it rather surprised him when the word came out so easily. But it was true, just as Gryff had predicted. They’d shared two meals a day for several weeks and had ended up speaking of many things beyond the books in this library and his family’s history. They wrote to each other daily, sharing things neither ever spoke aloud.
If that didn’t make them friends, then what would? He just lifted his brows in answer.
She had become adept at reading his expressions. Hers now went soft. “I suppose we are. Which is a very odd thought, don’t you think?”
He granted it with half a smile.
She huffed again. “So be it. I’ll go with you—on one condition.”
Gratefulness pulsed through his veins. “Yes?”
He’d only seen that look on her face a few times, but he’d quickly identified it as a warning of mischief. And had borrowed it for Rosita, whenever she was about to do something slightly dangerous and utterly surprising to Locryn.
Miss Gresham leaned close. “Tell me what it is you do all day at that typewriter.”
His lips pulled up. Crooking his finger to motion her closer, he bent over, hand cupped, mouth at her ear. And whispered, “I type.”
She slapped him on the arm. But her laughter also wove through his as he turned and headed for his study.
Rosemary checked over her shoulder from habit more than the suspicion that anyone paid her any undue heed. But the townspeople bustled about as they always did. The only difference in the last few weeks was that they’d begun to greet her by name whenever she walked to the village, and everyone except Mrs. Gladstone seemed happy to do so.
She suspected it was in part because many of them found it amusing that she’d given Gladstone the what-for. No one she had found particularly liked the old biddy. Though she was one of theirs. So if it came down to an actual taking of sides, Rosemary wouldn’t ever count on anyone coming over to hers.
The vicar’s father was the only one out just now, and he’d already lifted his wizened hand in greeting. Rosemary had already called back her good evening, so now the old man was back to whatever book he had in his hand. And Rosemary was free to enter the post office without notice.
They’d be closing in a minute. Which was why she’d timed it this way, so that it was unlikely there would be a line of others behind her, ready to see the envelope she handed over. Not that she thought it her fault that someone had been snooping around Retta’s flat those weeks ago—but she had just sent a letter there, and anyone either at Kensey or in the village could have seen the address. Best to be cautious—no one wanted to have to move again.
Especially with Olivia still doing so poorly.
The postmaster greeted her with that distracted smile that shouted, Hurry up, then, I want to go home. Perfect. She rushed in, coin and letter at the ready, her smile as apologetic as ever. “Sorry, Mr. Dell! I tried to get here earlier today.”
“No matter, Miss Gresham, no matter. You’re always a quick one.” But the man’s rotund belly was no doubt growling for its tea, and he scarcely paid her any mind at all. Glanced only a moment at the direction upon her letter before affixing the proper postage to it. “There we are, ready to go. See you next week, then.”
“Or Saturday, if you’ll be at Mr. Arnold’s ball. I’ve been convinced to attend.” And if she were going to go, she might as well make it known. Announcing she’d be there with Mr. Holstein could well relieve a few tongues of their opinions of him.
Mr. Dell greeted her words with lifted brows and a warm-enough smile. “Are you, then? Very good. Going with Treeve?”
It shouldn’t grate on her that he assumed she’d be attending the servants’ ball held outside Mr. Arnold’s home, rather than the formal ball within. By rights, that was where she belonged. But he shouldn’t have known it. “No. With Mr. Holstein.”
“That so?” Rather than the disbelief she had expected, Mr. Dell’s face looked . . . impressed. “Who convinced who?”
“He convinced me.”
The postmaster smiled. “Didn’t know he had it in him. And I hope you have a good time with him, Miss Gresham. Help him enjoy himself a bit. That boy’s become so backward . . . his parents would be appalled.”
“Would they?” She turned to go . . . but figured it would be a good idea to show some solidarity with him, if she were going to a public event on his arm in a few short days. “I rather think they’d be appalled with everyone in this village for treating him as they do. It’s hardly his fault he cannot speak well.”
“Does he with you?” Usually by now Mr. Dell would be all but pushing her out the door. Perhaps he’d sneaked a snack earlier in the afternoon and wasn’t as famished as usual. “Speak, I mean.”
“Of course he does.” And really, he hardly ever stuttered anymore, unless the subject itself distressed him. Still fumbled for the right words, but it was more hesitation than stammering most of the time. Besides, if one were to watch his face, one could all but read his mind anyway.
She should really warn him about that—a good thief could exploit such things, if he or she were the confidence-scheme sort. And whoever had been listening in the alley beside the pub the night of the fire could well still be out there.
