by Maureen Lang
The corners of Elise’s mouth went up as she looked at her son, but it wasn’t what Rebecca could call a smile. “It’s nice if you want to investigate Hollinworth history, Quentin. Keep it within the family, though. I don’t want any tabloid memoirs released of my family or your father’s.”
“Sharing a few letters with distant cousins isn’t making much of a public debut, Mum.” He took another sip of his iced tea, and Rebecca respected his demeanor. Rebecca could learn something from him, if only when dealing with difficult clients booking the Hall. “We are keeping it in the family, after all.”
Lady Elise sighed. “I don’t like the sound of these so-called cousins. Just don’t make me say ‘I told you so’ when these people try to cheat you out of this house or some of the funds it generates. I’d rather sell it than lose anything to frauds.”
8
* * *
Mr. Truebody was not to be found, having gone to Dublin for reasons his clerk would not disclose. You might recall I have some slight reservations about Mr. Truebody, but they are insignificant in comparison to my opinion of Mr. Flegge, the local constable to whom Duff decided to go after finding Mr. Truebody absent. If you had stood in the blue room with me, Cosima, you would have seen the condescending look upon his face as clearly as I did. I could not imagine which he thought less of: a school for the infirm run by women or one of the infirm apparently having been abandoned.
“I’ve not a clue as to what you expect me to do, miss,” said the constable, holding his hat in his hand. Mr. Flegge was neither ugly nor comely, rather somewhere in between, with thinning hair, only a slight paunch, and a chin that had grown soft in middle age. “I cannot very well leave me duties behind to go searching all Ireland for the girl’s family, can I now?”
“Surely something can be done,” Berrie said. “From what she’s said, her brother will be very concerned about her.”
“Then it’s fair to assume he’ll be searching for her. Perhaps he’ll be contacting me office and I’ll show him to yer door straightway; of that you can be sure.”
Berrie sighed, knowing that unless she hired someone to search for Katie’s family, the task would not be done. But every bit of the funds she’d been allocated—either by donation or from her father and brother Peter—were tied up in getting things started. Even the sale of items left behind in Escott Manor that wouldn’t or couldn’t be used by their school left little money beside.
As Berrie wished the constable good day and he took his leave, myriad thoughts crossed her mind. She must do something. Post a notice in one of the newspapers? It was worth a try since clearly Katie’s family was literate, though it might not do much good if her family was from a rural area where newsprint circulation was limited. Perhaps she could spare Duff for a few days; he was reliable, hardworking, and honest—bright, too, for one so young. He showed such promise she planned to name him senior attendant once the children started arriving. She had been planning to send him out on a mission anyway. Perhaps he could accomplish two tasks in one outing.
One way or another, she would find Katie’s family. She must.
9
* * *
Rebecca rubbed her eyes, trying to banish the sting of fatigue. Glancing at the desk clock in her office, she realized she’d been reading Cosima’s journal far longer than she expected. It was nearly two in the morning.
But Cosima’s story had captivated her. Was Dana also affected by the Kennesey curse? Had she too given birth to a “cursed” child? She said she’d be bringing her husband and daughter.
Rebecca had known Cosima Hamilton only through her portrait and her somewhat limited legacy: decorating themes that no generation since hers had seen fit to drastically alter; a storybook she’d written for her children full of Irish rhymes and tales; a few recipes. So far, Berrie’s letters hadn’t revealed much more about Cosima.
Perhaps it was just as well Elise Hollinworth had shown no interest in either the American cousins or whatever correspondence they sent ahead. Learning the Hamilton line had been tainted by a curse wouldn’t be something Lady Elise would bring up in any of her circles.
Rebecca felt she really ought to go to her room and sleep. After Quentin’s mother had left just past ten, Rebecca had excused herself despite Quentin’s invitation to share a cup of tea. Herbal, he’d promised, without caffeine. But she had an appointment with a bride-to-be the following morning, and those oftentimes went on forever. She’d gone to her room, changed from the black dress into a soft T-shirt and cotton shorts to sleep in, then promptly found herself too wide-awake to sleep. So she’d headed to her office.
