by Sara Rosett
“I haven’t seen it,” Lady Holt said. “You should have written it directly into a notebook.”
“You’re right as always, Maria.” Serena looked at me sideways. “My sister is never wrong. Life goes so much more smoothly if you agree with her.”
“Serena! What will our visitor think? I must apologize, Miss Belgrave. My sister is irrepressible.”
A small grin had been teasing at the corners of Serena’s mouth, and now she smiled fully. “Maria’s upset that I don’t follow her etiquette rules—although I don’t know anyone who follows them to the letter. And I can’t imagine anyone needing an etiquette book nowadays.”
Lady Holt’s mouth flattened into a long straight line as she pressed her lips together. She reminded me of someone I knew, but I couldn’t place the person. Lady Holt drew in a breath through her nose. “You know how many letters I receive. People constantly write to me for clarification on the finer points of proper behavior.” Lady Holt gestured to a large stack of envelopes beside the manuscript on a writing desk. “These arrived during the last few days.” She shifted her attention from her sister to me. “I’m delighted Mr. Hightower has finally realized the need for a modern etiquette guide. It’s gratifying that Hightower Books will publish my guide. The times are changing, but certain things”—Lady Holt shot a look at Serena— “like good manners never go out of style. As I’m sure you agree, Miss Belgrave.”
I didn’t have incredibly strong views on the need for a modern etiquette guide, but I wasn’t about to confess that. I was here in the guise of a publisher’s assistant, and I had a role to play. “Yes, Mr. Hightower is interested in the possibility.” I emphasized the last word because Lady Holt seemed to think Mr. Hightower had already decided to publish her guide.
My subtle accent on the word went right by her. “Well, then, let’s have tea. Afterward, I can show you the manuscript, and Serena can go back to her amusements.” Lady Holt sat down, her straight spine not touching the back of her chair, and began to pour our tea.
Serena said, “My work, you mean.”
I asked, “What are you working on, Miss Shires?”
“Serena, please.” She flicked a look at her sister. “Formalities tend to complicate things to an absurd degree. My motto is make everything as simple as possible.” She settled back into a chair with her teacup. “I research rates of decay.”
I hadn’t expected that answer at all. “How interesting.”
“Right now, I’m working with fabric. I completed a study on cotton, tricot, flannel, linen, wool and silk recently. I’ve moved on to a new set—velvet, tweed, canvas, chintz, leather, and felt—to test their decay rates.”
“And how do you do that?”
“I bury swatches of fabric and observe the changes. I have a temperature- and humidity-controlled case. You’ll have to come up to my workroom and see it. I presented a paper on the first round of tests—”
“Really, Serena,” Lady Holt said. “I’m sure Miss Belgrave is only being polite. Your research isn’t an appropriate topic for general conversation.”
“Decomposition is a part of life.”
Lady Holt shuddered. “Serena, please.”
It was a shame Mr. Hightower had sent me to read Lady Holt’s etiquette book. Her sister seemed a much more interesting character. Perhaps Serena’s studies might make an intriguing topic for a book.
I gave myself a mental shake. I wasn’t actually a publisher’s assistant. The whole thing was a façade. I needed to rein in my enthusiasm for my imaginary job.
Serena reached for a sandwich. “If I have to talk about my work, Maria would prefer I discuss my other interests.”
I stirred my tea. “You’re working on something else?”
Lady Holt said, “The question is, what isn’t she working on?”
Serena waved the sandwich. “I dabble in all sorts of things.” She reclined comfortably in her chair, an easy smile on her face. “Everything interests me. This morning I was working with a new sort of pen.” She put the sandwich on her saucer and wiggled her stained fingers. “One that wouldn’t have to be refilled. It’s the tip that’s giving me problems. I tried a bit of sponge, but that was unwieldy.” Her gaze drifted up to the ceiling. “Perhaps a fabric would work better. Not cotton . . .” She snapped her gaze back to my face. “It needs to be absorbent but able to control the flow of ink, something I haven’t figured out yet. And then there’s the vacuum cleaner experiment. I want to make a quieter one. They make a great deal of racket, you know.”
