“How did you . . . survive?”
She let the twig fall again. “The only way we could. We stole.”
A chuff. “That is . . . that is n-never the only . . . way.”
“You’ve never lived on the streets. You don’t know what it’s like.” She shouldn’t be so defensive about it—but it was one of those toes that was still cold. Beginning to tingle from the warmth, as Mrs. Teague would say, but not quite there yet. She huffed back at him and rubbed at her nose. “It was all we knew. And . . . and we were good at it. Good enough that it attracted some attention, apparently.”
From her periphery, she saw him shove his hands into his pockets. “V.”
Which led them to the heart of the matter as they emerged from the trees and into the heather and gorse that led the way to the cliffs in one direction, the house in the other. He stopped, and stopped her with a hand on her arm, and then she had to look up at him. To look and see the blue-green eyes that matched the sea where it crashed against the rocks, and the storms in them that matched the clouds rolling over it. “How m-much . . . how much was a . . . lie?”
She wanted to walk into his arms and hold him tight. She wanted to run down that path to the house, and past it, to where she wouldn’t ever have to face him again. She wanted . . . she wanted the words to be something other than what they were.
She lifted her arms away from her body. Let them fall. “I’m right-handed. I don’t wear spectacles. My name is really Rosemary Gresham, but I’ve never had a day’s proper education in my life. I’m not a librarian. I thought I might suffocate when I walked into that room of yours.”
His hands were still in his pockets. And the storm clouds were still swirling in his eyes.
She sniffed. “Mr. V told me I was here to find evidence against you—but I couldn’t. Because you really are the . . . the best man in the world. That’s the truth.” Maybe she did have a few tears left, because they burned, and she had to sniff again to restrain them. “I’m a thief—but I couldn’t steal your good name. That’s the truth too.”
His nostrils flared. “Is that . . . all?”
“No.” She couldn’t do this, she’d fall to pieces. Sucking in a deep breath that did nothing to help, she said, “I broke into your office the other day. Well, the door was unlocked. I didn’t break into the room—just your desk. I saw the manuscript. But I didn’t take it, I swear to you I didn’t. It isn’t there now, but that wasn’t me—and I only know it’s gone because I was making sure it was still secure, when I left you the note and your documents.”
Silence, but only for a beat. “I . . . I took it all out. So I c-could . . . give everything to you. Tell you. Who I am.” Another beat. “I didn’t . . . didn’t realize y-you already . . .”
And he made her feel more a villain than ever. She backed up a step, kept her gaze focused on the slope behind him, toward his house. “I’m sorry. That’s more the truth than anything. That and . . . and I wrote it all in the note. You can just read it.”
He didn’t move. “I d-don’t . . . don’t want to r-read it.”
She edged another step toward the path. Felt the return of last night’s gasps, even without last night’s sobbing. “Well then. It was—mostly just what I already said. And—and a bit about Barclay at the end—you can ignore that. Mr. V won’t really be going after him after all, not to arrest him. He apparently didn’t even know he worked the museum job with me.”
“The what?”
Much as she wanted to turn and run away, he deserved the chance to look her in the eye and tell her what he thought of her. “British Museum, four years ago. We . . . may have liberated an old German manuscript. Some religious text Luther had written. I had to learn German, a bit of it, to make sure I lifted the right one, and . . . Why are you looking at me like that?” Like she was a specter. Or a monster.
“That was . . . was you? My father . . . he took me to see it. When I was a b-boy. I remember when it . . . went missing.”
“Right, well . . .” She shrugged. “That was me. And Barclay. Mr. V threatened to send me to jail for it if I didn’t give him the information he wanted about you, and I couldn’t do that, so . . . so that’s what was in the note. That I couldn’t, and I was likely already arrested by the time you’d be reading it, and if you would just send a wire to Barclay—but you needn’t. Obviously.”
He just looked at her. And looked at her. And finally said, “Anything . . . else? In th—the . . . the note?”
He could read it when he got down there. Likely would, eventually. He’d know, eventually.
But he deserved this too. To know the truth, even if he despised her for it. “Just that . . . it wasn’t a lie. Anything else. All the things I wrote to you, all the . . . and last night. That definitely wasn’t a lie. That I’ve fallen in love with you, and that I’ve changed, and that I don’t want to be the person I was anymore. And . . .” And still he just stood there. “And won’t you say something?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he took his hands out of his pockets. “I . . .” He gestured, though he didn’t move any closer. “Y-You . . .” And then he shook his head, and he lifted one finger in that way he’d done her first days here. And he dashed off, like he hadn’t had to do in months, with that look on his face that said his tongue was in knots.
She followed, part of her wanting to yell at him that he’d forced her to just say what was in the note, so he ought to do the same, rather than writing one.
But that wasn’t fair. Writing was who he was, how he best communicated. If he had to write his response, write the words that would send her out of his life, then . . . then she would let him.
He was charging into Kensey while she was still picking her way over the flat granite stones marking the path, and she sighed and debated. She couldn’t go back in there, where she’d have to face Mrs. Teague and Grammy. And there were all those bobbies milling about the front. She couldn’t see much of what was going on, but it looked like Mr. V was shaking the hand of one.