Even now, after several hours of diversion, the questions returned. Had she been a fool to decline extending an evening alone with Quentin? And why had he asked, anyway? Only being polite? Maybe she’d imagined the look in his eye, one that said he’d like to be with her.
But now she really must go to bed. A glass of milk would help.
To her surprise, she spotted a light already on as she neared the kitchen. She quickened her step. Surely Helen wasn’t still there, fretting over the meal she’d served? Though Elise Hollinworth hadn’t liked the setting, she’d spoken nary a word against the food. Helen should have been glad for that, considering Elise obviously didn’t hesitate to say a negative word if one popped into her mind.
Rebecca stopped abruptly, nearly slipping on the cool kitchen tile. Not Helen at all. There, at the wide wooden table where Rebecca had watched Helen prepare meals and shared plenty, sat Quentin.
“I saw the light,” Rebecca said by way of explanation for her hastened entry. “I worried Helen might still be here and something might be wrong.”
If there had been any fatigue on his face when she’d first spotted him, it was gone now. He looked her over with a smile, and even though the slow glance was welcoming, she wondered if she should hurry back to her suite, at the very least to change her clothes. Although she wore less at the beach, this was hardly the right attire to be sitting with her employer—particularly one who’d once invaded many of her waking thoughts. And some dreams as well.
He seemed to jerk his gaze from her. He held up loose, printed pages and cleared his throat. “I printed out Cosima’s journal. Fascinating. You should read it.” He paused, momentarily staring at her again, then turned back to the pages, flipping through them. “But I seem to have left the first section in my room.”
Rebecca took a seat, wishing she’d thought to put on a robe. She noticed he wore the same clothes he’d been in earlier, and she wistfully wondered why women’s evening wear couldn’t be as comfortable as men’s obviously was. She wouldn’t have had to change at all.
“I’ve read the e-file,” she admitted. “I was so eager to finish I’ll have to read it again more thoroughly, but I just now finished the last word.”
Quentin looked at her squarely, a frown on his handsome face. “I thought you needed a good night’s rest for an early appointment?”
A blush made her divert her gaze. “Yes, I do have an early appointment. I found I couldn’t sleep after all.” She looked at him again. “I intended only to read a few pages, but I feel like I know Cosima, if only through her portrait, and wanted to learn more about her.”
“What do you suppose Dana Walker meant when she referred to the curse that affected Cosima? She said she has a daughter. I wonder if she’s like Cosima’s daughter, Mary. Or Royboy.”
“I wondered the same. I imagine we’ll find out, since Dana will be here before long.” Rebecca looked at the pages, wondering how far he’d read. “I’ll leave you to finish, then.”
She started to rise just as he reached across the table, his palm landing gently on her wrist. The touch stalled everything but her pulse. “You cannot see the kitchen light from either your office or your bedroom suite, Rebecca. You must have come down here for some other reason.”
“I wanted some milk, actually. To help me sleep.”
He hadn’t removed his hand. She told herse
lf to withdraw but found herself still immobile. Outwardly, at least. Inwardly her heart darted from one corner of her chest to the other.
Quentin drew back. He stood, going to a cupboard and extracting a glass. “I made some chamomile tea—although I won’t offer you that since you didn’t want any earlier.” She watched as he went to the large refrigerator and poured milk for her. He glanced at her. “I’m telling myself it was the tea, not the company, that you refused. Would you like it warmed?”
Rebecca shook her head and he handed her the glass, her fingers brushing his as she accepted it. She might have come for warmed milk, but she had no idea what to do with the time it would take to warm. So she took a sip of it cold, knowing without a doubt she would have to bring the glass back to her room if she was to get much milk past her suddenly constricting throat.
