Flushing, he nodded.
Olivia snorted. “Gods, you are such a city boy! Well, we’ll use that to our advantage, somehow. Maybe you’ll look so pathetic that the young ladies will take pity on you and reveal all their secrets!” She swept from the room as well as she could in trousers, laughing and shaking her head all the way.
Chris turned to Maris. For a brief moment, he forgot about her misery and her fear, because it was so easy to fall back into the rhythms of a better time. He wanted to knowingly cock his head in his employer’s direction so they could both share that bemused smile.
Instead, Maris gazed up at him with eyes bruised and pleading. “I hope this bloody well works,” she said.
Chris could only nod and follow Olivia out.
He met Rosemary on the stairs.
Her eyes widened, and he froze on his step. Standing four stairs up, she towered above him, draped in yards of pure white muslin, rich orange lace, and azure blue ribbons. She looked radiant.
Rosie had always been a girlish child. She adored frills and beads and ruffles. Her favourite gowns had always been heavy skirted and layered with waterfalls of lace and appliqué. In more ways than one, seeing her on that step was just the next logical step, unicorn-jumping intervals aside. But her gown wasn’t girlish. It was… womanly. Puffed lightly in the sleeves and in the bosom, long and sweeping and paired with elbow-length orange silk gloves, it brought elegance to her tall figure and showed softness where there had certainly not been any when he’d sent her away. The cut was quaintly old-fashioned, giving her the appearance of a country baron’s daughter at her coming out ball, traditions from a bygone era. Her curls were coiled atop her head in whorls and braids, and bright orange and blue flowers peeked out from amidst tiny springs of baby’s breath.
How was it possible for someone to grow up so fast? Fernand had always said Rosie was young for her age. Sheltered, without many friends, and, as he’d said time and again, a brother who spoiled her overmuch.
Had that been the core of it? Had Chris plugged the natural flow of Rosie’s growing up, and with him gone it all just splashed forth? He swallowed hard. He didn’t know how to feel about it. She looked beautiful and self-possessed and confident and too old, too fast, too far away from him.
Now that they were finally alone together, he felt like he had a thousand things he needed to say. But before he could, Rosemary seemed to make a choice.
Her chin tilted upwards. “Tell your employer that I said thank you for helping my friend,” she said, all regal haughtiness.
“Rosie,” he said.
“Could you give her a message for me? There are still some matters about the case I’d like to discuss, and I don’t want her to leave without hearing what I have to say.”
“Rosemary,” he said, gazing up at her. “Rosie, this morning….”
“You were an arse,” Rosemary said.
He winced, squelching the urge to scold her for her language. He looked her up and down. With the way, she was dressed… “You aren’t going to participate in the contests?”
His sister’s lips pulled sourly, and she shrugged one shoulder. “Missus Elouise’s ward can’t exactly jump the hurdles and run the races. Not with the Spencers and Golds and Witherspoons and Harringtons all here,” she said. And then a playful smile flickered across her lips, and she looked deeply satisfied. The expression was familiar. It buoyed him. “I’d win, though. I’d absolutely win!”
“I don’t doubt it,” Chris assured, and she relaxed, just a bit. Just enough for him to see in her sparkling eyes and the way her cheeks bunched chubbily when she smiled that she was still his Rosie. He felt a weight come off him and settled into his posture against the bannister. “You look beautiful,” he said.
She wore enamel and rouge and other cosmetics, but Chris could still see her ears redden with pleasure. “I do, don’t I?” she said eagerly. She hitched her skirts and swayed from side to side so that he could see the way they moved. “I’ll be the shining star on the dance floor!”
“You’re nowhere near old enough to dance!” Chris protested before he could consider. He snapped his mouth shut.
Rosie’s animated expression turned flat.
“I—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter! At a society ball, you wouldn’t even be allowed on the floor until you were sixteen, much less dancing!”
“This isn’t a society ball!” Rosemary snapped. “It’s a country festival!”
