The prisoner’s head snapped back up. Eyes dark with suspicion, he looked ready to say something. But bit his tongue when new commotion signaled the arrival of Mr. Newth, who didn’t need his badge or a uniform—he wore his position for all to see.
Mr. Dell huffed. “You most certainly are not! The girl is a thief.”
“Prove it.” Miss Gresham planted her hands on her hips. “If she is, then take her in with him. But if you don’t find anything on her person, you most certainly will not cart her off to spend a night in a damp, cold jail cell that could well be the death of her.”
Mr. Dell’s face went red. “Even if she hasn’t stolen anything yet, it was obviously her intent. Otherwise, what’s a girl like her doing here?”
Were the situation less dire, Peter would have smiled at the way Rosemary Gresham stood up tall. At the way her lips curled back from her teeth in a snarl worthy of the most ferocious beast. At the ease with which she stared down the town patriarchs.
For the life of him, Peter couldn’t figure out how she managed to portray such perfect disgust with Mr. Dell just with a shake of her head. “Do you mean to tell me,” she said in a voice of perfect condescension, “that you never once sneaked in somewhere you shouldn’t have, just for the thrill of it? Then you are a paradigm of sainthood, Mr. Dell, for even little Elowyn Penrose has done that. Shall we cart her to the jail as well?”
Peter had to press his lips against what was sure to be ill-timed laughter when Mr. Dell sputtered. Though a few people farther back in the crowd didn’t bother with such restraint. Of course, they had the safety of many people between them and the object of their mirth.
Mr. Dell’s nostrils flared. “It is hardly the same. Elowyn Penrose doesn’t do such things in the company of a proven thief.”
The point—a somewhat valid one, if Peter were being honest—didn’t ruffle Miss Gresham in the slightest. “I suppose, then, you also haven’t ever done anything without your sister’s knowledge.”
Given that his sister was the cantankerous Mrs. Gladstone, the question earned more laughter from those safely in the back. No one questioned her assumption of the strangers’ relationship. Of course, the more Betty shrank back, the younger she looked. Too young, surely, to be Tim’s wife.
Mr. Newth cleared his throat. “Look here, Dell. Miss Gresham is right that we’re not going to charge a girl just for knowing a thief. Have your wife take her somewhere and search her. If she finds anything belonging to someone else, then in she goes. If not, we let her go, and Mr. Holstein can take her home to Kensey to feed her if he so desires. Heaven knows it looks like the chit could stand a good meal.”
Mrs. Dell squealed. “I most certainly will not! The girl could club me over the head and make a run for it!”
Mrs. Dell had obviously been spending too much time with her sister-in-law.
Rosemary rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll do it, then.”
“You will not! You’d likely hide it if she had stolen anything!” This, obviously, from the mister of the Dells.
Jenny stepped forward. “I shall, then. Or will you accuse me of such dishonest intents as well, Mr. Dell?”
In short order, she left with Betty, who looked as slight as a reed beside her. Peter watched them go to the stairs and then looked back to Gryff and Tim. The boy—he couldn’t be a day over seventeen, Peter noted now that he was looking closely—watched the females disappear up the staircase with an indrawn breath. Peter wished he could reassure him that he’d make sure she was seen to, but the commotion was swelling again, and Mr. Arnold was gripping his cane far too tightly.
He didn’t want to cause the old man any more distress than he already had. Clearing his throat, Peter looked again at Rosemary. Held out a hand.
She didn’t hesitate. Just took it and moved to his side. Aligning herself with him rather than the crowd.
Brave woman. Or foolish. Or perhaps a bit of both, but he was grateful. Gryff couldn’t well leave, and Peter appreciated not having to walk this particular gauntlet by himself. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow—though a part of him preferred the feel of her lean fingers in his—and turned them toward the door.
The constable’s nod to him looked . . . even. Newth had always been a fair-minded man. Gryff’s look combined a bit of pride with a bit of why-can’t-you-just-leave-things-alone.
