Her questioning expression melted into a wide, happy smile. “Yes! Oh, yes. I… even back in Darrington, before he was arrested, we never saw one another as much as I’d have liked. There was always just… ah, I was always busy, and, Garrett was—that is to say, he and Garrett were always, ah…” She looked away. “That is to say, association with Francis always necessitated association with Garrett. Which I have tried to avoid as studiously as possible. For a very long time.”
Chris certainly remembered his brief acquaintance with Garrett Albany. “I certainly don’t blame you for that,” he said ruefully.
Rachel glanced up. “He’s not a bad person. Garrett. He—he’s just …” She fisted her hands for just a moment, and then, carefully, spread her fingers and laid them down on the table. Her smile returned, bright and pleasant. “I don’t want to talk about Garrett. But. Francis. Yes. It’s honestly wonderful to see him whenever I want. I truly thought I’d never see him again, after the arrest. And now, we can share mulled cider and talk into the evening whenever the urge strikes us, reminiscing about old times.”
“How did you meet the good doctor?” Chris asked, and regretted the question when Rachel’s expression shuttered.
“I… through the movement, more or less,” she said, and then buried herself in her bread and cream and berries without looking at him for some time.
The reformist movement, she meant, which she was not a part of, but feverishly agreed with, which Livingstone had previously run, and her brother had taken over. Chris pushed around pieces of the puzzle in his mind. Rachel had implied that she’d known the doctor since she was very young. And that he’d rescued her from some untenable situation. That she owned him her life. Her parents were gone. She didn’t consider Darrington home. He shook himself. It felt like he was prying, peering into her past, trying to logic through things she clearly wanted to keep shrouded. It was unlike him. Olivia was a terrible influence.
“Well,” he said, resolving to accept what information she gave and not attempt to tease out more, “it’s good that you and he can enjoy your time together.”
“It is! It’s very good. You always apologize for removing me from Darrington, but in all honesty, I’m nothing but grateful. I never have to worry about running into my brother at the market. He…” She shook her head. “Ah. And then you sent me Francis! Really, I would almost think you’re trying to court my favour, Christopher.”
The word court hung heavily between them. She’d left enough window that he could turn aside from it, but she looked so beautiful sitting there with pink cheeks, shining eyes, and girlish smile, that he grasped at it.
“Court the favour of a lovely young woman?” he asked all innocence, and had the pleasure of seeing her colour deepen. “Whyever would a fellow intend such a thing?”
The kitchen girls all began to laugh and squeal, pounding fists on the table, and Chris flushed too, dropping his gaze. Buffy, who he sat close to, gave him a playful nudge hard enough to nearly knock him off the bench.
But when Chris looked back up at Rachel, he saw something dark and sad flicker in her eyes. She brushed back her under-rolled curls and coughed and looked away when they made eye contact.
Had he done something wrong?
“Hardly lovely, Mister Buckley,” Rachel murmured.
Something tugged at his heart. It was like there was a physical thing down in there, a hook buried in the organ. His fingers itched from the desire to reach across the table, to stroke her cheek, to tilt her face toward his, to tell her that in truth, in all full-hearted, swear-to-Gods honesty, he thought she really did look lovely.
But they were in the eye of a culinary storm, three adolescent girls were watching them intently, and… he wasn’t sure what he would do if she leaned into the caress instead of rejecting it. So he sat on the wandering hand, and let the silence grow long and awkward, until, blessedly, Olivia appeared at his side.
“All right then,” she said with a sigh, not acknowledging the girls or Miss Albany. “Haul up, Christopher. There’s no rest for the wicked.”
nce they were free of the kitchen, Olivia heaved a great sigh.
“What is it?” Chris asked, trying to pry his mind away from Rachel Albany’s big brown eyes. Had she reacted the way she had simply because he’d called her beautiful? Well, maybe she was right to take his interest with suspicion. He remembered, ashamed, how he’d judged her looks, style, and manner when they’d first met. How was she supposed to take his compliments at face value when he’d previously been such an arse? And yet, he thought… he thought that she did believe him. That she wanted him to pursue further. After all, hadn’t she accepted his invitation to the ball that summer without hesitation, going so far as to bring Rosemary to Darrington from the country to attend? All things weighed, wasn’t he the one who—
Olivia pinched his ear.
