Utterly bamboozled, Victoria nodded. She decided to reply to his final comment, the only part of his words she’d been able to comprehend. “Of course. Of course you’d like to find your friend. My uncle Jarvis should be at Gingham Range by now. Why don’t you join me there?”
“Great. Lead the way.”
The entirety of the ten minute ride to Gingham Range was a mixture of whirring hovercarriage cogs—which Mr. Graham had dubbed to be awesome—awkward examination of the carpeted floor between the blue velvet seats, Victoria tugging at the base of her corset and stealing occasional glances at Mr. Graham, and Mr. Graham staring around constantly as though he were attending a county fair and was determined to take note of every booth on display.
“What did you say this place was called?” he asked as the Range came into view.
“My home? Oh, you mean Chuzzlewit?”
“Bingo. That’s the one. You come up with that on your own?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He spoke in such a hurried manner, his words clipped and imprecise. His brows lifted, and that self-satisfied smirk played on his lips as though he were laughing at something only he knew. The sight infuriated Victoria, though she couldn’t explain why. What on earth would this boy have to find amusing? Was he laughing at her?
The hovney slowed to a stop, and the footman opened the door and lowered the small ladder currently tucked within the cab. Victoria rose from the bench when Mr. Graham continued.
“And don’t tell me. The creepy sea monster is just one of the many attractions of the town. You guys must get tourists here in hordes.”
“Mr. Graham.” Victoria paused, hunched over with one hand on the velvet interior of the hovering machine. It vibrated beneath her feet, bobbing up and down just slightly. “I’ll have you know that I’m unaccustomed to people speaking to me the way you have been.” Her blood boiled. She hadn’t missed the sarcasm in his tone that time.
His eyes reached to the ceiling, and he inhaled a deep, noisy breath. “Sorry. Remember what I said before about the whole weird thing? Still trying to adjust here. I don’t mean to, you know, dis on your town or whatever.”
She blinked several times. “How strangely you speak. Dis on my town? I find you rather hard to follow, Mr. Graham.”
“That makes two of us.” He kicked his heel against the seat, and Victoria found her vision dropping as well. She couldn’t begin to imagine what troubled him, or why he insisted on being so rude when she was only trying to help him. She had, in fact, wanted to return to her own bed at the Aviatory, not here at the Range, to speak with her mother and have a rehearsal of the previous evening’s events. But she was here on his behalf. The least he could do was show some appreciation.
Then again she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to sleep in her own bed or was still confined to her bedchamber at home.
She placed a hand in the footman’s and descended, her feet crunching the gravel. Mr. Graham followed, hands back in his pockets. He paused and reared his head backward to take in the expansive home with its cream brick, elegant towers, and circular parapets.
“You live here?” he asked in obvious admiration.
“Sometimes.” Victoria could see where his fascination came from. It was rather decadent and grand to behold. She’d loved her home as a child, and though recent events and the falling out with her mother had made her despise the place as of late, she found herself seeing it anew, as this boy did.
“This is your uncle’s house?”
“It was my father’s. But when he died, my uncle inherited it.”
He scratched his jaw. “Shouldn’t it be your house now, if it was your dad’s?”
Her brows knitted together. “No, that isn’t how it is done.”
“If you say so,” he said.
She lacked the energy to wonder why this particular concept didn’t make sense to him. Who was this young man?
“Follow me,” she said.
“What did you say the name was?” Uncle Jarvis paced before the fireplace, a hand scrubbing at his chin. Mr. Graham lounged against the wall opposite from him, looking surprisingly at ease despite his rude posture and strange attire. He looked so out of place against the violet wallpaper and wainscoting at his back. Mr. Graham began fiddling with the doily on the table beside him.
“Starkey,” he said. “A.C. Starkey.”
Uncle Jarvis frowned. “A lost relative of yours?”
“No. I worked for him. He—” Mr. Graham hesitated for the briefest moment, long enough for Mama and Victoria to exchange glances. “He went missing. And if I want to make it back home, I need to find him.”