She headed for the cottage, where her valise waited by the door. She’d wait with it. She’d let him write his say, and then she’d leave.
The cottage welcomed her, warm and cozy and not hers. It smelled of the tea Mrs. Teague had made, of the fairings Grammy had sent over.
She picked up one. The thought of eating it still made her stomach turn, but she’d need something for the road.
She’d go back to London—she had nowhere else. Home to her family and their tiny little flat and then . . . She’d try to find work. Honest work. With a seamstress, she supposed, even if she would be miserable in half a day. Jenny would give her a recommendation, she was sure, and . . .
Footsteps hurried along the garden path.
She set the biscuit down again and turned. Stepped back outside.
Peter stopped an arm’s width away. Held out one of those folded rectangles of white.
It looked like a snake, ready to bite her. But she made herself reach out and take it. Drew in a long breath. Let it out. And opened it.
I love you, Rosemary Gresham. And I can think of no greater honor than to have you as my wife.
“Oh!” She lowered the note, pressing a hand to her lips.
He was on a knee before her, reaching for her hand. She gave it to him. And told that ridiculous sob trying to escape that she had no more tears left, so it had better go away. “How can you? How can you want me, knowing what I am?”
He kissed the knuckle where Mrs. Teague had retied the bandage. “That’s not . . . not who you are. It’s just . . . something you did.”
“But—but I’m not the right kind of girl for you, even so. I’m a street rat. I know nothing of your world.”
And yet his eyes gleamed. At her, for her. “And I . . . I love that about you.”
Blast, but her nose felt all stuffy again. She gripped his hand and sniffed. “But I’ll change things—you have to know that too. If you make me mistress of a place like th
is, I can’t just let things run as they’ve always done.”
And now the corners of his lips turned up. “I’m counting on it.”
She tugged on his hand. “Get up, you idiot. How in the world am I supposed to kiss you if you’re all the way down there?”
He got up, grinning, and stepped close.
She framed his face. But didn’t kiss him quite yet. First she had to look deep into those eyes. “Are you quite serious? Even though I’m the least suitable woman you could possibly choose?”
He pulled her closer. Swallowed. “You’re the . . . the only woman I would . . . I would ever choose. If you’ll . . . have me. Holstein is . . . is not exactly a popular name . . . just now.”
She ran her fingers over his cheek, along his jaw. Over that cleft in his chin. “It’s the noblest name in the world. I’d be honored to take it.”
He rested his forehead against hers, but still she saw his smile. “Then it’s yours.”
Twenty-Eight
London
13 August 1914
Peter paced to the window. Again. And looked out at the view, such as it was, of London. The townhouse his father had chosen was in a good part of town, had a decent view of the park across the street. Neighbors who thought themselves worth knowing.
He just wanted to get done here and to go back to Cornwall. It wouldn’t get him away from all the unfathomable news pouring in—Germany invading Belgium, refugees flooding England, campaigns being mounted in France. Suspected spies being rounded up even now all over Britain and imprisoned . . . and the announcement had already gone out that all German- and Austrian-born men between the ages of eighteen and fifty were to be relocated to camps on the Isle of Man.
His documents would protect him—but barely. V may have called the Archives thieves amateurs, but they had destroyed the original paperwork. Had Rosemary not found his copies, he would have been one of those relocated. Already he’d had to present his proof to the magistrate, to prove he was an English subject.
Even so. It would be better to be home again, out of the hustle and noise of London. Though he’d promised they’d spend a week or two here, at least.
He turned away from the window. Again. And back to where Rosemary sat on the couch, his manuscript in her lap. “Aren’t you . . . finished yet?”
She didn’t look up at him, just twirled a curl around her finger. And read, he was sure, all the more slowly. Just to spite him. “Perhaps I would be, luv, if there weren’t so many interruptions.”
He very nearly growled. This was why he liked the idea of the nom de plume. He detested knowing when someone was reading his books. Wondering what they thought. “You’ve had it . . . for a week. You don’t . . . you don’t read that slowly. I know you don’t.”
She sent him a look that was one part amusement and two parts exasperation. She had learned it, he was sure, from Mrs. Teague and Grammy. Which just proved how quick she was at some things. “I had a few other things to tend to in that week, don’t you think?”
Back to the window. “You can . . . you can tell me if you hate it. I won’t . . . cry or anything. Much. Just . . . just whimper. And pout. Make you regret ever . . . ever agreeing to be my wife.”
“Peter.”
“What?” He turned, though she still had pages in her lap, waiting to be read. “What?”
She gave him that little grin that did funny things to his heart. “Stop talking. Please.”
He returned the grin. And strode to the couch to lean down and press a kiss to her lips.
She kissed him back—then pushed him away. “My favorite distraction, but we’re short on time just now, and this thing is due to your publisher tomorrow, so why don’t you just go to your study? Write something.”
Write something. As if he could write something when she was sitting there reading the last thing he’d written.
But he left the drawing room—with a few loud grumbles about being booted out of it—and made his way to the study.