“Tell me, Rebecca,” Quentin said as he sat again. His tone was so intimate she had to set aside the glass altogether, freeing untrustworthy hands. She pulled them beneath the table to her lap. “Do you wake in the morning devising ways to avoid me, or are you truly as overworked as it appears? If so, I believe you need an assistant.”
She managed a smile. “No, I’m not overworked at all.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Then it’s the other option.”
That she was avoiding him? Instantly she knew she couldn’t deny it; it was true. Not that she could explain why. Being busy was certainly one reason. Leftover insecurities from a childhood crush was another.
She only hoped he didn’t ask—
“Why?”
She attempted to brush away his question with a perplexed shake of her head, reemploying one hand to take another drink of the milk. Better to trust an unsteady grip to hide trembling lips than to admit the whole truth.
“Rebecca? Are you going to answer my question?”
She put down the milk, touching fingertips to lips, but that tremulous stroke did little to still her nervousness.
This was ridiculous. She’d felt like a child once already today, in Lady Elise’s company.
“No, Quentin, I’ll not answer your question.” She was pleased to hear the firmness behind her voice.
“Then you realize I’m left to draw my own conclusions? That the reason you’ve chosen to avoid me can only be personal? Either you don’t like me, Rebecca . . . or you like me very much. So much that it’s made you uncomfortable around me. For what reason, I cannot guess, since I like you, too. Very much.”
She pushed her chair from the table. This was really too much. “I’m sorry you’ve had to imagine such guesses, Quentin. It’s very late, though, and I think . . .”
He stood just as she did, stepping around the corner of the table and taking one of her hands. He felt warm in comparison to the cool glass. Before she could think or breathe or arm herself with a defense, his mouth descended on hers, and there she stood, kissing him back, letting her arms go round his shoulders and marveling how broad they were, how strong he felt. How close he held her, how wonderful it was. Old dreams were one thing, but reality was altogether finer in every way.
When he lifted his lips from hers, he didn’t let go. Instead he put a hand into the curls of her hair, gently inviting her head to the firmness of his chest. She wondered if his heart thumped as erratically as her own, but with her ear pressed nearby she found his beat was steady, strong like the rest of him.
“I didn’t know how else to stop you from running away,” he whispered.
“Seems to have been effective,” she said, much to her own dismay. She should be running. Fast. All the way to employment at the National Trust.
Quentin kissed her again and she let him. Her brain failed her, weak in comparison to the power of this kiss.
But it was foolish.
Lord, help me!
She pulled away, managing a steadying breath. “Quentin.” She’d meant to summon a touch of caution, even rebuke. He was, after all, her employer. She didn’t have to search long to find a list of reasons this shouldn’t be happening. Instead her tone had been more a plea, like a portion of the entreaty left over from her prayer.
He was still too close, and she took a step backward but ran into the table. She placed her hands behind her, gripping the edge of the familiar, marred top as if it were her only alternative to holding him. At the moment it was.
He closed the gap between them, and Rebecca had no place to go, so she raised one hand to his chest, forestalling him. “No.”
He stopped. Though he didn’t step back, he didn’t follow through with what she fully expected would have been another kiss.
His brows lifted. “No?”
“I’m too confused to sort out what just happened. It’s late. We’re both tired, perhaps too tired to behave properly.”
“I agree I might not be behaving properly, but I don’t see any reason to be confused. You were the other half of what I must say was a most enjoyable kiss. What’s to be confused about two consenting adults?”
A laugh came out that sounded a bit higher strung than she wished. “Where shall I start? Shall I remind you that I’m the granddaughter to the valet who served your grandfather? A valet’s granddaughter isn’t exactly a suitable follow-up to Lady Caroline Norleigh.”
He grinned. “That’s hardly a convincing argument, Rebecca. Come now, class differences in today’s day and age?”
“Not to you—but to your mother?”
“She’s bound to wake up in the twenty-first century sooner or later.”
