“My grandfather,” he began, “is newly passed from this life. Or . . . was, rather. I was meant today to attend to the arrangements for his funeral.”
Halley gasped. His grandfather had just died? “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Edmund shrugged.
Halley bit her lip and then said, “I feel terrible.”
“He was a great man. He seemed at times more a father than my own sire. I shall miss him greatly, but he made a good end, and it was not unexpected. I count our household fortunate that he lasted so long as he did.” Edmund plucked at the wool strands of the rug. “With his passing, his title falls to me.”
Halley frowned. “You have a title? Like, you’re a royal or something?” How had this not come up already? She felt suddenly horrible for having put almost no effort into understanding who Edmund was. So far, she’d seen him as alternately eye candy or a problem to solve.
Edmund, however, didn’t seem troubled. On the contrary, his smile had returned, as though her question amused him.
“I am not royal, lady. I am but an earl’s grandson, and a poor one, too, who stands to inherit the debts of his forebears.”
“Still, an earl? That sounds impressive. Can I ask, um, what exactly an earl does?”
“That which he must, I suppose, lady.”
Halley shifted on the rug so that she was facing him. She wrapped her arms tightly around her knees and pulled them close, resting her chin on top. “Such as?”
“I am charged with the welfare of mine estate and all persons pertaining thereto.”
Now it was Halley’s turn to look confused. “An estate has . . . welfare to look after?”
“The estate is a great farm, lady. Are there no farms in this age?”
“Sure. We have farms. So, you’re, like, a farmer-earl.”
Edmund laughed. “Aye.”
“What does ‘persons pertaining thereto’ mean, exactly? Do you have loyal subjects or something?”
Edmund grew solemn. “Her Majesty the Queen alone hath subjects. All those who dwell on my estate do serve her alone, and most loyally.”
“Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to question their, um, loyalty status. But you have . . . staff, right? Worker bees? Servants? Weren’t you going to hire me as a baker?”
“Aye.”
“What would that even mean?” she asked. “Would I have been, like, indentured?”
“Nay, lady. To become an indentured apprentice, thou wouldst have contracted with a master baker, paying him well to teach thee the trade. Servants, rather, are paid in coin by the quarter, and in lean years when there is no coin, in foodstuffs or wool or wood, as they have need and my grandfather has means.” Edmund frowned. “That is, as I have means, now I am to inherit his duties.”
“So if I needed a new dress and you paid me in . . . wool, would I be able to trade that wool for clothes?”
Edmund bristled. “No member of my household has ever stood in want of clothing. I should have furnished thee with garments, both sturdy and in keeping with the dignity of my household. It should have been writ into thy contract of service.”
Halley’s eyebrows rose. She knew from her costume history classes that clothing in Elizabethan times was expensive, taking a higher percentage of the overall cost of living than it did now. And yet Edmund had been ready to shoulder that cost the moment he had offered her a job.
“Does not Jillian’s father provide Branson with habiliments?” asked Edmund.
“Habil-whats?”
“His livery. His garb. His clothing.”
“Oh.” Halley stifled a laugh. “No. Definitely not. So you provide clothing for your servants? Plus you pay them?”
“Aye, and feed and house them. Who would serve without such compensation? Surely Branson does not, nor my lady’s gentleman of the horse, neither.”
“Um, they get a salary so they can pick their own clothes and food and place of residence.”
Edmund was silent for a minute. “I have heard of suchlike arrangements in the City, but they are shameful. If a servant dwells not with his master, who shall care for that servant when he becomes ill? Or how shall aged servants be cared for when they can no longer till or carry? To throw them from the family in such a way is surely the most careless of cruelties.”
“Maybe,” said Halley. She was struck even more forcibly by how much Edmund had been committing to when he offered to employ her. He’d been ready to feed, clothe, house, and pay her, plus provide her with retirement benefits including medical care. At a time when none of those things were cheap—when “discretionary income” didn’t exist as a concept for ordinary people. Halley didn’t know a single person who would be willing to make such an offer to her. Her mom wouldn’t so much as buy necessary clothing for her.