Someone clapped a hand to his shoulder as he passed. He may have looked to see who, but then someone else sniffed and pivoted, giving him a literal cold shoulder.
Nothing new. Determined not to look at anyone else, he led Rosemary through the door and out into the sweet-scented night with its starlight above and music still spilling through the windows.
Rosemary. He’d done his best not to think of her as such, despite the fact that her every letter was still signed so. It was too forward to call her by a given name without her permission after such a short acquaintance. But she’d proven herself a friend tonight, without question. He couldn’t quite look at her and think Miss Gresham just now. Though he wouldn’t let his lips forget their manners.
Kenver, his wife’s hand in his, was there on the walkway to greet them. “We were on the lawn and heard through the window. Quite a stand you took, Mr. Holstein.”
Peter sighed. Nodded. “I don’t . . . I don’t mean to p-pull you away.” This was, after all, the anniversary of when Kenver and Tamsyn had met.
But Kenver just grinned. “No trouble at all. It’s a fine night for a drive, isn’t it, Tam?”
“The finest.” She had a small voice, did Tamsyn, to match her small frame. “You did a good thing in there, sir.”
He had done the right thing. He was sure of it. But it probably wouldn’t make him many friends.
Kenver and Tamsyn moved off with a promise to fetch the carriage posthaste, leaving Peter with the night and the sounds from dozens of revelers inside and out, and a quiet Rosemary at his side.
His exhale was long and grey. “Now I’ve . . . done it.”
Her fingers went tight on his arm. “You have indeed. You’ve shown them the true colors of Peter Holstein. And they’re good colors.”
But color, or rather whether it was good, was a matter of opinion. He might love yellow, but Gryff hated it. How much more divided would people be over him?
She shifted, moved more before him. And reached up to rest a gloved hand on his cheek. He hadn’t quite got over the shock of that when she stretched up onto her toes and planted a kiss on his opposite cheek. Not softly or thoughtfully. The kind of bold, loud kiss that made a statement.
Hers said, You’re a good man. And perhaps, You’re my friend.
He covered with his right hand the fingers still resting on his left arm. And let his smile say, Thanks.
Then he made the mistake of looking past her, toward the road. Lanterns lit the expanse of lawn between Mr. Arnold’s house and drive—he lived on the outmost edges of town, his property stretching back until it touched the far corner of Kensey land. And everyone in town was at one ball or the other.
His gaze shouldn’t have been snagged so quickly by the island of unmoving man on the brink of darkness. But it was. And his breath caught.
Rosemary turned too, and her breath caught as well. “The man in the bowler.”
She’d seen him too? Noted him? Where? In the village or at Kensey? Perhaps he ought to have said something about the fellow sooner. To her, or to the rest of the staff, so they could keep an eye out. “He’s in . . . in the employ of a . . . a fellow in London. Who d-doesn’t much . . . like me. I . . . thought he must’ve . . . left the area. Haven’t seen him lately.”
She shifted to fully face the stranger, planted a hand on her hip. Defiant. Confident. Daring the man to come closer, it seemed. “What does he want?”
Daring a confrontation for his sake. Peter let out a long breath. “His employer . . . is trying to accuse me of . . . of not being a British subject. And the records—they’re not in . . . in the Archiv
es. If I cannot . . . find copies at Kensey, or the deed that would . . . would prove we’d purchased it—we couldn’t have if . . . if we weren’t subjects. And if war is declared . . . I could be . . .”
She spun back to him, her eyes wide. “You mean to tell me that your entire social position rests on finding documents in your house and you haven’t even told me so I could help you look for them?”
“I . . .” He hadn’t wanted to draw anyone else into it. Not when he couldn’t well explain how he even knew about the threat. Not when it would require looking not just through the shelves in his library but through the masses of personal letters and documents in his attic. “I thought I’d . . . be able to find them . . . easily.”
Her brows arched. “And have you?”
His chuff, he figured, was answer enough.