She’d taken to paying attention to every bowler hat she saw in town, but none of the men under the hats she
saw looked particularly underhanded. And she knew underhanded. The only thing she was certain of in regard to Mr. Bowler was that he wasn’t Mr. V. She’d had a wire from him the next morning, from London.
He may not be lurking about the village, but he was still looking over her shoulder—and she still didn’t like it. She could do her job on her own.
Which made that funny little twitch wriggle around inside. Why was she thinking about warning Mr. Holstein about guarding his expressions, given that she couldn’t very well issue it until she’d already stripped him of everything that mattered?
Blast it all. She sighed heavily. “He’s really a very nice man, Mr. Dell. One of the nicest I’ve ever met.” It had to be a front. Or just part of the story. Because, really, no one could be as good as he seemed. No one could really spend so much time dwelling on thoughts of God and Jesus and what faith really meant and then turn around and write notes in some secret code and spend all his time typing something.
Maybe he was writing a theological treatise on that contraption of his all day. It could explain why he insisted on those dinners every week with the vicar. She’d slipped into his study twice now to try to poke around, certain both times that no one would disturb her.
Kerensa had nearly caught her the first time. And the second, she’d managed to rummage through only a filing cabinet in the corner before Mr. Holstein had come back down for something. Last week she had even worked up the gumption to come over in the night—Teague had heard her at the kitchen door and come to open it for her before she could even pull out her lock picks. She’d had to make up some story about forgetting something in the library, and he’d hovered behind her the whole while, smiling indulgently, so he could lock back up behind her.
Blasted staff were better security than electro-magnets.
Mr. Dell gave a thoughtful little hum. “Perhaps you’re right about him, Miss Gresham. In which case, perhaps you can help him show it.”
She made her lips smile, made her eyes reflect it rather than the doubts clamoring about inside her head. She was the last person in the world to help him. But in another world, the world where she was Rosemary Gresham, librarian, instead of Rosemary Gresham, thief, that may be just what she’d do. “Let’s hope so, Mr. Dell. Good day. Tell your wife I said hello and look forward to seeing her on Saturday.”
She slipped out of the door as Mr. Dell assured he would do just that, and then she headed directly for the pub. Eseld, still an hour from the start of her shift, would be getting a bite beforehand. Rosemary’s gaze found her the moment she stepped into the warm, fragrant building, and she slid over to their usual corner booth with a smile. “What’s on the menu tonight, then?”
Eseld smiled and pushed a full bowl of some sort of stew toward her. Her own was half-empty already. “You’re a full two minutes later than usual. I was beginning to think it wasn’t really Monday and I’d asked the second bowl of Mam by mistake.”
“Mr. Dell was chatty.” Rosemary leaned over the bowl to inhale. She’d done more talking than eating during the midday meal, and it was catching up to her, as she’d also skipped breakfast again. Her stomach just didn’t know what to do with three meals a day. “Smells divine.”
“I’ll tell my mam you said so.” Eseld smiled her charming smile and tucked back an escaped curl of the black hair Rosemary had found to be rather common—though no less pretty for it—here in Cornwall. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out why Treeve had been courting Eseld three years ago. Though why the pub owner’s daughter had tossed him over to marry the moody Colin Thorn, glowering now from behind the bar, she hadn’t yet figured out.
But then, Rosemary was no expert on that kind of love. And she didn’t rightly know what she’d do if and when her family members started thinking about romance and marriage. Ellie was the only one to ever talk of such things.
Eseld ate a bite of meat and carrots and then pointed her spoon at Rosemary. “Chatty, you say? At this time of day?”
Rosemary grinned and sampled her stew before going back to Mr. Dell. “When I mentioned that I was going to the ball on Saturday.”
“Oh good! With Treeve?”
“No, not with Treeve.” Rosemary expelled a breath. “Why is that the natural assumption?”
Eseld chuckled. “I suppose because he’s the only unmarried man near your age at Kensey, and that’s where you spend your days. And I want him to be happy—he deserves to be happy, so if you two—”
“There’s no ‘us two.’ Nor will there ever be.” She wasn’t stupid enough to get involved with anyone here, not given that she was likely to have to leave in a hurry. Though let it be noted his teeth were superior to his brother’s and his face every bit as pleasant. Hard to think she’d barely even known his name when the fire was set—now she saw him nearly every day, since he had to come to the house to have his dressing changed and usually stopped by her open window to exchange a tease on his way in. “He’s just a baby. Three and twenty!”
