by Nichole Van
“I cannot speak about Lady Alice, Miss Lovejoy. ’Tis not my station,” Mr. Jones replied. “Would you like me to summon you some tea in the library?”
The housekeeper, three footmen and a groom all gave similar replies.
Say what you would about Lord and Lady Linwood, their servants thoroughly understood the value of discretion.
Fossi (briefly) considered asking Jasmine about it, but if her servants were close-lipped, the lady of the house would be even more so. And despite her open manners and aura of kindness, Fossi disliked the thought of appearing impudent to Lady Linwood.
A trip to Whitmoor House would have solved the problem. Surely she could get answers to all her questions there. The house had to be full of Lady Alice’s affects—a silent testimony to her passing.
However, Fossi considered it unlikely she would participate in the planned festivities next month. It was not as if Daniel needed his pet mathematician to run triangulations for his harvest festival.
I do believe the angle would be more acute if we were to lower the bower four inches to the left . . .
Such an idea was absurd.
Fossi finally resorted to scouring the well-worn copy of Debrett’s Peerage in the library, hunting through the daughters of dukes, marquesses and earls looking for an Alice who would be about the correct age.
Unfortunately, Alice proved a fairly popular aristocratic name for a number of years running.
Of course, Fossi could have applied to the man himself for answers to her questions but . . . she remembered that moment in the carriage. How even talking about his wife caused him pain.
And she profoundly disliked the idea of contributing to that pain in any way.
Chapter 14
The south lawn
Kinningsley, Herefordshire
August 25, 1828
Two weeks after their arrival at Kinningsley, Daniel happened upon Fossi as she walked across the lawn. Though happened upon might be doing it a bit brown.
He had noticed her walking from his window upstairs—twirling something in her hand—and had found himself following in her wake not even ten minutes later.
Granted, she normally took the air each afternoon during her post-luncheon break, walking down to the small, man-made lake beyond the expansive south lawn. And if he found reasons to be along the walk around the same time . . .
He enjoyed Miss Foster Lovejoy’s company, that was all. It was delightful to speak with another mathematics enthusiast. And, here he was slightly more honest with himself, he relished watching her blush when she realized he was flirting with her.
Though today, a pucker furrowed her brow as he approached, something tightly clutched in her hand.
“Good afternoon, Fossi.” He topped his hat to her. “Though that frown upon your face makes me concerned for how your day is progressing.”
She startled and then color washed her cheeks, bold and shockingly red-pink in color.
Did she know how charming her blush was?
Granted, her bonnet was decidedly new and smart and tied beneath her chin in such a way as to showcase that elegant jawline of hers. Her rose-colored pelisse nipped in her waist and lent further color to her complexion.
She looked lovely.
“Good afternoon.” She smoothed her creased brow. “I am doing well, I suppose. Just seeking some fresh air and clarity.”
He stepped into place beside her, walking toward the house in the distance.
“And are you finding any?”
His comment earned him a small smile.
“Some, I suppose. Fresh air, that is. The clarity is still in short supply.”
It was his turn to smile.
“Is this what has clouded you?” He motioned toward the item she held in her hand.
“This?” She held up a tuning fork, metal glinting in the sun. “Somewhat, I suppose. I hit a specific iteration of the first equation today that perhaps hinted at a point of reconciliation with the second theorem.”
“Pardon?” Adrenaline jolted his system, pulling him to a stop. Had she solved the problem so soon?
Fossi swung to face him, expression instantly alarmed. “Do not suppose that I have hit upon any real answer.” She wagged the tuning fork at him. “It is merely a small conundrum that I struggled to instantly resolve, and so I took it upon myself to walk off my thoughts.”
He motioned and they strolled onward together. The sun danced cheerily in the sky around puffy, happy clouds. Birds called merrily.
“I would love to hear the idea that has clouded your way,” he said.
“It isn’t much. Perhaps it is because I stare at Lord Linwood’s collection of tuning forks all day.” She slapped said tuning fork against her palm. “Or simply the result of all the singing I have been doing as of late. Regardless, I find myself thinking in terms of pitch and frequency more than normal.”
“And that is a problem?”
“No. More of a catalyst. I have begun wondering if pitch—or in other words, wave height and frequency—might be a unifying factor between the equations.”
Daniel’s head reared back, his mind instantly flitting through the ramifications of pitch as applied to wormhole theory.
“That is . . . fascinating,” he murmured. “You were right to explore the idea further.”
Fossi gave a small self-deprecating laugh. “Well, thinking about exploring the idea further is about as far as I have come.”
“You are far too modest.”
“Quite the opposite, I assure you. I merely understand my limitations. But thank you for believing in my capabilities.”
“You are the one with the talents, Fossi. I am merely harnessing them for my own good, as any wise person would.”
A fraught little pause.
Daniel could practically see her squirming under his praise.