Looking up, she saw Edmund had collapsed his head into his hands. The fire had died back and Halley couldn’t read his shadowed expression.
“What is it?”
Edmund was silent for several seconds before responding. His voice, when he spoke again, was flat, almost defeated.
“If I return not, the estate falls to my brother, who hath no care for our household, nor tenants, nor servants. He is like to turn tyrant and send forth the aged when they can no longer serve, or to dismiss the sick rather than call for the apothecary’s services.”
Halley’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure we’ll get you back. It’ll be okay. We just have to wait until my mom’s next house-sitting job. Ten days. Nine, now, I guess.”
Edmund exhaled heavily.
“And besides,” said Halley, “If your servants are used to being well cared for, wouldn’t the rest pack up and leave if your brother started mistreating them?”
“Aye.” Edmund’s brow contracted. “Mayhap.”
“That’s what I would do. Find a better employer.”
“Doubtless some would, at the expiration of their contract, but I would not see them forced to flee their home, lady. My estate is their home, and they are my responsibility. Unless they choose to depart, I am bound to care for them, for better or for worse, in lean years and fat years. I would not have them cast forth through my brother’s cruelty.”
“We’ll get you back.”
She leaned forward and placed a hand on his back, comforting. Edmund looked over at her and held her gaze, his own face still lined with anguish.
“It’ll be fine,” she murmured. “We’ll send you back to the same day, so it will be like you never left.”
“Aye, lady.”
She thought it would work. She hoped it would work. She didn’t really know if it would work. She kept her doubts on the subject to herself.
“I think it’s wonderful,” she said, “the way you care about your employees.” She was quiet a moment and then added, “I’ve never had anything or anyone to care for. Not even a fish. Mom doesn’t own a house. We rent a crappy little apartment.”
“You own a kind heart. And a brave one at that.”
Halley flushed.
“I just wish I had something to call my own, you know?” And then, like a warm breeze across her skin, the thought of her $15,000 sale returned. She was rich. She was very rich. She could get what she wanted. Exactly what she wanted. Something to call her own—something no one could take from her or sell out from under her.
Edmund regarded her with a puzzled expression. “What is’t, lady?”
Halley hesitated. Her secret dream had always been, well, secret. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or the tenderness of Edmund’s eyes—such beautiful eyes—but Halley felt her normal reserve on the subject receding ever so slightly. Besides, before she knew it, Edmund would be gone forever. He was as safe a recipient for her secrets as she could ever find.
“You said your grandfather was like a dad to you,” she began, haltingly. “So I’m guessing your own father . . . left a few things to be desired.”
Edmund laughed softly. “’Tis a most generous way
to speak of him.”
“I don’t really know my father at all,” she said. “I only met him once.” She hesitated, but then decided to just plunge in. “He took me to Disneyland. Disneyland is like . . . well . . .” She frowned. How would she begin to explain Disneyland to someone from another century? She thought of the sign at the front of the park.
“What is the happiest place on Earth, for you?” she asked.
“The merriest, ask you?”
“Aye.” Halley used Edmund’s word without noticing it.
“I suppose it was our great hall, when I was young. Grandfather kept then four minstrels and a juggler. Our winters were merry with entertainment whilst they remained with us, and Yule was the merriest time of all.”
“Yule is Christmas, right?”
Edmund nodded.
It was a perfect analogy.
“Well,” said Halley, “I think the people who made Disneyland wanted to make visitors feel that way—the way Christmas morning is supposed to feel. That was how I felt the day my dad took me to Disneyland.”
“Are there entertainments at . . . D’Isigny land?”
“Oh, yeah. Lots. Parades and shows—er, jugglers and minstrels. And rides. Huh. I don’t know what to compare a ride to. A fast gallop on a horse, maybe? But the best part wasn’t the rides or shows.”
She paused and Edmund leaned in. “What was it thou didst prize above all else?”
