by A. G. Howard
Julian grimaced, anticipating his mother’s reaction. “Emilia. Is she aware that you’re going? You know how she adores you. And now you’re to leave on her sixteenth birthday and take her gift? She’s been writing to that dowager in Ireland, ordering caterpillars and acquiring information on exotic flowers.”
Nick shoved hair off his forehead to massage his temple. “Damnit, Julian. Do you not think I’ve considered all of this? No, I haven’t said goodbye to Emilia. I wrote her a note; Father is to deliver it to her later. I can’t face her disappointment in me.” He paused, deep in thought. “Keep an eye on her, Julian. Our little sister’s no longer the naïve child she once was.”
Julian pondered this. He’d seen the change already. He suspected that the Countess of Carnlough had something to do with it. The dowager’s research and essays on rare species of butterflies came from Ireland far too often and were much too anticipated by Emilia to be purely scientific. For eight months, Willow and Nick both had been privy to readings of her post in the star tower. Julian kept awaiting an invitation, but not receiving one, came to realize that Emilia didn’t ask him as she feared he wouldn’t approve of the mail’s content. He’d been meaning to talk to her about it for some time now.
Truth be known, he doubted his beautiful young sister had ever been naïve. Innocent and untouched? Yes; and she would remain so if he had a say in it. Coddled and spoiled by his father? Without a doubt. But naïve? Never. None of them had ever had such a trait. How could they, growing up in this purlieu for adults?
Father and Mother had done their best to shield them, to maintain a family atmosphere despite the unusual setting. Ever since Julian could remember, Father had opened the manor to guests only twice a year—the summer season of June, July, August, and the winter season of December, January, and February. During spring and fall, the Manor was closed to the public for repairs, and to allot the family time to travel together to Mother and Aunt Enya’s hometown of Claringwell, to indulge in quiet nights and lazy mornings. But even in the on-seasons, his parents had always included him and his siblings in the daily upkeep of the manor, so they never lacked for time together.
As for the moral environ, Father went to great lengths to discourage any licentious behavior by the guests. He had the lodging in the castle divided by gender and staffed lady’s maids for any unmarried woman that dared come without a chaperone.
In spite of the efforts, one couldn’t put chastity belts on those determined to wear only satin sashes, any more than one could put blinders upon a child’s inquisitive eyes. Julian and Nick both came to worldly sagacity at an early age through simple observance; and he would be a fool to assume the same didn’t stand for Willow and his bright and discerning sister.
“I’ll talk to Emilia.” Julian said on the cusp of that thought.
Nick narrowed his gaze. “Don’t judge her. Just be her brother.”
“Of course…”
In silence, they regarded the squirrel. It had given up struggling and now slept in Julian’s hands.
“And give her this little fellow, would you?” Nick asked. “Tell her it’s my birthday gift. Perchance caring for it will take her mind off of the conservatory until I can repay Father.”
Julian tried to ignore the throbbing cuts in his scalp. “It won’t take her mind off of your absence. And I was hoping to get your help carving the characters for my new ride. Must you leave today?”
Standing, Nick reached into his trousers’ pocket and drew out an envelope. He tapped it against the chariot. “Best we go while Desmond is still reeling from Mina’s confession. No doubt, it’s more complicated since he’s challenged you to a duel. But this could work to our advantage. I’ll find him directly. Confess that it was me all along. I’ll accept his terms for a duel. He’ll be preoccupied today in preparations. Father offered me Grandfather’s brougham. As soon as I speak to Desmond, I’ll dress as the coachman and sneak Mina out along the back road from the manor—the one that great Aunt Bitti takes on her caravan runs. At sunset, Desmond will find his bride and me long gone, and you’ll be in the clear. Of course he’ll want nothing to do with our family thereafter.”
“I’ll be hard pressed to find another investor soon enough for the renovations to be underway before the summer.”
“That’s what this is for.”
Balancing the drowsing squirrel in one hand, Julian took the envelope offered him. “What is it?”