It wasn’t like the one at home. Not so large and roomy, not so filled with all the things he loved. But his typewriter was there on the desk he hadn’t had a chance to clutter yet, so he sat at it. And since he did have that idea for a Locryn James short story swirling about in his head, he supposed he might as well get a start on it. It might not be any good, but he could always restart it later. Once they were home.
A sentence turned into a paragraph, and a paragraph turned into a page, and after three pages arms encircled his neck and he almost—almost—regretted the interruption.
Though not quite. He rubbed a hand over her wrist. “Now are you . . . finished?”
She chuckled in his ear. “Now I’m finished.”
He stood from his chair and, since she didn’t move her arms, put his around her. “Well? Did you . . . did you hate it?”
He would never tire of looking at that smile. Never. Nor of hearing her laugh. “How could I possibly hate it? It’s the best thing you’ve ever written, Mr. Hollow.”
A bit of tension slid right out of his shoulders. “Are you sure you’re . . . you’re not just saying that? Because you love me?”
Her fingers moved up into his hair. “They are both facts. Independent of one another.”
His lips twitched up. Then down. “Even though I . . . I made you a villain?”
Laughing again, she leaned up to smack a kiss onto his lips. “You didn’t make me a villain, luv. You made me an excellent villain.” Then she leaned back, stretching against his arms. “I do believe Rosita is now my favorite character. I think I like her even better than I do Locryn.”
He leaned down for another kiss. “I think I . . . I might too.”
She lingered there for a moment, her fingers smoothing down the hair she’d mussed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Are you sure about all this?”
He didn’t know if she meant his plan to deliver the manuscript in person tomorrow . . . or their plans for tonight. But either way, the answer was the same. “Very sure.”
She nodded. Straightened. Smoothed his tie. “Then I suppose we’d better go.”
Rosemary rounded the corner, her hand tucked securely around Peter’s arm, and led him down the familiar street, toward the glowing light from the pub. Night clung to the buildings, to the hollows between the streetlights. But her step was light. And her heart was light.
And she had to smile at how out of place Peter looked in this neighborhood—though to his credit, he didn’t look around him as if expecting someone to mug him at any moment.
Though he probably should have. Rosemary saw the shadow slip out of the deeper shadows by the building, slide up to him, and reach for his pocket.
With reflexes born of necessity, she jerked him out of the way and prepared a hand for the would-be mugger’s jugular.
Laughter stopped her, and she growled out, “Georgie! What have I told you about that?”
Her little brother stepped into the light and gathered her into a tight squeeze. “To wait for a rich bloke—and have you seen that one’s shoes?”
Beside her, where she’d shoved him, Peter laughed.
Rosemary gave Georgie a fierce hug. And then slapped him on the arm as she pulled away, which only served to draw her attention to the olive cloth covering it. Her chest went tight. “Look at you. You’ve enlisted.” Only officially at war for ten days and already England had one of her brothers.
“Gotta champion poor little Belgium. Besides . . .” He smoothed down his uniform. “They promised three squares a day—can’t beat that, can you?”
“No.” Gracious, he still looked like a baby. Made her feel so blasted old. “You cut a handsome figure in it too. Though you do know you’re going to have to behave yourself, right? Pick the wrong pockets there and—”
“I know, I know.” Still grinning like a boy, he stuck out a hand toward Peter. “You must be Pete. I just came from the flat—had to check on Liv—and Ellie said I’d just missed you. Had to run to catch up, it�
�s a wonder you didn’t hear me.”
Peter shook Georgie’s hand, nodding. “Good to . . . to meet you.”
Georgie grinned. “Come on then, this is going to be a good show.” He spun toward Pauly’s. And tossed over his shoulder, “Better watch those cufflinks, Pete.”
Peter tugged on the sleeves of his jacket.
Rosemary chuckled. “He’s only teasing. They don’t steal from family.” Except for a joke. In which case they’d give them back. Probably.
They hurried to catch up to Georgie, who was already pushing open the door to the pub. Light spilled out, along with the smell of meat pies, and music.
She bounced a bit and grinned at Peter. “Willa’s playing.”
Beautiful cacophony met them as they entered. Georgie was already sidling through the usual crowd, on his way to the back table where the family sat. All of them but the little ones, who would have already been here to eat and then gone home, and Elinor, who was looking after them. She’d been the one to inform Rosemary and Peter, when they’d dropped by Rosemary’s flat, that everyone was here.
Then had leaned close, eyes still on Peter as he made friends with Olivia, and said, “His chin, Rosie! His chin.”
Hopefully they would all agree to come to Cornwall, for a visit if not forever. At least the little ones, though she could hardly imagine Willa and Barclay ever agreeing to leave their own turf. She couldn’t imagine them accepting help that they didn’t earn—or take—with their own hands.
But she would try.
Willa’s back was to the door, her arms flying as her violin sang out some fast, feverish song that made her hair slip from its bun. The others, in the back, hadn’t noticed anyone but Georgie. She tugged Peter toward the bar and slapped a hand to the counter. “Hey, barkeep!”
Pauly turned, eyes wide, and came at her with a laugh. “Rosie! You’re back!”
She stretched across the bar to kiss his cheek. “What are you doing serving meat pies on a Thursday?”
A Name Unknown Page 40