“And what is your full name, dear?” Mama asked. She sat in the chaise while Uncle Jarvis still marked the fireplace. “So I might use it when I make inquiries around town.”
“Graham Jefferson Birkley?” Again, he said this as though it were a question.
Victoria’s mouth fell open. “Wait a moment. Graham is your Christian name? But I thought—”
He grinned, bending backward at the knees with his hands once again in his pockets. “Ha! My name is Graham. Last name’s Birkley.”
“But you said—”
He shrugged. “I told you my name was Graham.”
Victoria felt ready to stomp her foot. Uncle Jarvis stepped in, giving her a look. She wondered if he knew what she’d done, not adhering to protocol with the other Nauts. Honestly, how could she? How could any of them continue the same method when the Kreak’s patterns were obviously changing?
“I’d like to help you, Mr. Birkley. Victoria tells me you were highly cooperative with her evasion of the Kreak this afternoon. I wonder if you might consider an exchange of sorts?”
“You want me to help you in exchange for you helping me? Like, work?” He shrugged again. “Fair enough. That thing is pretty freakish.”
The hardness in Uncle Jarvis’s eyes belied his friendly smile. “I’m glad we can see eye-to-eye on the matter.”
Victoria wondered how her uncle could be so calm about this. He couldn’t be pleased she’d flown, or that this strange young man had appeared out of nowhere. Then again, he had given her his word.
“How dreadful it all is, losing your friend,” Mama said, holding her teacup in her lap.
“You have no idea,” said Mr. Birkley.
Uncle Jarvis nodded. “Urgent indeed. I can’t say I’ve ever heard the man’s name, but I shall inquire of the others at the workroom. In the meantime, Mr. Birkley, I insist you board here with us.”
Victoria’s head shot up. “What?”
Mr. Birkley looked askance at her and then back at Uncle Jarvis, discomfort riding his features. “That’s really nice, but—”
Jarvis raised a hand to silence him. “It will be no trouble. Perhaps we can find this missing friend of yours. And I’ll use your hand around the Aviatory in exchange for room and board.”
Mr. Birkley nodded, apparently taking it as an excuse to plop himself onto the other end of the chaise Victoria sat on. She swallowed and straightened, nervous at his proximity.
He pulled at the collarless neckline of his short-sleeved, blue shirt. “Yeah, I’m good at working with stuff. When you say Aviatory,” he said, as though trying to figure the word out. “You’re talking about those flying taxi things we came here in?”
“Hovercraft, Mr. Birkley. I run the Chuzzlewit Aeronaut Hanger—or the Aviatory, as we refer to it here. We have the only factory that builds hovneys for miles, and the demand is higher than we can produce at the moment. We’ve had to use every available male to build them, and we can always use more. I employ the workers who design and build the craft, as well as train the pilots.”
Mr. Birkley’s eyes slid to Victoria with the look of being impressed. She lost herself in their color for a moment, until prickles of heat made their way up to her
cheeks. She cleared her throat and placed her teacup on the tray. Her hand trembled, making the china tinkle. Mama narrowed her eyes.
“I must dress for dinner,” Victoria said, standing. Her skirt still reeked of fuel, but that wasn’t the only reason she wished to be anywhere else but here.
Uncle Jarvis inclined his head to acknowledge her, but Mr. Birkley slouched on the red couch as if testing his own flexibility. His brows furrowed when Uncle Jarvis cleared his throat.
“A gentleman stands when a lady leaves the room, Mr. Birkley.”
Graham’s brows arced. “Oh. Okay, sure.” He clumsily stood, tugging at the bottom of his button-less shirt.
“Where did you say you were from?” Mama asked, setting her teacup on the table without making a sound, just the way a lady should. Halfway to the parlor entrance, Victoria paused, curious about the answer.