“Proprieties must be observed! You said yourself there are people with influence here!” Chris protested. “The Witherspoon family? The Golds? And of course there’s Dayton Spencer, who you never even mentioned was—”
“Of course I didn’t! I feel sick just looking at him because I can never stop thinking about Fernand! Why would I want you to feel that way if I could help it?”
Chris looked at her again, more slowly this time. The lace was delicate and finely made, the ribbons silk, the muslin soft and flowing. “Who paid for that dress?” he demanded. It certainly couldn’t have been him. The money that he sent her would never have paid for such a fine garment.
Rosemary tilted up her chin. “Elouise did, of course,” she said. Her voice was firm, self-assured, but there was some doubt lurking in the background, and Chris seized on it.
“Why is Olivia’s mother buying you fine gowns?”
“Maybe she wants me to have nice things!”
“And I suppose she’s the one who’s put it into your head that you’re old enough to be dancing a country reel with… with… whomever?”
Her eyes glinted. “No, actually. That was Rachel. And his name is Monty.”
“What?”
“Monty! The boy I like, the one I want to ask me to dance. His name isn’t whomever, it’s Monty.”
“Who on earth is Monty?”
“Aren’t you listening? He’s a boy. He’s going to ask me to dance, and I’ve been practising for weeks. He’s sure to be very impressed. Unless Elouise stops me, I’m going to try and dance the only waltz with him. We’ll see.” She tilted her nose up. “I have a good feeling about it.”
Chris’s jaw worked. Words all got jammed together, bottlenecked in his throat, and he felt unexpectedly hot. Rosemary was gazing down at him with the all the dignity of a queen, and he was standing there with his mouth hanging open.
Rosie giggled, so much like the girl who’d left Darrington that spring that it sent a knife through his heart.
He clenched his fists. “Unless Elouise stops you? Who is Elouise to you? I’m stopping you! You are not dancing with any boy! You are fourteen years old! I absolutely forbid—”
“Forbid?” Rosemary all but roared, staring down at him. All her prepossessed calm boiled away to leave nothing but fury. Her face was turning red even with her cosmetics, her jaw was set, her fists were shaking, and her eyes were—
Oh, Gods. Were those tears?
“I can’t believe this.” Rosemary’s voice was brittle. It shook with emotion, vibrating in time with her clenched hands. “I can’t—believe that you show up just out of nowhere on the day right before the Harvest Festival, and now you’re here, being you, and doing everything you can to ruin this day I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for—”
Her voice cracked.
Chris moved to her. “Rosie—” he gasped.
She slapped his hands off. “Leave me alone!” she cried. “Go home! Elouise doesn’t want Olivia here, and I—I don’t want you!” She hitched her skirts and flew down the stairs.
“Rosie!” he called after her, but she didn’t stop.
He made a fist and lifted it to punch the wall. He stopped an inch away. The wood was ancient, solid oak. He’d probably shatter his damned hand, and then where would he be? He shook his head, ran his hand through his hair, and started back up the stairs.
“I think I’m getting very good at making people hate me,” he muttered to himself as he crested the top step.
“If it gives any c
omfort, I don’t hate you.”
He snapped his gaze off his feet, heart in his throat.
Rachel stood in an alcove, almost hidden behind the fronds of a huge potted plant. She gave him a small, shy smile and brushed leaves out of the way, walking forward. She stopped a little farther from him than was perhaps normal for a conversation, but he didn’t blame her. The tension between them jumped into sparking, conductive life.
Chris laughed ruefully. He sounded breathy in his own ears. “This is at least the second time in a day that someone has eavesdropped on me.”
Rachel ducked her head. “I apologize. And—for what it’s worth, about that boy Rosemary likes—”
“Don’t.” Chris sighed. He adjusted his specs to give his hands something to do while he tried to decide what to say. He was very aware of how Rachel was reading his feelings, perusing him like a book. “It’s… hells, you probably damned well know better than I do at this point. I don’t know anything, and it certainly seems as if she respects your input into her life more than she does mine.”