“A first class ticket to board the Christine Victoria in five days. It will take you from Liverpool to New York in six days time. If you catch a train from there, you can be in St. Louis by April twenty-eighth. That gives you two days in a hotel to see the sights before opening day of the World’s Fair. I know how you’ve always talked of the expositions. Just think of the advancements you can experience firsthand, as opposed to reading of them in that Threshold magazine you’re so fond of. And the place will be crawling with dewy-eyed tycoons from all around the world, salivating for some enterprising means to expand their pockets. Tell them of our manor. Take your park designs, your ideas. With your acumen and charm, you can find new investors for our resort from all around the globe. I’d venture you might even find someone with the carving skills you require.”
Julian’s head spun. He’d been reading up on the exposition in St. Louis for weeks. A Mr. Willis Carrier was supposed to present his invention there—a system used to control heat and humidity for a publishing company in Brooklyn. Such an apparatus would be the perfect coupe to maintain the temperature in Willow’s indoor ride during the summer months. “A transatlantic cruise? Where did you get this?” Excitement warred with concern for his brother’s life-altering predicament. It was all too much, too fast.
Nick flinched as he rolled up his shirt sleeve to pick glass particles from his arm. “Mina was planning to leave Desmond. My shallowness precedes me. She didn’t think I’d want her once I learned of her condition. She was going to live with her cousins in New York and have the baby there. Now, she no longer needs the ticket. It’s yours. You can get a passport in three days’ time. There’s nothing stopping you.” His gaze snagged Julian’s, almost pleading. “Watch over everything while I’m gone. The carousel … repair it as best you can.” He smoothed his shirt sleeve back in place.
Julian surveyed the havoc they’d wreaked. Besides the shattered mirror, they had chipped the paint off of several carvings and broke a hoof on the unicorn with the ragged tail. But looking at the furrows along Nick’s brow, Julian would have been blind not to read between those lines. Their entire family would be devastated by Nick’s leaving, but Emilia and Mother would suffer the most. “I cannot mend what you’re leaving broken. I can only hope to suture it temporarily, until you return. The carousel is our responsibility to share—yours and mine together.”
Nodding, Nick glanced at his boots. “Then hold it intact until I can join you again. That’s all I ask.”
Julian tucked the swaddled squirrel in the crook of his arm, trying to stifle the pinch in his chest. Though he and Nick had been at odds for years, they had never been physically parted for any real length of time. “I’ll do my best. But don’t stay away too long.”
When Nick turned to step off the platform, Julian caught his shoulder from behind.
“And Brother, find some measure of happiness.”
Keeping his back turned, Nick shook his head, his shoulder tense beneath Julian’s grip. “I hardly remember what that is. Here today, gone tomorrow. Just like our childhoods.”
Julian released him then, his mind on lost summers rife with fishing trips, water fights in the hot springs at the cusp of winter, explorations deep in the forest on dark autumn nights. A time not so long ago that somehow spanned an eternity between them. “I’m betting there’s still some happiness out there to claim.”
“Ah.” Nick turned to face him as he backed away, a challenge shimmering in his eyes. “You should make that wager, then. Let Willow see to those wounds on your head. I suspect she h
as the touch of an angel. And something tells me, of the two of us, you’re the one she’d give up her halo for.” With a nod, he was gone beneath the archway and under the swinging sign.
Julian felt his brother’s egress like an ax to a limb—as if an integral part of him was being chopped away, leaving a hollow, seeping ache that would never be cauterized.
He stuffed the ticket into his vest and reached for his spectacles. Though he already knew the Shakespearean verse on the back of the park’s sign by heart, he had an overwhelming need to read it. “If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended: that you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear.”
Cradling Emilia’s new pet against his heart, Julian sat down again, dreading the walk to the castle. How he wished life could be as simple to wake from as a dream.
Four
After having her gashes seen to, Willow stopped on the castle’s ground floor at Aunt Enya and Uncle Owen’s linen-draper and hat boutique. She tolerated Aunt Enya’s chastisements for her lack of shoes and corset and her raspberry stained face all of five minutes before asking where Emilia was. Once Aunt Enya admitted she hadn’t seen her, Willow escaped into the café next door, led by the tantalizing aroma of fresh baked pumpkin tea cake.