“We can discuss all of that later,” Jarvis interrupted. “I’m sure the lad would like to be shown to his room. Although, I wonder about this Starkey of yours. What did you say his vocation was? His name doesn’t belong to anyone in aviation.”
“Remember, Jarvis. The boy isn’t from here,” Mama reminded.
“But you have reason to believe this Starkey is here now, yes?” Jarvis prodded.
“Yeah, I do.” Even Mr. Birkley’s tone sounded overtly casual.
“Well, then,” said Uncle Jarvis. “What is the man’s vocation? That might help us know where to start.”
“He’s an architect.”
Mama’s lips pursed, and Victoria tried to suppress the satisfaction at knowing something more about this boy. If Graham worked for this Starkey, that meant he designed things as well, or perhaps he drew.
“Come now,” Mama said. “You must be fearfully tired.”
Graham, seeing that she’d risen to her feet as well, bowed to her in a bizarre forward lunge that made Victoria mask a snigger behind her hand. The movement was so endearing, she couldn’t help but smile. He had been acting peculiarly since she’d found him, but from the sound of things he was feeling as lost about the whole ordeal as everyone else was.
“Victoria, ring the bell for Linny,” Mama added, fighting a sniff of dismay at the boy’s actions.
Poor Linny, Victoria thought. She hoped the room was in order, or Mama would be displeased. She gave herself a reminder to thank the servant girl for holding her tongue about Victoria’s escape earlier. The fact that she’d returned didn’t seem to bother her mother. Lost in thought, Victoria realized too late that Graham and Mama were heading toward her. She turned on her heel, nearly stumbling into Myer.
“My apologies, Miss Digby,” said the butler kindly.
“It is nothing,” Victoria said with a grimace, knowing he covered for her clumsiness. She wasn’t sure what had come over her, but she made for the stairs and closed herself in her bedchamber, heart pounding in her chest.
Fifteen
Two attacks in three days; Rosalind could scarcely believe it. She stood at her balcony, staring out over the small valley. The night air filtered around her, just cold enough to be a respite rather than a nuisance.
If only she wasn’t such a coward. If only she could do something helpful, something instead of shrinking inside her manor the way she always did.
Even so, what could she do? The Kreak had attacked at midday. Even if she were near the ocean, she would have run for cover; that was what the citizens had been instructed to do since birth. But what about those who lived closest to the shore? To Down Street?
Oscar lived there—he could have been injured or worse. Rosalind heard the proprietor had gotten hurt. What if it’d been Oscar who was inside the bookshop when it had been crushed into ash?
The thought had tormented her all afternoon, seizing her limbs so she could barely move. Her father had lorded over her for a while, but she hadn’t been able to so much as lift her hands, let alone play a single note. Eventually, he’d given up and left her to herself.
The other night, at the dance. She hadn’t spoken to Oscar. There was so much to be said.
Urgency raced through her veins like a tonic, giving her the first bout of energy she’d felt all day. The moon bared down, exposed and illuminating her mind in such a rush she gasped for breath. She couldn’t sit around, waiting for him to come to her. She had to know if he was okay, as quickly as possible.
Rosalind hastened into her bedchamber, closing the balcony’s glass doors and reaching for her knitted shawl, draped across the end of her bed. She slipped her feet into her slippers and tiptoed to the door, her heart banging in her chest. The hall outside her bedroom door was bathed in darkness. She peered down one side, then the other, before sneaking her way toward the servants’ stairs that led down to the kitchens, servants’ quarters, and the back gardens.
Exhilaration armed her, giving her the courage to not look back. She didn’t worry about running through town after dark, or what her father would do should he find her gone. All she could think of was getting to Oscar’s shop as quickly as she could. She had to make sure he was okay. How could she have waited this long to see him?
She cursed the loudness of her footfalls on the pavestone pathway that skirted along a decadent fountain and several manicured bushes, and she veered to run over grass instead. How her lungs pumped, her adrenaline took control of her nerves! Life was too short to spend it caged. She couldn’t wait another moment. A moment was a moment and anything could happen during it. For the first time in her life, she determined to be the one who decided what that was.