“Ow!” he cried, dancing a few steps away and raising a hand to the afflicted area. “Goodness, Olivia, was that really necessary?”
She smirked, folding her arms across her chest. “If you’re going to ask how someone is doing,” she said, “could you at least not wander off immediately after? It’s very insulting.”
He flushed, ducked his head, and slunk back to Olivia’s side. “Right,” he said, “I—I’m rather distracted.”
“Yes, I rather noticed. You’re quite the little Casanova, aren’t you, just? Dangling fish from two separate hooks, hm. I suppose it’s only to be expected, with a face as pretty as yours.”
“That’s hardly what I’m doing!”
“Hm, isn’t it? I’m not sure how else I’d describe it. A well-behaved, straight-laced governess out in the country pond, and a pretty-faced—”
“It isn’t like that,” Chris insisted. “And–and even if it was, you never–” He ground his teeth.
She looked up at him mildly. “I never what?”
He looked away, taking a deep breath through his nose. “You never say this sort of thing after I’ve been around Will,” he forced out. “It seems very… selective.”
Olivia shrugged. “Yes, well,” she said. “I like Will better. I never claimed not to have chosen a side in this little three-sided affair.”
“They’re not—affairs! And what do you have against Rachel?”
“I just don’t like her. Do I need a reason?”
“Most people do.”
“She’s just very…” Olivia made a face. And looked up at him and sighed at the anger he knew was displayed plainly in his features. “For what it’s worth, I barely know the woman. I tend to start out disliking people, and we work upwards from there. Perhaps she really is as charming as you clearly think she is! But for now…” She shrugged. “Something about her just irks me. I swear, looking at her gives me a headache.”
“That’s beyond petty.”
“Well, Christopher, I have never been accused of being particularly magnanimous, now have I?”
Her dislike offended him in ways he couldn’t even explain. Worse, he found himself turning over Rachel in his mind, picking out the little flaws in her character he tried not to notice. She was overly formal. She was too secretive. She took innocent questions as personal attacks and shut him out. It was as if Olivia’s disapproval highlighted all the things that he was good at not caring about. He hated that it made him think poorly of Rachel rather than the person slandering her.
“I really do like her,” he said. It came out sounding very sullen. “It isn’t… I’m not only just–” It wasn’t coming out the way he wanted. He shook his head. “She’s selfless, and intelligent, and strong, and, and I have come to find her quite pretty.” The last was especially defensive sounding.
Olivia snorted. “Don’t you just sound like you’re trying to convince yourself? For what it’s worth, I agree with the last bit: she is fine looking. Though I’m not sure that you agree.”
He wasn’t sure what to say without digging this already embarrassingly deep pit even farther. He just swallowed
and tried to follow the path of the conversation back to the fork they’d taken, so that he could go the other way. “Where is Maris?”
Olivia’s manner sobered. “Off to Summergrove, making her excuses to her captain in Darrington.” She made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “I cannot believe she dragged herself up here. That woman has all the subtlety of a hungry bear. I just know I’m going to regret letting her stick about when she spills the entire investigation everywhere.”
“And… the notes you had her look at? I assume that’s what she came to tell you about?”
Olivia growled a little and pinched the bridge of her nose. “More bad news. Who’s surprised, at this point? Maris can’t translate much of Em’s henscratch, but something is off. As far as Maris can tell, her notes just cut off mid-sentence, and they all seem to be making reference to the spiritless heating system, with no mention of this new method of lighting. Lighting which I had a look at, by the way, and appears to be just a salamander light! Maybe you need to be a ‘binder to tell the difference because I certainly can’t.” She shook her head.
Maybe she wasn’t making as much sense as she usually did. Or maybe he was just tired. But Chris tried to follow it all and failed. “So…” he prompted.