She bit her lower lip. This was the most hidden of her secrets, enshrined within the sanctum sanctorum of her memories. She could just say it had been a great day and leave it at that, but she felt her wishes and hopes pressing for release, pressing to be spoken aloud, to be shared. And here was Edmund, beautiful Edmund, asking her, his striking eyes boring into hers.
Before she could reconsider, she began to tell him everything.
“Dad took me to an exclusive restaurant called Club 33. Normally, you can’t get in, even if you have a ticket to visit the park. You have to be a member or be taken by a friend who is a member, but we were alone, so my dad must be a member. Anyway, he took me inside and asked what I wanted to eat, and I said I wanted a root beer float.”
Edmund looked at her blankly.
“Do you know what ice cream is?”
“Cream I know.”
“Think of cream that’s been sweetened and then frozen. It’s the best. Actually, we were supposed to have some today, but I guess we forgot. Branson calls it ‘gelato.’ Anyway, to make a root beer float, you put ice cream in your root beer—you probably don’t have root beer, either—”
“We brew small beer at home.”
“Small beer? Is it . . . sweet and fizzy?”
“Sweet it can be, if made so. It doth bubble.”
“Root beer is very bubbly and very sweet. And when you add vanilla ice cream, it’s . . . heaven.”
Halley closed her eyes, remembering the way the fizz from the root beer tickled her nose and lips. She remembered how her father clinked glasses with her and didn’t scold her when hers slopped onto the bar. The barman had laughed, saying it happened every day and not to worry. It was the happiest memory she had.
She looked up, meeting Edmund’s eyes. The firelight sparked, dancing in his amber-flecked irises. She took a slow breath and then told Edmund the rest of it. Her plan.
“I’m taking the money I made from that painting I sold yesterday and using it to pay for a membership at the club. I applied a year ago when I didn’t have anywhere close to enough money. Actually, at the time I didn’t know how much it cost or I might not have applied.
“Anyway, last month I saw an LA Times article saying that Disney was trying to encourage applicants aged eighteen to thirty to apply for membership. So, now I have the money and I should have a better shot because of my age. I’m moving to LA as soon as I can, and if the club accepts me, I can visit every day if I want to.”
She kept back the most important part: that this was her best chance of meeting her father again. It was a crazy hope, but it was all she had: on one of those visits, someday, she would see him again and learn what had kept him from her life. Her throat grew tight. Swallowing, she reached for the ring at her neck. Her father would be there. Someday. Eventually. He wouldn’t have paid that kind of money for a membership he didn’t use, would he?
When she met Edmund’s gaze, he was staring at her, his dark eyes like liquid pools.
She felt her cheeks burning. “I haven’t ever told anyone about . . . all this,” she murmured.
“I am the more honored, lady.”
“It might never happen. My becoming a member. I’ve got the money, but they don’t have to accept me for membership.”
“And why should they not accept thee?” asked Edmund.
Halley chest tightened as she considered Edmund’s question. She slid the jade ring along her necklace. Why was she so afraid Club 33 would reject her application? It was true they’d already had it a year, but that wasn’t unusual. She’d heard of people waiting several years before getting their letter of acceptance. But what if they said no? Her chest began to ache.
“I guess,” she murmured softly, “when you want something so badly, it’s hard to believe you could ever have it.”
Edmund was silent for a long minute. At last, he said, “Aye, lady. I understand thee well.”
Edmund’s apologetic smile quickly faded.
“What is it?” Halley’s voice was a mere whisper.
Edmund shook his head.
Halley sat up straighter and wrinkled her brows.
Edmund, reaching over, smoothed the furrow with the flesh of his thumb.
Tension, doubt, fear melted away at the warmth of his touch. After he withdrew his hand, she felt it still, a phantom. Her eyes rested half-open.
“What is it?” she asked again.
Softly, he said, “It is nothing, lady. It is a mere foolishness.”