She snuck in cautiously, keeping one eye out for Mr. Brewer while tip-toeing toward the marble countertop where his pastries cooled. Hearing the clang of pans from the kitchen off to the left, she soundlessly picked up a knife and lobbed off a generous slab of the cake. Mr. Brewer’s snort from the other room made her jump and she dropped the silver blade. It hit the floor with a metallic thwang. She dived over the threshold, cake in hand, and scurried up the first flight of stairs, laughing silently at the erratic tickle of her heartbeat. She didn’t slow until she heard the crack of billiard balls from the giant game rooms upon the second floor.
Her pulse leveled enough to nibble on the stolen confection, its flavor all the sweeter for the success of her daring escape. She kept to the winding stairs, not even pausing at the third or fourth floors since the ballroom and guest chambers were closed up tight for the off season. By the time she reached the libraries on the fifth flight, her tea cake was half-eaten and her concern for Julian had returned full force on a wave of nausea. She followed the winding staircase past the sixth floor and up into the star tower, hoping Emilia would be in her usual spot.
The ball of anxiety eased when Willow found her there—sitting on a chaise lounge while reading. Weather permitting, Emilia often came here in the mornings with a tray of gooseberry lemonade and her writing appurtenances. Whereas her mother, Miss Juliet, liked to drink steamed chocolate when she worked on her hats, Emilia preferred something chilled and tart, claiming the jolt to her senses shook the cobwebs from her brain.
The eight foot walls gave a sense of privacy, yet sunlight and breezy air poured in through the open roof so one never felt claustrophobic. The tower was magnificent enough at night. In its midst, telescopes and refractors tilted up to offer a view of the stars and celestial skies. But even during the daylight hours, the turret put Willow in mind of some ethereal kingdom. Sunbeams coaxed strands of miniature light bulbs to glitter around pillars and lattices like icicles. The floor, an inlay of black marble, reflected the clouds overhead so one felt as if they were walking in the heavens. Fresh cut sprigs of lavender and mint, tucked within vases, heightened the clean and vigorous atmosphere.
“Have some cake.” Willow plopped the treat atop a napkin on Emilia’s lemonade tray.
Emilia’s head jerked up from her study of the papers in hand. “Why thank you. I’m ravenous.” Emilia tucked the papers beneath her thigh and took a healthy bite of the dessert.
Willow shrugged. “Thank you. For helping me destroy the evidence.”
Emilia gulped down her bite, gaze catching on Willow’s bandaged hand. Her dark eyes widened. “He got you, didn’t he? Mr. Brewer finally caught you stealing and he struck your hand.”
Willow snorted and eased into the lounge next to her friend. “As if that clumsy toad could ever catch me.” She twisted the dangling ends of her bandage then let them slowly unwind. “No. This was Nick’s doing.”
Clucking her tongue, Emilia poured Willow a glass of iced lemonade. “When will you two ever learn? You always get into trouble on your gadabouts.” She handed over the drink, then bent to retrieve her writing box. Emilia had inherited her mother’s petite, fine-boned frame and nymph-like features, but she had her father’s darker coloring—a dewy, olive complexion and a chocolaty sheen to her waist-long locks that matched her thick lashes and shaped brows. In fact, she and Willow looked enough alike with their similar coloring to pass as cousins, so it almost felt as if they truly were family.
The exception was that—like Miss Juliet—Emilia was adored and pampered by Master Thornton. However kind the viscount was to Willow, it wasn’t the same as a father’s attentions.
Willow tamped the all too familiar surge of envy. She believed, had her own papa lived, he would’ve treated her much the same way. Not that Uncle Owen wasn’t a loving and kind man, but she could never forget her true parents. It’s the reason she’d chosen to preserve the titles of Mama and Papa for them alone, something Uncle Owen and Aunt Enya were gracious enough to respect all these years without question.
Sunlight stroked the mahogany writing box as Emilia lifted it, glinting in yellow streaks off of the bronze hardware. The sharp flash stung Willow’s eyes and brought her back to the present. Inside was a secret compartment lined with teal damask. There, a bottle of India ink waited uncorked next to a stylus and nib. Creamy paper, some already adorned with a messy, curvaceous script, fluttered in the breeze just beneath a glass paper weight.