She rolled her eyes and turned to tuck her hand through the crook of his elbow again. Then tugged him down the walk, toward where the carriage would pull around in another minute. “I’ll help you look.”
He needed the help. He would go up there when they got home and secure the reader mail, then let her have at it.
Still, it felt like an imposition to ask this of her, and he opened his mouth to say so.
“Don’t argue with me—it’s what friends do.”
It was. So why that funny little catch in her voice as she said it?
Seventeen
Rosemary wiped away the tear tickling her cheek and tilted up her face to let the warm summer breeze dry its track. To let the sun caress her face. To let the words sink in as the sheet of torn, raggedy paper fluttered around her fingers. Mr. Teague’s prized flowers bobbed their heads as if assuring her of the truth on the page she held.
You’ll never believe it, Willa had scrawled at the start of the letter, not even bothering with a greeting. And well she shouldn’t have, not with news that good. That important.
Mr. V showed up at Pauly’s last night. Said it was the only place he could find us, and find us he had to do. He’d heard, somehow, about Olivia. I don’t know how, and that’s concerning—how many ears does that man have pressed to how many walls? But he heard, and he came with money—not part of your payment. Said it had been delivered to one of his offices by an anonymous benefactor, meant for Liv. Though of course it must be from him. It’s enough to pay off the bills, Rosie. And more besides. It’s enough to make sure she has the good food she needs as she heals. And for the surgery to reset the bone.
I thought we were going to have to amputate. I really thought we would. But now . . . now little Liv may just walk again.
Another tear slipped out when Rosemary blinked. She didn’t know who to thank. Mr. V? God? Peter and Grammy and Jenny for praying?
She didn’t know whom to thank, but thankfulness swelled so great, so beautifully that it brought more tears to her eyes.
Maybe God did care. Or maybe, at least, He listened to the prayers of the rich, even when they prayed for the poor.
Refolding the letter, she sniffed and drew in a breath of fragrant air. If the others hadn’t already left for church, she might just have gone with them this morning. Perhaps God preferred people thank Him in the walls of such a place. That surely made it more formal. And one should surely be more formal when offering gratitude to the Creator.
Except that Peter seemed to give his thanks right here, at home, and he and God were obviously on good terms. But then, maybe that was how he got away with informality.
She would ask him when she wrote to him tonight.
For now, she tucked the letter—which had obviously arrived yesterday, though Mrs. Teague hadn’t seen fit to hand it over until this morning—into her pocket. And stared at those nodding flowers.
Last Sunday she hadn’t gone up into the attic. She’d told herself it was because she was busy seeing to Betty, but that wasn’t quite true. Betty had insisted on riding with the others into the village so she could visit her brother. And then Eseld had found her there and insisted the girl come to stay at her parents’, behind the pub. Betty, grateful as she had been to Mr. Holstein for stepping in, hadn’t felt comfortable at Kensey and had taken Eseld’s parents up on their offer.
Rosemary, quite simply, hadn’t gone up into that attic a week ago because she hadn’t wanted to. She hadn’t wanted to pry into Peter Holstein’s life that day. She hadn’t wanted to find anything that proved him a traitor. She had been quite content to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee at the dining room table while he read his paper. And then to accept his offer to lounge about the drawing room, both of them reading.
She had the perfect excuse now to search his things—he would even thank her for it. She could look for evidence against him as she said she was looking for evidence for him. She could search and find and choose what to turn over to Mr. V and what to share with Peter Holstein.
She could betray him so very easily. And she didn’t want to.
So what if he were secretly loyal to Germany? That was the thought that kept bothering her all last Sunday, and that hadn’t quite left her mind since. What loyalty did she really have to this blighted country of hers, aside from what Mr. V had purchased with his stack of pound notes? And for all she knew, he was a German. Her loyalty was to the pounds, not the monarch upon them. Her loyalty was, and had always been, to those who gave a fig about her and hers.
