Still, his mind was engaged, which meant he wasn’t likely to do anything else for the rest of the day anyway. He’d have something ready by tomorrow.
She didn’t need to know that, though.
“I have a job to do, you know.” He took a sip of his tea, trying to look torn and studious.
Jess didn’t buy it. She rolled her eyes. “Lord Chemsford is much too enamored with his new wife to care one whit about whether or not you’ve determined who painted the ridiculous smiling dog portrait you moved to your room. He wouldn’t notice if you disappeared for weeks.”
“Something I’m likely to have to do if you insist on starting to follow the directions before I have a chance to complete the translation.”
One of her delicate golden eyebrows curved upward. “Let me be clear, Mr. Thornbury. I may need your assistance gathering information, but at the end of the day, I work alone.”
He arched his own eyebrows and took a slow sip of tea before patting the coat pocket he’d slid the diary into. “Not anymore.”
Everyone had a point where pushing them would do more to pit them against you than sway them to your view. Jess had dealt with enough people and performed enough negotiations to know that Mr. Thornbury was very near to that point.
If she said anything else right now, her persistence would let him know that her need was so great he could ask her for almost anything in return and she’d have to allow it. At the moment it was best to give the illusion of nonchalance and patience.
Well, not too much patience. She couldn’t allow him to take days to contemplate. In her experience, people who sat around contemplating ended up dead.
Curiosity was obviously the carrot to pull him along. She could feed him enough information to keep him involved while leaving him out of the particulars. That was a difficult enough line to walk with someone she knew well. As much as she understood the type of man Mr. Thornbury was, she didn’t truly know his temperament.
Jess left him and the diary in the parlor, along with the plate of biscuits, and made her way sedately to the kitchens. There was a large pile of vegetables that she could take out her growing annoyance on. No one would be complaining that the mushrooms in tonight’s dinner were too large.
Ten minutes later, the quick, efficient, frustrated slices of the kitchen knife had all the servants giving the worktable a wide berth. That suited Jess. Right now she needed to think.
Most people thought she was a master of manipulation. What they didn’t realize was that manipulation required tact and a delicate hand, two qualities Jess absolutely did not possess.
If there was a need for someone to slip in somewhere unseen and gather information? She was that girl. Someone to inflame emotions and cause a riot as a distraction? She’d done it more than once. Watch over someone or something with no one being any the wiser? There were few who could do it better.
Subtly maneuver people into doing what she wanted them to do? Not so much.
She should be good at it. It should be a skill ingrained in her since birth. After all, manipulation made the world go round, and nowhere was it more evident than the politics lining palace hallways. Knowing what to say should have been second nature.
But she’d been too young when her family had fled those gilded hallways, hadn’t yet been forced to deal with underhanded maneuverings and unspoken promises. Instead, she’d gotten the necessities of survival sheened over by the remnants of a higher life.
She sliced through a chicken with a skill and precision that would make the royal German chef who’d taught her proud. The memory of her encouraging smiles sliced through Jess as effectively as the knife.
Throwing the chicken pieces into a pan with a few onions, Jess pulled her mind back to her current predicament. There was nothing to be gained by thinking about Ismelde and her cooking lessons, nor the others who had provided Jess’s unusual education.
She knew about people, what they did when they were emotional, afraid of betrayal, relying on instinct. The more heightened the emotion around her, the clearer her sense of purpose.
Mr. Thornbury hadn’t been emotional, though. She’d expected him to be, given how fervent he was when he pursued a new discovery as far as he could, even if he got in the way of the servants.
That passion hadn’t made an appearance upstairs. Instead, he’d been the picture of calculated, knowledgeable logic.
What could she do with that? Nothing, other than wait for him to think it through and try to guess what his questions were going to be so she could formulate answers that would satisfy him without giving anything away.
Patience was another of her less-developed skills.
Her hip banged into the table as she slid the sliced and diced vegetables into a pot of water. The crinkle of paper in her pocket combined with the dull thud of food against metal reminded her that her pride was the least of what was at stake in this situation.
Her mind burned to learn how her brother could possibly be alive, but coded correspondence wasn’t the place for such details. Of much more importance was the fact that her brother was attempting to claim governance of Verbonne, restoring its independence and sovereignty.
It wasn’t going well.
The letter was by necessity short and vague, but it implied that a great struggle had arisen over the future of Verbonne and much of it hung on an old legend.
The sources didn’t know enough about Verbonne’s history to know what that meant, but Jess did. It meant she couldn’t run out of hiding and see for herself that a member of her family had managed to survive, no matter how much she wanted to. First, she had to follow her father’s directive and solve the legend if her brother was to have any hope of succeeding. Depending on how intense the struggle currently was, it might even determine his continued survival.
Jess hung the pot over the fire and began to stir. The raw vegetables swirled in the cold water, crashing into one another and the sides of the pot in a jumbled mess. There was no need to stir it, as the first bubbles hadn’t even begun to form on the surface, but stirring made her look normal to anyone walking by. She could think without drawing notice.