Willow took a sip of her drink, turning her lip at the tartness. Emilia appeared to be following her daily routine, but something was off-kilter. She was dressed in a favorite ivory tea gown of free-flowing lace and muslin. Butterflies, embroidered in copper threads, danced where shimmery leaves of green ivy splayed down both sides of the long bodice’s button-up plackets. Wide buttons, covered in brown felt, complimented the brown piping that ran the décolleté.
Granted, just the dress itself meant nothing. Emilia shared her mother’s eye for fashion and adored feeling feminine. She always dressed in fine clothes—mostly walking dresses in soft fabrics that caressed her budding curves like a whisper. Nothing too binding or heavy.
It was the hat which gave Willow a sense of an impending outing. Emilia never wore toppers unless she was going out or would be on display.
“I assumed you’d be staying home today, in preparation for tonight’s festivities.” Willow settled her glass on the roof that served as the floor and indicated Emilia’s bonnet.
“Oh, I thought so as well.” Emilia rearranged the straw hat to a jaunty slant atop her upswept hair. “But Papa surprised me a moment ago with this. Mama made it for my birthday.” She fondled the brim, obviously pleased. The crown was trimmed with a wide silk damask ribbon in variegated shades of brown offset by a dried spray of orange, cornflower blue, and maroon flowers. “Papa bade me put it on and wait here for him. He’s driving me and Mama into Worthington to visit the Foxtail Botanical Gardens and then luncheon at Bixby’s Tearoom. I suspect he wishes to get ideas for the butterfly conservatory he’s soon to build.”
Willow cringed within, worried the outing had more to do with Nick’s illicit escapades than butterflies. Master Thornton was no doubt doing the same thing as Willow, trying to distract Emilia and her mother long enough that her birthday could be special, because dinner tonight would be awkward at the very least, and that’s if there wasn’t a duel taking place with one of her brothers in the line of fire.
“So.” Emilia beamed at her, unaware and oblivious as she should be. “Papa said it would be a half-hour before they’re ready. I’ve read over Felicity’s latest installment this morning. Wait until you hear it.” She paused. “Should we look for Nick first?”
Willow poked a
t the bandage on her palm. “I believe he’s otherwise occupied.”
Emilia pursed her lips. “Of course. He’s napping somewhere, isn’t he? You two were sampling bottles in the wine cellar again … you cut your hand while picking the lock like last time. Is that it?” Her attention stalled on Willow’s stained mouth.
“Yes … you guessed it, proper and true.” Slightly guilty, but wholly satisfied, Willow drew up her knees beneath her skirts to hide her dusty, grass-stained feet and cozied into the cushion. “So, your correspondent is no longer the Countess of Carnlough or even her Ladyship. She’s Felicity now. Is such familiarity acceptable toward a dowager?”
“She’s not some old biddy. She’s only twenty-five years my senior—a dowager by circumstance as her deceased husband’s property is in her name. Her mind is sharp and her wit is duel-bladed. She insisted that I call her Felicity. Seems only fair, as she’s been calling me Emily some six months now. Her reputation for magnanimity precedes her.”
Willow sucked on her lower lip, savoring the tart residue of the lemonade she’d sampled. “To say the least. Nick swears she’s a libertine.”
“No, she’s wise. She knows that women are stifled. To the extreme we must stuff piano legs into ruffled pantalets to hide a similarity to the naked female limb. As Felicity says: If we can’t find liberty and abandon in literature, where then shall we find it?”
Willow wagged a finger at Emilia. “See? Lusty, libertine thoughts. But rest assured it only makes me like her more.”
Rolling her eyes, Emilia grinned. “Libertine or no, once you’ve shared the brainchild of a story with a fellow author … well, you’re as good as soulmates.”
An acquaintance had given Master Thornton the dowager’s name when he first sought a caterpillar breeder while drawing up plans for the butterfly conservatory. Emilia and the countess struck up a rapport when Emilia mailed her some questions about what foliage they should plant to satisfy the appetites of specific butterflies.