Olivia sighed. “So,” she said, starting down the path to the stable. “So, I think that Maris was right. I think Em actually is in some sort of danger. What sort? I haven’t the first idea. But something isn’t right. A secret project no one she worked with knows about, that is completely absent from her laboratory. The blatant lie about where she’s gone. Her letter to Maris.” She shook her head. “I don’t think there’s any other way around it. Emilia Banks is in danger.”
With that, she walked beneath the arch into the stables.
“I…” Chris looked about. “We’re back here?”
“Unfortunately,” Olivia sighed. “More questions for poor Mabelle, I’m afraid. Roger Greene’s death just became actually interesting.”
A dirty stable boy who smelled confusingly of rank manure and sweet oats directed them out back, where, he explained, Miss Greene was setting up the jumping course for the Festival. Olivia strode off, leaving Chris to thank the boy. She stopped beneath the beam with the wound of raw wood, where the hangman’s noose had gouged deep. She stared up thoughtfully.
“Well. No matter what kitchen gossip might say, they certainly weren’t snogging. Roger was always attached to his wife at the hip and Em? Absolutely not. She’d never acknowledge anyone else exists below the waist so long as Maris is in the world.”
“Not to mention,” Chris offered, quietly, “he, er, wasn’t… well, I don’t think Mister Greene would really have been Miss Banks’s… type.”
Olivia looked at him with a smirk. She snorted. “Is that so? Are you so very knowledgeable about Em’s type, then?” She shook her head, laughing at some joke Chris couldn’t understand, try as he may. “Gods, I wouldn’t take any amount of money to be inside of your head, Christopher Buckley. The world must be very confusing for you.”
“I say!” Chris snapped.
Olivia ignored him, staring upwards. “So. They must have just… been friends, yes? I’m not sure how to feel about that. It just seems strange. Someone from my adulthood getting chummy with someone from my childhood? I don’t much care for that, I tell you. It feels like cross-contamination.” She sighed. “But inevitable, I suppose. Her life is tangled up in mine, now, for better or worse. Roger always was a smart fellow. Too good to brush horses for a living. And friendly as a pup, too. Nothing kept that man down.” She gazed up at the groove, its soft yellow wood so stark against the dark, dull brown that surrounded it. “Or, I suppose….”
She stared up for another solid minute, while Chris fidgeted beside her. Finally, she shook her head, sighed, and adjusted her hat. “Gods,” she murmured. “Wouldn’t that just be… hm.”
She strode forward, and he followed after her.
The meadow between the main Miller holdings and the orchard, which had been so peaceful and empty that morning and the day before, was now a roar of activity. The long grass and wildflowers had been trampled under the feet of labourers in canvas coverings struggling to erect a veritable army of arbours. The structures already standing were bedecked with autumn flowers and hovered over tables like protective mothers. A pair of workers moved past Olivia and Chris with a massive tin basin of water between them, arms shaking with effort, and set it on one of the tables. There were bushels of apples everywhere, and wheelbarrows filled to overflowing with turnips. Off to one side, a bevy of small children sat in a circle, braiding flowers both real and cloth into yards of straw and rope. They were babbling and shrieking excitedly, adding their harmonies to the dull roar of work and conversation. On a raised dais, toward where Chris’s window would look down on, a group of young ladies wearing all the colours of autumn trees were tuning violins, which would occasionally screech with a terrible, ear-splitting tone while the hymnshaper sitting at the edge of the platform caught the thread of their music and projected it outward at the worse moments.
The sound of pounding hooves gave them some direction. Olivia set off at a brisk walk, and Chris shortly behind. They found Miss Mabelle Greene with a group of other young people her age, all clapping and cheering and urging the rider who thundered around the obstacle course—a girl with thick, long black hair that waved behind her like a flag as she rode astride a beautiful white unicorn.
She effortlessly took the second to last jump, which was at least as tall as Olivia. The unicorn’s back hooves didn’t so much as graze the horizontal poles. Miss Greene and the other adolescents went wild. Chris winced when Miss Greene raised two fingers to her mouth and blew an eardrum-splitting whistle.