Rebecca’s brain spun inside her head, twirling a dance set off by his words, his kiss, the look in his eye. Still, there was one obstacle she couldn’t ignore. “We’re not just two consenting adults. There’s a third party involved.”
Now his brows fell to a frown. “You—you’re involved with someone else?”
She nodded. “Yes, very much so.”
He looked as though he might say something but held back. Instead, his gaze dropped and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Sounds serious.”
“It is.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Do I . . . am I acquainted with him?”
“I thought you were. I thought your father introduced Him to you some time ago.”
When Quentin looked perplexed, Rebecca knew she couldn’t stall any longer. “It’s God, Quentin. I may work for you, but I serve Him.”
“Ah,” he said. “And you believe God wouldn’t want you involved with me?”
She shook her head. “It isn’t you. It’s that we want different things. I want to serve Him, and you . . .”
“. . . don’t? Is that what you think?”
“Do you? I don’t really know, Quentin. I know so little of you except what I’ve learned through your family history.”
He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at her again. “You define the rules, Rebecca. I’ll abide by them.”
“Rules for a relationship we shouldn’t risk? Perhaps the best thing would be to forget this ever happened. Safest, you know?”
“Safe, as in boring. As in missed opportunity.”
She shook her head. “No, as in two lives still intact.”
10
* * *
Forgive me, Cosima, but I feel an alarming desire to host a good, old-fashioned temper tantrum, and I fear it is only here, in one of my private letters to you, that I shall find a safe place to reveal such inappropriate behavior. Mr. Truebody is a conundrum. I have learned already that he is difficult to please, having rewritten more than a few perfectly fine reports submitted to his office. Today he was beyond simply difficult; he was impossible. He arrived at Escott Manor to imply I am incompetent, as proven by having involved the constable over the matter of Katie MacFarland’s arrival.
“Escott Manor Hospital for the Mentally Infirm is under my jurisdiction, Miss Hamilton,” said Mr. Truebody. Berrie found his voice especially grating today, its nasal tone harsher than ever. “My jurisdiction alone. Mr. Flegge has no responsibility—or I shou
ld say, no obligation—to spend his time searching for a family of one who obviously belongs exactly where she was left.”
“It’s true Katie MacFarland was abandoned, Mr. Truebody,” Berrie said, “but evidently not by her entire family. There is a brother—”
“Precisely why you should have brought this to my attention. To go beyond my office is inexcusable.”
“I felt we should lose no time in trying to find Katie’s family, and with you away, the constable seemed the next obvious choice. We’ve also asked Duff Habgood to search for her family as he spreads the word about our school.”
One of Mr. Truebody’s razorlike brows rose, leaving the other aimed downward. “Yes, you mentioned that plan, and I agreed to allow this man one month before he will be expected to return and fulfill the duties for which he’s been hired. I trust you made that clear to him, whether or not he’s succeeded in either of these two missions you’ve bestowed upon him?”
Berrie nodded. “Yes. One month—that was the agreement.”
Mr. Truebody stood. He was a good deal taller than Berrie, narrow in face and shoulder. They were in the smallest sitting room on the main floor. It was meant to be a pleasant room, but at the moment it felt like a closet to which she’d been taken for reprimand.
Mr. Truebody unexpectedly smiled. “You are young and inexperienced, Miss Hamilton, a fact of which I must remind myself. You’ll have learned this lesson from now on?”
Condescension was nearly as difficult to receive as correction. “I have just one question, Mr. Truebody. If we are not to go beyond your office for any of our emergencies, will you be notifying the fire brigade should we have need of such services, or in that special circumstance should I be expected to use my own judgment and call upon them myself?”
For the barest moment she was afraid he’d seen through her veiled cynicism, though she’d tried her best to offer the question innocently.
He patted her shoulder. “I trust you will send two messengers in the event of such a tragedy. One to me, and the other for what help can be had.”