“I am truthfully nobody,” she finally said.
He stopped walking, forcing her to halt and meet his gaze. “Well . . . if so, I would say nobody is absolutely perfect.”
He waited.
It took her a moment to get it.
It was like sunrise . . . surprise and delight sweeping over her features, lighting the landscape as it went.
He would never tire of astonishing her.
Fossi gave an exuberant laugh, eyes dancing in wonder.
“Skillfully done! You are a master flirt, sirrah.” She waggled the tuning fork at him again.
He chuckled and bowed before waving for them to continue onward.
Daniel savored the swish of those skirts as she walked with him. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed this . . . a woman at his side, taking support and offering equal measure in return.
It had been far too long, not since Alice—
He paused his thoughts right there. The day was far too delightful and cheery to drag the likes of Alice into it.
“Do you suppose that there will ever come a time when women will have more choices?” she asked, seemingly from out of nowhere. “Where people will simply be judged by their ideas and abilities, rather than their gender?”
It was a valid question.
He could hardly answer with the truth.
Someday, perhaps. Give it about two hundred years and even then things will be difficult—
“I have shocked you?” She darted a look at him.
“No,” he replied, “you misunderstand my silence. I agree with you. I believe that birth and gender should not confine a woman to a tiny box of living.”
“I have a secret wish to be known as a woman to the Society of Mathematicians.”
“It is a good wish . . .”
“But unlikely to happen, I know,” she finished for him. “That is part of why I want to start a girl’s school. Women must be educated as men if they wish to participate in traditionally male intellectual pursuits.”
“True. It is a man’s own loss in the end . . . to shun intelligent discourse with a woman such as yourself.”
He caught the tiniest glim
pse of a smile from underneath her bonnet. “Are you being charming again?”
“Of course. You said you like me better when I am charming.”
A pause.
“I am your employee. Why take the trouble to teach me social customs, like flirting?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “Why do you care if I find you charming?”
And wasn’t that the question, in the end?
Why did he care if Foster Lovejoy found him charming?
Because as he examined the emotion, he discovered that he did care.
How to answer?
“Are you sure you are simply my employee?” he asked.
She shot him her now familiar stop-answering-my-question-with-a-question look.
He grinned.
“I thought we had become friends, haven’t we?” He winked.
Another glare.
“We have?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
He laughed in earnest.
They walked in silence for a minute or two.
“Thank you,” she said on a sigh.
He shot her a quizzical look.
“We have become friends, I think,” she explained. “You didn’t have to befriend me in addition to employing and housing me. And I thank you for that.”
She was correct.
He hadn’t needed to make a friend of her. And yet he had.
They were friends now. More than employer and employee.
The thought chased him throughout the rest of the day.
It was later in the early morning . . . after staring at the canopy above his bed for several hours that it all sank in . . .
Fossi.
The brightness of her intellect, the charm of her voice, the spark of joy in her beautiful eyes when he flirted with her—
Good heavens above.
He was falling for her . . . Foster Lovejoy.
Hard. Fast.
His stupid heart leapt into his throat at merely the thought.
Which given his past, the current mess with the portal and his own future plans . . . such emotional entanglement was unacceptable. He had decided on his current path nearly two years ago, when the world had figuratively and literally shook.
He rolled over.
Promise you will keep it for me. Don’t forget.
As usual, guilt crashed in behind the thought.
He had to fix his mistake. Emotional attachment to Fossi would be a complication to that.
Friend or no.
He would just need to limit the time he spent with her. This inconvenient infatuation would pass soon enough.
He would not deviate from his chosen course.
Not even for a woman full of mesmerizing color.
Daniel’s Study
Kinningsley, Herefordshire
September 2, 1828
Three Tuesdays after arriving at Kinningsley, Fossi experienced a true breakthrough of sorts.
She had been working equations all morning and had a minor epiphany regarding how to meld pitch frequency with the second theorem.
To clarify, the epiphany was not her breakthrough, merely its catalyst. She had diligently recorded it in her spreadsheet, but then she wished to share her discovery with Daniel, particularly as he had expressed interest in the idea.
She still struggled to understand his interactions with her.
He had spent the last week being emotionally hot and cold.
Sometimes she sensed true regard from him . . . that she was a genuine friend that he sought out.
Other times, she was quite sure he viewed her as a merely useful person in his employ.
Not that it mattered, she supposed.
In the end, he was Daniel Ashton, Lord Whitmoor.
Keeper of secrets. Spy master to the Crown.
Grieving widower of Lady Alice Ashton.
She was plain Foster Lovejoy, late of Kilminster and nothing to no one. No matter his flirting and kindness.
He had hired her to do a job.
Fossi bundled the ledger under her arm and wandered from her library sanctuary, across the cavernous great hall, around the gilt marble staircase and to his small study. The door was ajar but she still knocked politely.
No answer.
She pushed the door open and quickly surveyed the space.