Eseld rolled her eyes. “And I’m one and twenty. Am I a baby too?”
“Barely toddling.” Rosemary reached for the mug that Eseld had waiting for her. “It’s a wonder you’re not still in nappies.”
With a sweet little laugh, Eseld threw her balled-up napkin at Rosemary’s head. “You’re terrible. And only two years his elder—Mam’s two years older than Tas, you know. It’s no great thing.”
It became a great thing when one of them still believed the world was basically good and the other had known better for going on two decades. And when said idealistic one was still in love with a certain curly-haired Cornish girl. But she certainly wasn’t going to point that out. “Much as I appreciate that you want him to find his true love, he’ll not find her in me, Eseld Thorn.”
Eseld’s nearly black eyes danced as she took a leisurely sip of her steaming tea. “All right, then. Tell me who it is you’re going with so I can weave you a romance with him instead.”
A little snort of laughter escaped. “Hardly. It’s Mr. Holstein. He’s decided to go and wanted a friend beside him.”
“Peter Holstein?” Spoon halfway to her mouth, Eseld froze. “Are you fooling me?”
She’d tried to tell him, hadn’t she, that she wasn’t a good choice? “I know. It doesn’t make sense that he’d ask me—”
“Well, it does if he’s sensible. But I rather thought he wasn’t—that he fancied himself too far above the rest of us lowly villagers to want to spend any time with us.” Eseld set down her spoon and traced a finger along the edge of her teacup. “You mean to tell me I’ve judged him wrong all these years? Next thing you’ll be saying he’s not the confirmed bachelor we all assumed.”
“Haven’t the foggiest idea about that.”
A lack of insight that didn’t seem to put Eseld off any. Eyes unfocused, she tilted her head. “Though I suppose you’re not quite a common villager. You’re educated.”
Rosemary took a bite of stew. The School of Hard Knocks, as someone had put it in an old issue of Cosmopolitan she had found, was hardly the education Peter Holstein would value. But she was smart—one couldn’t survive the streets without being smart, much less learn how to bypass all the newfangled alarms that were put to use in London. And when one had a few brains to spare, one didn’t need a fancy college. Just a will to learn. “When it comes down to it, Eseld, I’m still nothing but a barkeep’s ward.”
“Well.” Eseld shook herself. And grinned. “Good for him, seeing beyond it.”
Rosemary just smiled and took another bite. And kept to herself the thought that bubbled up—that she didn’t need a man willing to look beyond her past. If ever she found a man—which was hardly a priority—she wouldn’t settle for less than one who loved her for what she’d come from.
And that was a tall order indeed.
Sixteen
It could be that his mind was simply still in the ancient ruins deep within the heart of the rainforest, but Peter could have sworn there were eyes watching him
with far more attention than his presence warranted. Perhaps they weren’t the eyes of natives with poison darts in their hands. But they were the eyes of neighbors ready to judge. And honestly, he wouldn’t have placed his bets on their kindheartedness had they been handed those darts.
Music drifted to him from the ballroom, where a string quartet reigned. Chatter crowded the drawing room, where he’d somehow ended up. All the windows were open, letting in not only the summer breeze, but also the sounds from the other ball outside, filled with hoots and laughter.
All of Penzance was here. They must be. Mr. Arnold’s grounds throbbed with them—how long could it really hold out until it just burst at the seams?
“You’re frowning.” Miss Gresham, hand tucked in the crook of his arm, gave him a nudge. “And if you don’t stop, they’re all going to think it’s because you find your companion displeasing, and then I shall never forgive you for forcing me to this thing just so you could ruin my reputation as charming.”
“Sorry.” He forced his face to relax. Even conjured up part of a smile—not hard to do for his friend. It was just the crowd. “Dis . . . distract me?”
She was good at it. She’d proven that innumerable times in the past month. And her eyes sparked now at the challenge.
She grinned. “All right. Let’s see how honed your powers of observation are tonight.” Shifting, she angled closer to him, the silk of her gown brushing his arm. From what he could glean, Jenny, in a rapture that they were coming, had foisted an entire trunk of outdated gowns upon Miss Gresham, which she was free to make over as she saw fit. He was no judge of fashion, but he thought she’d done a bang-up job of making her dress modern. And the color—a deep rose—suited her well. He made a mental note of it, so that Rosita could arrive sometime in the shade and render Locryn speechless.
Her eyes scanned the room as quickly as they did a book. “I spot a couple who just had an argument before they came.”
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