Rachel shook her head. She brushed her rose skirts. He found he missed her pretty burgundy gloves. “Please don’t be unfair. She’s young, going through a period of change, and she hasn’t seen you for more than a day in over half a year. It’s very… confusing for her.”
“Has she told you that?” Chris asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He wondered if Rosie would ever tell him anything again.
“Of course she has. I’m a confidante. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Please stop feeling sorry for yourself!” Rachel pursed her lips and then sighed. “I have experience with these matters. I know what it’s like to be a young girl caught between different lives… different people… different futures….”
Chris licked his lips. “You…”
She shook her head. “I—it’s nothing. I just understand her, I think. Your father… he… cast a long shadow on her. She’s kept his dreams for her so close to her heart for so long that she’s never stopped to think about her own dreams. Now she realizes she’s allowed to have them. All at once.”
“Is that what happened to—”
Her eyes flashed. “Forget about me. Really. Why do you keep—just let it be! Have you even considered that I don’t talk about my life because I don’t want to talk about it?” Agitated, she brushed at her under-rolled curls.
He took a step closer. “Rachel, I didn’t mean—”
“I know! You never mean! You’re only being kind, and considerate, and attentive, and interested, and you want to engage with me like I’m a normal human being but—but some things, people just don’t want to talk about, Chris! I—you—” Her face scrunched up, and then she let out a harsh stream of breath and planted fisted hands on her hips. “Look, see how flustered you have me?”
They’d stepped closer at some point. Her face was tilted up toward him. The salamander-light above picked out auburn and chestnut tones in her hair and made her skin glow with warmth. He could fluster her quite well right now if he leaned down and gathered her into his arms and kissed her. Thanks to his ill-considered experimentations with William, he would even know what he was doing if he did.
Rachel’s eyes glazed and her lips parted. She felt his desire.
Gods, it would be so easy.
He reached for her.
She stepped away.
“Ah,” he stammered. “I… you, that is, I didn’t mean–”
She exhaled. “Please don’t judge Rosemary too harshly. She’s at a fragile time, right now.”
Chris swallowed. He wanted to reach out and brush a stray lock of hair out of her face, tuck it back in with her rolled under curls.
“I—thank you, Rachel. Miss Albany.” He shook his head. “I… I need to get ready for the Festival, myself if you’ll….”
“Of course.”
She brushed past him and was gone, leaving him wondering just what had gone wrong.
he moment the sun touched the horizon, the Miller Harvest Festival began.
Through the open panes of his window, Chris could hear music, activity, and excitement, both in the buzzing hum of adults and the squealing excitement of children. The very air seemed to prickle with energy and movement, even from where Chris sat at the vanity putting the finishing touches on his coiffure with pomade and careful use of a comb.
Olivia Faraday hemmed and hawed outside of his door.
She banged again and sighed so hard he thought she might blow the offending edifice to the ground. “Oh, come now!” she scolded impatiently. “There’s barely enough light left to carve turnips and bob apples!”
“I thought we were investigating?” Chris called back, sliding from his chair and making a final check. He looked rather spiffing if he did say so. Will would tease him for his attention to his appearance. He brushed aside the pang.
“We are!” Olivia sniffed. “As if I’d forget. Emilia isn’t just some stranger, and neither was Roger Greene! I just don’t see why we can’t enjoy the Festival while we’re there.”
“Don’t let Maris hear you say that.”
“I’m not an idiot. She’s taking this hard, and can you blame her?”
Chris thought about Rachel’s eyes glowing and William’s eyes hard as stone. He had no answer to give. He opened the door to his bedroom.
Olivia waited in the hallway, arms folded and foot tapping. After a full day of seeing her in her trousers-and-blouse getup, it was almost strange that she was once again in her more conventionally feminine garb. She wore a great, sweeping sky-blue party dress, cut off the shoulder and low in the bodice, but with large mutton sleeves and prodigious lace and trimmings at her neckline hanging down to her waist in both front and back. Her skirts had so much volume that he eyed them apprehensively.