“Someone talking about me?” A sturdy, broad-shouldered young man walked in through the open door. He had sandy-colored hair, a tanned faced, and his mouth was set in the same flat line as Lady Holt. “Hello, Mother,” he said, then nodded at Serena. “Aunt Serena.”
He turned to me as Lady Holt began, “Miss Belgrave, this is my son—”
“Zippy!” I finally remembered who Lady Holt’s flattened mouth reminded me of—the Honorable Edward Brown, more casually known as Zippy. Lady Holt’s lips thinned practically to the point of nonexistence. I quickly amended my greeting to the proper form. “Mr. Brown, I mean. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Zippy and I had shared a few dances when I was a deb, but he’d been an acquaintance, not a close friend. I did remember a couple of friends ragging him, asking why he spent all his time in London when Hadsworth was only a short drive away. “I like the London air, old chap,” had been his reply. Other than the fact that he enjoyed golf, that was about the only thing I remembered about him.
As she looked at me, Lady Holt’s expression wasn’t as open and welcoming as it had been. It didn’t take a genius to work out that she was less than pleased her son knew me and that I’d called him by his nickname. I felt I should explain Zippy was an acquaintance and I had no designs on him that ended with me in white satin and him in a morning suit. Before I could say anything, Zippy said, “Nonsense. You must go on calling me Zippy. Everyone does.”
“Edward, Miss Belgrave is from Hightower Books. She’s here to see my etiquette guide.”
Zippy, who had reached to shake my hand in greeting, held it a few beats too long. “Brilliant to see you here.”
Lady Holt’s eyes narrowed as she focused on our linked hands.
I extracted my hand. “Delighted.”
Lady Holt reached for the teapot, but Zippy said, “Don’t bother, Mother. I can’t stay. I’m meeting Tommy for a round of golf.”
“You won’t be late for dinner, will you? We’re a small party this evening.”
“No, of course not. I must be off.” He gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek, whisked a sandwich off the tea tray, and said to me, “I’m sorry I can’t stay to chat, but I’m sure we’ll be able to catch up later.”
Lady Holt’s gaze followed Zippy as he left the room, then she said to me, “I’ve planned a small dinner party for this evening. I thought you might enjoy meeting a few of our local families.”
Her manner had cooled several degrees, and I imagined she wished she could retract those invitations and cancel dinner. I’m sure she didn’t want to do anything else to throw me and Zippy together socially. She needn’t have worried. Zippy hadn’t caused a single twinge in my heart, and I knew from the short conversations I’d had with him that his first love was sport. Unfortunately, Lady Holt didn’t seem to realize that.
We finished our tea, and Serena’s easy flow of conversation smoothed over Lady Holt’s chilliness. Her gaze kept straying to the writing desk with its stack of paper. After discussing the weather and my journey from London, I set my teacup down. “Perhaps you’d like me to take a look at that manuscript now?”
Lady Holt unfolded her angular frame as she stood. “Yes, I have it laid out for you.”
Serena uncurled her legs where she’d tucked them up on the cushion and headed for the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Lady Holt pulled out the chair of the writing desk for me and moved a slender book bound in tan
leather to one side. She turned to the Table of Contents in the manuscript. “As you can see, I’ve arranged it so the first section covers introductions, then I go into invitations, and so on. Before you begin, I must show you a special touch.” She flipped through several pages to a sheet with a pen-and-ink illustration. It depicted a man holding a woman’s hand as she stepped over a puddle of water. “I’ve commissioned a series of drawings to illustrate some of the trickiest points,” Lady Holt said. “They give it a new aspect, don’t you think? I don’t know of any other etiquette guide with illustrations.”
“I can’t say I’ve heard of any.” But then my study of etiquette books had, thankfully, been quite brief.
“This visually shows how a man should step across the puddle first, then extend his hand and hold the woman’s hand—never her arm—while keeping the umbrella over the woman. She’s protected from the rain and able to move easily across the water.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Although why she couldn’t hold her own umbrella and step across the puddle herself, I didn’t know.