Empty. Daniel had stepped out.
She turned . . . but stopped before exiting the room, slowly pivoting back around.
She meant to leave. Truly she did. She had no intention of violating his privacy.
It was just . . .
That mysterious box. The one Daniel carried with him on garden strolls and wept over in the dead of night—
It was sitting on his desktop. Open. Rimmed in cheery sunlight.
She stared at it.
All these weeks wondering what it contained. Love letters written when Daniel and Alice were apart? A priceless necklace he had given Alice for her birthday? The gloves she had worn that one memorable evening at the theater?
It had somehow become Pandora’s box in her mind. Full of secret emotions that, if unleashed, would reveal him.
Maybe . . .
Fossi’s heart drummed in her throat.
She swallowed convulsively.
Her slippers crossed the six feet of space to the edge of the desk without Fossi willfully telling them to move.
It was as if the box had its own gravity outside of Newton’s Laws, and her body was helpless to obey anything else.
Action. Reaction.
Or . . . that is what Fossi whispered to herself.
Her ledger clutched to her chest . . . she leeeeeaned forward.
And peeked inside.
Blinked.
Frowned.
Her shoulders slumped.
She moved to the side to get a better look.
Hmmm.
She made a quick mental catalog.
Three small twigs. Twenty-seven rocks of varying size. A feather of uncertain origin. A bit of rope. A cracked snail shell. Two strands of red yarn. And half a robin’s eggshell.
Just so . . . unexpected.
Well, more like anticlimactic.
What on earth could Lady Alice have wanted with twenty-seven rocks of varying size? And a feather?
That will teach you to snoop where you oughtn’t, Foster Lovejoy.
A clatter outside the door jerked her upright and sent her feet out the door.
But the box buzzed in her mind for days afterward.
She found herself wanting to talk to him about it. Not because it belonged to him, but because he was sincerely becoming her best friend.
And she would confide important and interesting things in a best friend.
You will not believe what has occurred. My employer has a box he weeps over and yet it contains rocks and other debris. Is that not odd, Daniel? What should we make of it?
That would never do.
Her heart thumped and her throat constricted whenever she thought of it.
Because she was not so naive as to misunderstand the emotions coursing through her.
She liked Daniel Ashton. Deeply. Profoundly.
Even though he remained a labyrinth she could not unravel, she found herself fiercely drawn to the respectful way he listened to her and to his easy acceptance of her oddness. To his innate kindness and sense of honor. To the quirky uptick of his mouth when he smiled and the way humor glinted in his blue eyes when he showed her how to flirt.
She cared what he thought of her. And that was a . . . problem.
Because caring led to expectation.
Expectation as to how he would behave around her.
Anticipation as to when she would see him again.
Hope and desire for their continued friendship.
It would be so easy, she realized, to fall deeply in love with him. To mistake his kindness and goodness for regard and a return of her affections.
But she knew that kindness and genuine devotion were two entirely separate things.
She ha
d learned that bitter lesson nearly a decade previous when Mr. Thomas Young had returned from London following the death of his wife. He had attended Reverend Lovejoy’s sermons and politely escorted Fossi home each time, listening attentively as she chattered about the weather or the importance of pi. He had even offered her his greatcoat when they had been caught in a rogue cloudburst. She had thought of him for hours at a time, creating grand dreams of Mr. Young offering for her and sweeping her off to far-away London, certain that he had singled her out as the object of his affections.
And then came the fateful day she overheard Mr. Young complaining to Mr. Martin about that ‘odd Foster Lovejoy’ always lingering around and driving him ‘nigh crazy with her nonsense.’
Fossi had cried herself to sleep for two weeks, by which point Mr. Young had betrothed himself to Mary Baker and returned to London.
Lesson learned.
Men declined to indulge in the game of layered artifice most women played.
No, men were simple creatures.
If they adored you, they said so.
If they wanted to marry you, they asked.
If you questioned in any way whether a particular gentleman cared for you, he did not.
And based on those criteria, Daniel had no interest in her beyond simple friendship and their working relationship.
So Fossi focused on having Daniel Ashton as a friend.
Because even his friendship was a gift to be treasured.
The south drawing room
Kinningsley, Herefordshire
September 10, 1828
“You say our Fossi is making progress then?”
Daniel glanced at Jasmine reclining in a chair opposite him, raising his eyebrows at her question.
“Yes. She has had some brilliant ideas regarding pitch and wave frequency. I have every hope she will solve the problem of the portal.”
Jasmine looked beyond him for a moment. She remained pale and weak, the portal’s malfunction continuing to affect her. Daniel knew Timothy was beside himself with worry. They all were.
“I am still not sure things will go as you expect, Daniel,” Jasmine said. “Perhaps it is time to accept that mistakes happen—”
“No.” Daniel shook his head, guilt pounding through him.
“Daniel—”