“Aren’t you going to have a hard time moving around in those?” he asked.
She laughed. She reached down as far as she could, pinched fabric between her thumb and forefinger, and lifted her arms all the way over her head. The skirt fanned out like wings and still swirled in waterfalls of fabric around her slippered feet.
“Mother Deorwynn,” Chris murmured, impressed. “That’s enough fabric to build tents for all the poor in Darrington.”
Laughing, Olivia dropped the skirts and swatted him on the shoulder with a lacy fan in the same colour as her dress. “I’ve had quite enough of mobility for the day,” she said firmly. “The trousers were a fun experiment, but I’ll leave that level of adventure to Maris henceforth, I think. This is much more my style.”
And it was. While the gown skirted the edge of what any Tarlish lady might wear, as always, Olivia had added touches that were all her own. And, of course, she wore no jewellery, cosmetics, or hat, and had her straight hair long and loose around her shoulders.
He was surprised at how pleased he was to see her dressed like her, instead of that ridiculous performance she’d attempted for her mother the night before. He thought he understood some of the miles of complicated history between them. With all the context, as she’d put it, he felt quite strongly that Olivia should just be… Olivia.
“I like your gown,” he said.
Her eyes widened a bit at his honesty, and then she made a face and snapped her fan over the back of his knuckles.
“Ow!” he gasped, drawing his hand up against him. It stung! “What the devil?”
She pointed the fan at him. “Please, none of that painful sincerity, Christopher! I’m dealing with quite enough as it is without having to decide how I feel about you being kind to me atop it all!” Sighing and shaking her hair back, she turned on her heel and marched down the hall.
He followed her, shaking out his hand and wishing very much that he could avoid getting caught in her mercurial moods for the rest of his life.
The manor seemed to sleep. The purple gloom of twilight cast a pallor over the house where Olivia had grown up, and Chris didn’t see so
much as a glimpse of a scurrying servant or visiting guest. It was like walking through the ghost of the place, and it made him think melancholy thoughts about what would happen to it if Olivia really didn’t ever claim her birthright. What sort of place would the bustling, charming, rustic Miller Orchards and Cidery be if it traded its attentive Millers for ambivalent Spencers?
His melancholy vanished when they arrived at the Festival, and the sights and sounds he’d observed from his window exploded into beautiful reality.
Chris jumped back as a stream of excited children tore by in front of them, all with orange and yellow kites streaming behind them, laughing and shrieking in delight. One had her face painted in the guise of a salamander, a long, painted forked tongue protruding from her mouth and up her cheek. They ran past a raised stage, where a group of grinning musicians sawed wildly on violins, producing a kind of jaunty, excited, lively music Chris had never heard before. The children disappeared into the crowd of guests, who were an eclectic mix of expensive finery and faded Godsday church clothes.
He found it impossible not to compare it to the ball at the Piffleman’s Gala House, the kind of party that he’d have grown up attending weekly if not for the Floating Castle. The contrast did the Miller Harvest Festival no favours, making the simple country dresses of the staff, the painted faces of smiling gourds, and the cloth flower marigolds all seem a bit provincial and tawdry.
And yet….
And yet.
Olivia tugged his hand excitedly, and the look on her face was one of childlike glee. He couldn’t help but imagine her as a small girl, still with that fanged grin, tugging her sweet twin brother through the attractions like she now pulled him.
He let himself be pulled.
The water, when he put his face in it to bob for apples, was freezing. The knife that he and Olivia used to carve their sad, lopsided turnip was far too dull for the task, and the little candle they set inside barely lit up his cheerful face. And he felt extremely awkward letting Olivia tie a blindfold over his eyes and spin him about to play pin the tail on the donkey with a bevy of gaping children.
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