She was definitely not a suitable companion for Rosemary. He resolved to say something on the matter.
“The big one,” the teens were all shouting in a cacophony. “Come on, come on, take the big one! The big one!”
The final jump on the course was high enough to make Chris’s throat dry. It had to be as tall as William. (And here, he tried not to think of William’s height, William rolling onto the balls of his feet to kiss him, William slumping to nestle his dark head under Chris’s chin, William on his knees and his mouth as soft as velvet. Things with William were over and done. Best see it as a blessing.)
The girl on the unicorn wheeled her mount in a wide circle, kicked hard, and set the beast into a four-footed gallop right in their direction, headed for the impossibly high obstacle. He’d never seen any equine beast move so damned fast before, and some wild animal part of him froze with utter terror at the sense the whirlwind of hooves was bearing down on him. By instinct, he raised his head to meet the rider’s eye and beg for mercy——and looked into the determined blue gaze of his sister.
“Rosie?” he demanded and raised his arms before him in the universal gesture for stop.
She saw him. She just didn’t care.
“Oh, dear,” Olivia said mildly, and Chris could have ripped a strip off her for the laughter in her voice. “I think we had best get out of her trajectory.”
“She’s going to kill herself!” Chris snapped, but he was so stunned that he easily allowed himself to be scurried off to one side by Olivia’s guiding hand as Rosemary and the unicorn—he had gotten her a unicorn pony, not a full-sized beast!–thundered toward the jump.
“Go, Rosie! Go, go, go!” Mabelle Greene was screaming, her voice hoarse and her fist pumping in the air.
Rosemary hunkered down on the animal’s back and tucked herself in tight as its hooves left the turf….
And sailed through the air as majestically as a winged carriage, clearing the hurdle as if it was barely a foot high, landing with perfect elegance and dropping into a three-footed gallop, and then a canter, while the young people—her friends?—all roared in delight.
Olivia raised her eyebrows at Chris. “Well,” she said, flippant as anything. “At least she’s a much better rider t
han you are.” She walked away, headed for the deceased stablemaster’s daughter, whose braid was bouncing wildly as she jumped up and down cheering for Rosie’s victory.
Chris should have followed her. But he snapped his gaze back to Rosemary, who was finally slowing to a lazy walk. She rode close enough for him to see the lather on her mount’s flanks.
“Miss Olivia,” Mabelle Greene was saying, a world away.
“Hullo, Mabelle. I thought I might ask you some questions about your father….”
Rosemary pulled the unicorn up at Chris’s side. The animal hung its head low, its pearly horn pointed to the ground. He gazed up at his sister. She was wearing tight, form-fitting trousers—more scandalous than even Maris Dawson’s!—and a simple white blouse, unbuttoned far enough down that he could see her collarbones and the dark mole she had just above her heart. Her hair was a wild mass of windswept curls. He couldn’t even imagine her getting a brush through that rat’s nest. As she looked down at him, hair around her face, eyes bright and determined, cheeks red with exertion, he couldn’t help but think that she looked like she was on the other side of the border of womanhood, like she was about to head into a categorization office.
He didn’t know what to say to her.
Thankfully—or perhaps, unfortunately—she beat him to it.
“Did you see me make the jump, Chris?” she asked. Her voice was pure Rosie: singsong and high and teasing and delighted. But there was something… posed about it. Like it was a mask she was wearing over a flinty core.
“You know I did,” he said. He cleared his throat. How the hells should he proceed from here? “You should get down from there. I want to talk to you.”
“I can’t,” she said, shifting in her saddle. She rubbed the unicorn’s neck. “You probably noticed the lather? Poor Aes needs to cool down, or she could get very sick or even die.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to say to that. It sounded suspiciously convenient, but if he said something, and it was the truth, he’d certainly look like an idiot in the adolescent eyes now peering at them. Any semblance of authority he had over them would never survive.
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