I bit back those words as Lady Holt continued, “This is the first of several illustrations.” She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I sent the rest to Anna yesterday so she could type the captions on them. She assured me that she would have them back to me before tea.”
“There’s no rush. I’ll start with the manuscript now. You can show me the illustrations later.”
Lady Holt scowled. “I suppose we’ll have to. Although I do wish you could read it with the illustrations. They add so much. I’ll ring up Dr. Finch.”
“Dr. Finch?”
“Anna’s father. She took a typing course, and—”
“Here I am.” An auburn-haired woman with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks came across the room. She removed her beret as she said, “I told Bower there was no need to announce me. I knew you’d be waiting for these.” Her long necklaces of bugle beads clacked against the buttons of her dress as she walked.
She held out a portfolio to Lady Holt. “I’m sorry for the delay. I had to drop Dad at Russell Farm. One of the boys broke an arm, and Dad wanted to get out there as quickly as possible.”
Lady Holt opened the portfolio and flipped through the pages. “Understandable, I suppose.”
The young woman, who must have been in her early twenties, turned to me. “And you must be from the publisher?”
Lady Holt was so absorbed in looking through the pages, she didn’t realize she’d missed a chance to introduce us. For someone who was an etiquette expert, she was certainly lax on performing introductions herself. “Yes, I am.” I held out my hand. “Miss Belgrave.”
“I’m Anna Finch. If your publisher ever needs any typing done, I’m available. I can pop up to London in a moment.”
“I’ll let him know. Do you have a card?”
Anna patted the pockets of her dress. “No. How unprofessional of me.”
“It’s fine. I’m not going back to London for a day or two.” I shot a look at Lady Holt out of the corner of my eye. She didn’t contradict me. Mr. Hightower had arranged for me to stay three days, but at the pace Lady Holt was moving, it seemed I might be shuttled back to London tomorrow, preferably with the manuscript in tow and my recommendation a given. “You can get it to me later. I’ll hand it off to Mr. Hightower when I return.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. I was working in London at an insurance office, but they reduced their staff, and I couldn’t find anything else.” Anna leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “I’m simply dying to get back to London. Hadsworth is dull—dreadfully so.”
“I’d think you’d get quite a few visitors because of the golf course. It’s close enough to London that people could drive down for a round of golf.”
“Oh, golf.” She waved her beret. “Don’t talk to me about golf. I’m sick of golf. That’s all anyone wants to talk about, and I have no aptitude for it at all. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Lady Holt snapped the portfolio closed. “I’ll leave these with you, Miss Belgrave.” Lady Holt placed the illustrations on the desk with the reverence that someone might use to handle a valuable medieval manuscript. “Anna, come with me. I’ll write you a check.”
Anna followed Lady Holt, then turned and walked backward for a few steps. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Belgrave. Perhaps we’ll see each other again before you leave Hadsworth.”
“I hope so,” I managed to say before Anna disappeared through the door after Lady Holt. I looked at the thick manuscript and sighed. Anna seemed to be a young woman looking for a friend. She might be a good person to ask about Mayhew, but Lady Holt was adamant about her manuscript. I flipped to the last page and let out a deeper sigh. Four hundred fifty pages. I knew how I was spending the rest of my afternoon.
Chapter Five
I’d hoped to skim the etiquette book and then slip away and ask some questions about Mr. Mayhew in the village, but Lady Holt kept me busy all afternoon. By the time the dressing gong sounded, I’d read over one hundred pages, admired thirty illustrations, and discussed—or rather listened to—Lady Holt’s concerns regarding the publication of the book. I’d done my best to answer her questions. Unfortunately, I’d had to tell her most of her concerns would have to be taken up after the book was formally accepted for publication. She didn’t seem to grasp the fact that Hightower Books hadn’t yet decided to publish the book. In her mind, publication was a fait accompli.
I went upstairs to dress, anxiety gnawing at me. Perhaps I should telephone Mr. Hightower and let him know he needed to make a slot on his spring calendar for an etiquette book. Lady Holt was a dominant personality. I was sure she’d get her book published either through Hightower Books or some other publisher.