His expression stopped her breath. She saw yearning. Desire. Hope, and its opposite. And then, with the look of someone telling himself all the reasons not to, he reached for her face and drew her closer.
24
• HALLEY •
Halley couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything. Edmund was going to kiss her. She saw his mouth, parted softly, lips trembling. His hand trembled too, where it cradled her face. He was going to kiss her. Their foreheads touched softly. His skin was warm. Her lungs forced her to exhale. She could feel the weight of his head pressed to hers. Close, so close. Neither of them moved. And then, noses brushed, hair slid forward, a sigh, and their lips met.
For several moments, that was all: lip touching lip, shallow breaths, closed eyes. And then she leaned into the kiss, her hand clasping Edmund’s neck, her fingers threading lightly through his hair.
She was kissing him. He was kissing her back. Warmth suffused her face, torso, arms, belly. And then a spark, popping loudly in the fireplace, startled them apart. Quickly, Edmund brushed an ember off her Balinese wrap.
She took Edmund’s hand in hers, as if to prove he was real, that she wasn’t lost in a dream. Oh, she was lost. But Edmund was real and solid, his eyes fixed on her.
Again, she moved to kiss that exquisite mouth, but this time Edmund drew back.
“I crave pardon, lady.” He shook his head infinitesimally. “I meant no insult. It is the lateness of the hour. I have not slept these several days—”
“Hush,” she said. She placed her fingers against his lips. Heard his heavy exhalation. Watched as his eyes closed and then opened again, hungry with desire. “Hush,” she said again, and then, before the sound had left her lips, he was kissing her, pulling her close so that they both crashed onto the fleece, his body cushioning hers. His hand was on her waist, fingers warm and wanting alongside her spine and then her belly. Something sounded, a sharp rap against wood, but Halley ignored it, thinking Edmund’s foot or elbow must have knocked against the enormous bed behind them.
Then it sounded again. Three ra
ps. Purposeful. Signifying . . . something. Halley pulled herself from Edmund’s sure grasp, lifted her head. Rap, rap, rap.
“Someone’s knocking,” she whispered.
Edmund grunted and pulled her back for another kiss, grabbing a handful of her fabric wrap and shifting it against her skin.
“Wait,” she said. “It’s your door!”
This got his attention. Edmund’s eyes opened. He looked at the fistful of fabric in his hand. He closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. Then, with great care, Edmund sat up, shifting gently so that Halley slid onto the rug. It felt cool after the warmth of Edmund’s body. She adjusted her wrap. Tried to smooth her hair.
Edmund stood and crossed to the door, opening it a crack.
Halley heard earnest whispering from the doorway—a few quick exchanges and then Edmund returned to her side. He did not sit, however, and seemed to be forcing himself to look at the fire and not at her.
“It was Branson,” he explained. “It seems he arrived early today to commence the baking of bread, and seeing smoke here at such an hour, he wished to ascertain it signified no uncontained fire.”
Halley tied the fabric belting more snugly. “What time is it?” she asked.
“’Tis half past four, if I read the clock aright,” said Edmund.
“Oh. Wow.” Halley stood, smoothing her wrap. “I guess we should, um, get some sleep. We’re supposed to help DaVinci hang her show at eight.”
“Sleep thou here,” said Edmund, indicating the four-poster bed. “The hall outside is most cold, and thy room will be also. I will couch myself hereby,” he said, indicating the chaise lounge.
Halley murmured, “It would be warmer if . . . you know . . . if we shared.”
Edmund’s cheeks flushed darkly.
“It would be warmer, lady,” he said, smiling softly, “but I fear we should not sleep.”
Halley shrugged, climbed in the canopied bed, and curled into a tight ball. The sheets were cold, the pillow hard. Edmund’s words repeated in her head: I fear we should not sleep . . . Yeah. If she was honest with herself, she feared, too. In nine more days Edmund was leaving her life, slipping back four hundred years. In two weeks he would be . . . dead. Halley shivered, swiped at a tear, and pulled the blanket over her head.
A Thief in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 1) Page 11