Rosalind ran beside a hedge as tall as she was. Branches snagged her skirt, and she paused to free the fabric of her overdress, only to move again and collide with a tree she hadn’t noticed in her path seconds earlier.
No, not a tree. It was a person.
“You came down,” the young man said, gripping her elbows and stopping her progress.
A hat hung low over Oscar’s eyes, but she would have recognized the voice anywhere. She smeared away the hair that had fallen from her evening braid. “You’re alive,” she said, panting.
He removed his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. “You’re shivering.”
Not from cold, she thought, unable to speak, trapped in his gaze as she was.
He was alive. He was here.
His cloak was warm and smelled of rosewood, and his warm hands pressed to her shoulders. A dozen thoughts ambled through her brain, thoughts of wonder about the attack, about how long he had been standing out here, all culminating in the realization that he must have been standing below, watching her at her balcony.
She longed to wrap her arms around him, to lose herself in his embrace. To tell him how she’d missed him, how she wished she’d abandoned the harpsicord as he’d asked her to the night before.
“What are you doing here?” she asked instead.
He held his hands out to her. “Unfinished business,” he said with a grin and a slight bow.
“You—you wish to dance?” She stared at the hedgerow concealing them, at the moon glowering down with its yellow eye. She was somehow sure that moon had the power to convey a message to her father that she was strolling with a boy in their garden wearing nothing but her nightshift and a shawl.
“I rather thought I made it clear the other evening.” He drew her in, securing a hand at her waist. His warm body pulsed near hers. “Rosalind,” he muttered.
“Mr. Radley. I—” She struggled to find the words. There was so much to say.
His brow furrowed and he released her in an instant, stepping back. “Mr. Radley?” he said. “Do you mean to adhere to propriety now, even when it is only you and me?”
Only you and me. She remembered secluded corners, his breath hot, his lips tasting hers, his body far too close and yet not close enough. But Oscar was an accomplished, educated gentleman now. A gentleman who hadn’t contacted h
er once in the last year.
How could she be sure his actions were honest? She’d dashed out here because she wanted to see him. But now that she was here, confronted by him, her thoughts had fled.
“Or to deny me the pleasure of hearing my name on your lips?”
This was folly. She was in her night dress, no corset, no gown. He hadn’t written to her. He hadn’t kept his promise. Then why had he held her so closely?
“Maybe I shouldn’t have done this,” she said, surprised at how unsteady her voice was.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Oscar said. “Yet here we are.”
“I was coming to see you,” Rosalind admitted, raising her eyes to his still caught in shadows below the brim of his bowler hat.
“Is something the matter?” he asked. “You seem troubled. Tell me. I . . .” He hesitated. “I missed you.”
Her knees grew frail. She reeled around, plunking on the stone bench beneath the fragrant cherry blossom tree. She should have thought this through more clearly. Her breathing came far too fast. She took several jagged breaths to regain control.
“I fear—I must—you go straight to my head, Mr. Radley. I cannot think clearly with you around.” She kept her gaze on her knees, unable to look at him. He said he’d missed her. But how could that be?
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, lowering himself to sit beside her. She scooted to the edge of the bench. Much as she wanted to move in, to feel his arms around her again, she couldn’t do it. Sitting even this close to him was torturous.
“Really, Rosalind, what is bothering you?”
Her throat closed. The admission would only make her sound weak. “I can’t say.”
Several moments of silence strung between them. A cricket chirruped nearby. “I understand,” he said, rising gradually to his feet in a dignified fashion. “You made it clear this past year. I should have realized your feelings had changed.”
“I—what?”
“I should have taken your lack of response as an indication of your indifference. I apologize, Miss Baxter. I won’t take any more of your time. I’m sure you’re very tired.”
The Perilous In-Between (The Chuzzlewit Chronicles Book 1) Page 9