And she desperately needed to think.
She needed to come up with a story, one that would satisfy Mr. Thornbury, one that would sound noble and selfless and compel him to help her.
One that was absolutely not the truth, because even if sharing the truth wouldn’t put him in possible danger, it was far too incredible to believe. She barely believed it herself and she’d lived through it. Her spencer sleeve, a small-patterned muslin that was neither eye-catching nor remarkably drab, shifted as she stirred the pot, revealing a small scar across the top of her wrist.
She wasn’t supposed to have scars. Mama would have been appalled that she’d been in a position to injure herself enough to cause one.
A practiced shrug had the sleeve sliding back into place, covering the jagged line. Mama wouldn’t recognize her now. Of course, Jess probably wouldn’t recognize her mother either. Or her father or brother or any of the other people who’d run to that little farm in search of refuge.
War had a way of changing people.
Her free hand itched to pull out the letter, to read it again, to dive into the hope that it was somehow true. If she didn’t trust the writer so much, she’d have thought it a trap, a trick to pull her out of hiding and into the arms of the people who wanted her dead. People she’d hoped would give up without Napoleon’s support.
She’d lived enough, traveled enough, thrown herself into enough ridiculous and dangerous situations to know that peace was fleeting. It didn’t last long because contentment didn’t sit well with a lot of people. Still waters only meant the path was clear to move forward, to claim what had been too difficult to grasp while conflict raged.
The wooden paddle thudded onto the table as she gave up the pretense of stirring.
In some ways, the restlessness of peace felt more dangerous, left a person more exposed. That was why she�
�d fled to this hiding place to begin with. Even though peace had been temporary that time, it had made her realize the treacherousness of her previous hiding place.
The past had caught up with her once again.
She jerked a knife from the knife block and began to methodically demolish a loaf of bread. There would be no more hiding. Not only was there nowhere else to go, but the people she left behind would be in danger.
Ten years ago, when she’d thrown herself into the world of shadows and intrigue, it had been a desperate lark. She’d been too lost and too young to know or care about the potential consequences. When those consequences had made themselves known, she’d gotten out.
She couldn’t get out of this. Life wasn’t a game. Whatever she did next mattered. Somehow, despite her best intentions, she’d managed to fill her life with people she cared about. She’d lost one family and God had blessed her with another.
No one, not even a hesitant, nosy, too-smart-for-his-own-good scholar was going to keep her from protecting them.
Chapter Four
The diary was heavy in Derek’s pocket as he walked to his little room in the back corner of the house. He’d been in the middle of determining if the painting in the parlor could possibly be a Poussin, but that task had dropped far beneath his attention now. The painting could wait. It wasn’t going anywhere.
Of course, the book wasn’t going anywhere either, now that he had it in his possession, but setting it aside was impossible. Discovering what motivated Jess’s request had immediately become his latest obsession.
Derek knew about obsession. It was a state he lived in often enough. Once his mind decided it needed an answer, concentrating on anything else had to wait until the answer was found.
Fortunately for him, those obsessions frequently aligned with his career.
The room he’d been put in was basic and serviceable, a marked difference from the overwhelming extravagance in the more public rooms of the house. The builder had definitely been creating a showplace.
In the middle of nowhere.
Rather curious, that.
No, only one obsessive question at a time. It was a rule he’d had to create for himself long ago. If he considered too much at once, he’d go mad.
He passed the narrow but comfortable bed and sat himself at the plain writing desk situated along the wall next to the dressing table. Aside from the basic furniture, the room was sparsely decorated. A large blue-veined statue stood in the corner and a pair of nondescript, mediocre paintings—likely from some local artist—hung over the bed.
The smiling dog portrait that he’d brought into the room for a touch of whimsy hung over the desk. The remaining blank expanse of wall was painted a drab color somewhere between white, cream, and grey.
In any other home, the room might have been depressing. Here, it was a blessed retreat where his senses weren’t bombarded with color and expression and he could hear himself think.
After placing the book carefully on the desk, he set out a neat stack of writing paper and prepared a quill and ink. Three deep breaths cleared his mind of any notions, guesses, or expectations. Only when he was ready to find anything did he open the cover. Preconceptions had ruined many a historian’s perspective.
He went to the beginning and started to read, skipping over words he couldn’t easily make out or didn’t understand. While the contents were fascinating to him, he couldn’t see anything Jess would care about.
In the third entry, the writer confirmed that the paintings were done by students of Fournier. As the only known apprentices of the master painter were The Six, Derek hunched a little deeper over the book. Soon he forgot any notion of Jess’s hidden item and lost himself in the intimate look at a group of mysterious people.