I’d managed to ask exactly one question, trying to work my way around to asking about Mr. Mayhew, but Lady Holt wasn’t to be distracted. I’d asked if anyone else in Hadsworth wrote—perhaps they traded manuscripts or discussed their writing? Lady Holt looked at me as if I were delirious. “No, I’m the only one with any literary interests.”
The maid, Janet, a slip of a girl with thin brown hair and close-set eyes, helped me into the sleeveless pink dress with a deep V-neck and diagonal ruffles across the skirt. It was another hand-me-down from my cousin Gwen, who had excellent taste. Even though she was several inches taller than me, most of her gowns fit me with a few adjustments to the hem. Thank goodness I was shorter than her. If I’d been taller than Gwen, none of her lovely gowns would have fit me—well, I suppose I could have worn them, but they would have hit me at the knee, and that would have been scandalously too short. Hemlines had risen to above the ankle, but anything above the calf was risqué. A dusting of powder, a dash of lipstick, and a bit of mascara, and I was ready. Lady Holt probably wouldn’t approve, but I put on the makeup with a light hand and thought it was flattering rather than garish.
I planned to visit Hadsworth tomorrow. Surely Lady Holt wouldn’t insist on focusing on her manuscript all day. I should be able to visit the village. But for now, I’d focus on what I could find out here at Blackburn Hall. I went down to dinner, determined to work a mention of Mr. Mayhew into conversation. I entered the drawing room, and Lady Holt introduced me to Lord Holt. After meeting him, I knew Zippy had gotten his broad-shouldered build from his father, but Lord Holt was carrying quite a bit more weight around his middle than his son. Lord Holt had a booming voice, a thick white mustache, and an intense love of golf. “Couldn’t believe my luck when they opened the course a few years ago,” he said as we sipped our cocktails.
I asked, “Do you golf often?”
“Never miss a day on the links.”
“An acquaintance of mine lives in the area, I believe, a Mr. Mayhew. Have you met him on the course?”
“Mayhew? Sounds familiar but can’t place him.” At a signal from Lady Holt, Lord Holt excused himself and moved to join his wife.
I was happy to see Anna was one of the guests a
long with her father. Dr. Finch also had auburn hair but a lot less of it than his daughter. He seemed friendly in a mild sort of way but didn’t have the same outgoing personality of Anna. She was chatting with Serena, and I moved to join them. Zippy strolled in, and Anna stiffened like a bird dog scenting its quarry. Zippy greeted the three of us, giving Serena, Anna, and me a quick “good evening,” then he moved on to speak to his father.
Serena went back to talking about the difficulties of creating a quiet vacuum, but I could tell Anna was only half listening as her gaze tracked Zippy’s progress across the room. I could hear snatches of conversation from Zippy and Lord Holt as they discussed the relocation of a sand trap on the ninth hole of the course, something I didn’t think interested Anna at all, but she never managed to give Serena her full attention after Zippy’s entrance.
Dr. Finch joined our group, handing off a fresh cocktail to Serena. “Thank you, Robert,” she said. “I heard Don is back in his office?”
“I cleared him to work a few hours each day,” Dr. Finch said.
“I’m sure Emily is grateful,” Serena said. “Last week she was at the end of her rope. Don is a terrible patient. Even in the short time we’ve known them, I can see he’s naturally short-tempered. I can’t imagine how much more irritable he is confined to bed.”
Serena turned to me. “Our local solicitor fell down the stairs.”
“How awful.” It had to be the solicitor Mr. Hightower had mentioned, who acted as Mr. Mayhew’s intermediary. I was glad to hear he was recovering. The solicitor would be my first stop in Hadsworth tomorrow. I hoped I could catch him during his shortened office hours.
Bower, the butler, announced dinner was served. By the time the ladies retired to the drawing room and left the gentlemen in the dining room, I knew exactly why Zippy spent so much time in London and so little at Blackburn Hall. Lady Holt controlled the conversation around the dinner table in the same way I imagined a general carried out a military campaign. I hadn’t been able to raise one question about Mr. Mayhew while we dined.