Peter Holstein had proven himself the rarest sort of man—the kind who risked himself, his reputation, and gave what he had to help someone. Perhaps he hadn’t come forward to offer any extra aid for Olivia, but he’d given her hours upon hours of his prayers, hadn’t he? And apparently that had been enough.
But the money Mr. V had just delivered . . . She wasn’t sure why he acted so generously, but she owed him. She owed him the answers he was paying her to find. Blast it all.
Guilt wasn’t something she believed in. Guilt was just a name the rich gave to the stains of poverty that soiled street urchins who had no choice but to steal or to starve. Guilty, the judges were so eager to proclaim.
Poppycock. Hungry.
But what other name could she give to the snake of discomfort slithering through her as she let herself into the manor and climbed those back stairs? She knew which boards to avoid now, but she needn’t bother. Not now that Peter wanted her to search his things.
Mr. Holstein. She had to get back into the habit of thinking of him as Mr. Holstein, despite the lapse in her thoughts this last week. Maybe that would help still the snake. Help her remember that she wasn’t here to like him. She wasn’t here to enjoy his company. She wasn’t here to cheer him on in a crowd.
She was here to take his name from him—and his house besides. “And don’t forget it, Rosie.” It didn’t matter to Mr. V if Peter Holstein was good. Only whether he was loyal.
The latch on the attic door gave under her hand without so much as a squeak, and she climbed the stairs into the heat that would be stifling in another hour or two. At the top, she surveyed the mountains of boxes and tried to recall where she’d left off.
The problem was that she’d gotten to know him. She wasn’t used to having personalities to go along with her marks. To be able to finish their sentences. It was different, very different from simply picking a random face from a crowd based on how sparkly their accessories were. It was different from receiving a job from someone lusting for a particular piece and casing a house as a house, not as a home. It was different, and she hadn’t realized it coming in. She hadn’t known it would get so blasted hard once she knew him.
Or, no, she just hadn’t ever considered that she might come to term a gentleman a friend.
She’d never stolen from a friend. Never. So . . . so she couldn’t be his friend. Because she had to steal from him. The end.
She should have left herself some marker as to which box she’d been on. Instead, she’d assumed she’d remember, and now all the boxes looked the same. Besides, during her previous searches, she hadn’t dared to leave any evidence of herself up here. P
eter—Mr. Holstein—obviously came up here, and he was too dratted observant not to notice something out of place.
Observant when he wasn’t locked in his study behind that infernal typewriter, anyway. When he was typing away, Kerensa might have to keep knocking at his door for a solid five minutes to get him to acknowledge that it was time for luncheon.
Which she would not smile over. It was annoying, not amusing. Just as it had been from the start. She wouldn’t change her mind about it now.
She stomped her way to the shelves instead of tiptoeing, which was far more cathartic. She stopped where she thought she’d been last time and studied the boxes for some clue as to which she’d already looked through. Not that the mountains of correspondence she’d read had shown her anything other than what she’d come to expect from him, aside from that one letter in German mentioning rents. If he shared disloyal thoughts with anyone, he either kept those telltale letters somewhere else, burned them, or they used a code.
Perhaps God was really Germany. Perhaps faith was really treason.
Her lips twitched. If so, then he was advising everyone to have treason, because Germany loved them.
Hmm. She bit her lip to keep from snorting a laugh and got down to business.
Which was all this was. Business. Not the betrayal of a friend.
And it was only the rising heat suffocating her as she worked through the next hour, not anything as ridiculous as guilt.
She paused as she lifted the lid of another box and saw a rather interesting word peeking up at her from the top of a large envelope. Will.
Did he really keep his will up here, in a random box? Perhaps. This was Peter Holstein, after all, who could make a mess of a perfectly organized desk in ten seconds. She pulled out the envelope and opened it, pulled out the papers.
A will, yes. But his father’s, not his. Still. She read through it, not surprised to learn that Aksel Holstein, after stipulating that his wife be cared for should she outlive him, left everything to his only son, Peter Holstein. Kensey Manor and the four hundred acres surrounding it.
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