Then he came across the same phrase that had given him pause at the beginning of the diary. Secret passage. Unlike the last mention, this one was buried among the descriptions of brushstrokes and paint colors. A few lines later, a hidden pathway was mentioned in the middle of a description of a woman watching the sea crash against the rocks.
He’d read many descriptions of Verbonnian paintings over the years, particularly those of Fournier and The Six. It was a near certainty that this passage was describing the painting The Grace of Oceans Breaking. While many of the paintings of The Six had been signed by a discreet F and a 6, this one had been left blank, leaving open the speculation that there was a seventh member of the group, or it had possibly even been painted by Fournier himself.
All accounts written by those who’d seen the painting in person said it was impossible to look upon it without feeling an incredibly deep sense of loss. The diary, though, made it sound like a depiction of hope. Derek snatched up the quill and began to scribble a translation as fast as he could.
She watches the hidden pathway, guarding it from those who would do it harm but prepared to guide those who are worthy. It is a preparation that will not see completion in her lifetime, nor in mine. Someday, a worthy one will come, but she will not see it. Her grave lies between her and the future, but she will not despair. She will hope and she will guard until the one with passion and heart comes along to follow where she guides. May the Lord keep her in good hands until the new day arises. May the Lord protect our land until her savior journeys home.
Shaking a cramp from his hand, Derek attempted to ground himself among a swirl of emotions. The anticipation with which he’d opened the diary had turned quickly to fascination and now gave way to great excitement.
This was a clue. It was different from the other descriptions—more emotional, active.
He slid the paper covered in messy scribbles to the side and picked up the quill once more to begin a meticulous and exact translation of the passage. Some phrases he could translate but didn’t know the meaning of, so he left a blank section on the paper before moving on.
Every now and then his hair would slip into the edge of his vision, and he shoved it back with an impatient hand. He should have taken the time to go into town and get it trimmed. It was only two miles to Marlborough. The task would have required less than a day, yet he’d not seen the point of doing it.
After writing three pages of notes, he was ready to simply pull out the hair to get it out of the way. Perhaps he should see if his friend’s new wife—the recently titled Lady Chemsford—had a few hairpins to spare.
No, much better to take the time to actually go get his hair trimmed. Eccentric was one thing. Cracked was another. Life went better if he maintained at least some sense of social normalcy.
When his hand was too cramped to continue, he sat back and looked over his notes. Fascinating to be sure, but what was he going to do with it? He’d found a clue of some kind, but what did it mean? If he gave this to Jess, would it make any sense?
What would she do if it did?
Derek knew history, knew the way people in power viewed artifacts and treasures, knew how far some were willing to go to possess them. One had to look no further than the museums of London, filled with relics that had never been intended to be on display.
It was why Derek had set himself up as an expert on art and ancient writings, which were pieces that had been designed to be shared and viewed and enjoyed.
Some of the people who poked around old tombs and dead cities were truly interested in learning about the past and documenting a forgotten people. Others simply wanted the treasure.
Which was Jess? What did he really know about her? He doubted even Lady Chemsford, who declared herself and Jess to be close friends, knew much about the little blond cook. Was the book even a family heirloom?
He flipped back to the cover and ran his finger over the royal crest. The woman who had written this diary wasn’t plagued by the difficulties of the lower classes, not if her life was consumed by the world of art and paintings.
Had Jess’s family declined so far over the generations? Would the type of family that bred a woman as headstrong and intimidating as Jess allow such a decline
to occur?
Perhaps the bigger question was, could he live with leaving this mystery unsolved? He’d seen the flash of understanding cross Jess’s face earlier. She possessed some additional information that would make the clues he translated make sense. Perhaps a memory or experience passed down through the family, along with the book?
He studied art and history together in order to put the personal with the practical, to give richer meaning to the moment displayed by filling in the surrounding motivations and reactions. Art revealed the people behind the decisions as well as those who dealt with the effects.
This was the ultimate chance to do that.
Was he willing to live with the possible consequences? Was this what had motivated other history-loving adventurers to partner up with the treasure seekers? Could the need for answers overcome the desire for discretion?
His hand still twinged from pinching the quill for so long, but he returned to the translation, lighting a nearby lamp in deference to the waning evening light. Just a few more pages. Perhaps there would be something in here that would tell him what a woman who lived centuries ago would have him do.
Several pages later, he eased the book shut and stared at the faded embossment on the cover.
What had he gotten himself into?
The bread was burnt. It was chewable, though, and Jess could even manage to swallow it if she softened it first by filling her mouth with tea.
That was more than could be said for Martha’s last attempt at making bread.
Jess hid a grin behind her teacup as Daphne, her friend and the mistress of Haven Manor, made her own attempts at swallowing. Until recently, Daphne had been the housekeeper of the estate, and before that she’d been the caretaker of hidden illegitimate children.
It was a strange combination of roles that, when combined with Daphne’s innate niceness, made her the perfect person to guide women who were attempting to make the best of a rotten turn in life.
A Pursuit of Home Page 4