Seven

Peter followed Gryff into the parlor, not bothering to hide his smile as his friend’s expression went from frown to one of bemusement. It finally settled on resignation, and Gryff lowered himself into his favorite chair with a grunt.

Peter slid the package for Elowyn onto an end table and took his usual seat on the twin to Gryff’s chair. “Ready to admit you . . . you were wrong?”

Another grunt. “I can’t remember the last time she invited someone to use her first name within five minutes of meeting.”

“Well, as you say . . . Jenny is an excellent judge . . . judge of character.” Which made a bit of guilt prick for having turned Miss Gresham—or someone who borrowed her physical description anyway—into a villain. But she would never know, and one had to take one’s inspiration wherever one could find it when one was struggling to finish a book by one’s deadline.

A third grunt from the chair. Which was really quite redundant. Gryff rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, and one corner of his mouth pulled up. “Can’t blame a fellow for being protective of his closest friend, can you?”

“Never.” Inhaling deeply, Peter tried to put a name to the particular scents wafting through the house. Whortleberry pie, perhaps? Hard to tell, what with the heavy aroma of roasting meat covering it. But blueberries were his favorite, so he’d be willing to bet Jenny had made a pie for him with what she’d preserved last summer.

She was the only woman he knew who could afford a cook but still chose to prepare all the meals herself. She took joy in it, she said—and everyone else took joy in her taking of it too.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to London this year. Never mind that it had been at the invitation of King George himself. He should have stayed here, where he belonged. Where friends defended him and made his favorite dishes. Where children ran to greet him and declared him their favorite.

Where neighbors threw rocks through his windows.

“How goes the writing today?” Gryff sent his gaze upward as he asked it, to where the floorboards overhead squeaked enough to assure them that Miss Gresham was well out of earshot.

Peter nodded. “I’m getting . . . getting back into my rhythm.”

“That didn’t take you long.” A bit of relief entered his friend’s eyes at that. No doubt he hadn’t wanted to be the one to contact the publisher and beg for more time. “I’ve a box of correspondence for you too, that just came today. Probably all six months out of date, of course. If you wouldn’t insist upon such a circuitous route from the publisher . . .”

Peter saw no reason to dignify that with a response. Gryff knew well that his privacy was of the utmost importance to him. Even his publisher didn’t know who he really was. Just that all correspondence should go to a solicitor in London, who sent it to one in Bristol, who sent it to another in Devon, who sent it to Gryff here.

It wouldn’t do for his readers to find out who he really was. If anyone knew that Branok Hollow was really a stammering German, he’d fall out of favor so quickly the impact would likely break a few bones. His career—the one thing he’d earned for himself rather than inheriting, the one thing that wasn’t rooted in generations of German heritage—would be gone.

Silence tapped an impatient foot on the rug. One beat, two, punctuated by Gryff’s raised brow. And chased off by his, “Well? Haven’t you anything you mean to tell me? About rocks coming through your windows, perhaps?”

There were definite drawbacks to making one’s home near a small village. He could only guess as to how word had reached Gryff within a day—someone from Kensey could have said something to a brother or cousin or neighbor.

Or the perpetrator could have been boasting of it in the pub, for all he knew.

Peter shook his head. “Your gossip source has . . . has failed you. It was only one rock. One . . . window.”

Gryff didn’t look amused. “Did you report it to the constable?”

Peter glared at him. And rolled his eyes for good measure. Locryn James may think himself smarter than the law and so never engage them, but they all knew Peter Holstein was no renegade swashbuckler.

Gryff sighed. “Of course you did, as it was the reasonable thing to do. Have they any idea who did it?”

“If they . . . did, I would have . . . would have told you sooner.”

Laughter echoed down through the floorboards. Two lower notes, and one high, making a chord of happiness. Laughter always followed Elowyn about. Though, much like her mother, she was a bit choosy about whom she let partake of it with her.

He would admit it—he felt better about having Miss Gresham in his house, knowing Jenny and Elowyn liked her. Their reaction was confirmation of what he’d felt certain the Lord had done. And just now he could use all the confirming he could get.

“Mr. Arnold came by to tell me about it, when he heard it at the post office this morning. He was, of course, concerned for you, so you may want to pay him a visit soon to relieve his worry.” Gryff reached for the pipe sitting on the table at his elbow, though he didn’t light it. He wouldn’t until later, after Elowyn was abed. She detested the smell. “I bet it was Jack Foote. He’s been rather loud about his opinions of Germans. Or Pomeroy. He’s been all but walking around with his nose in a newspaper, shouting out all the anti-German sentiments to anyone who will pause two seconds to listen.”

Peter cleared his throat.

Gryff didn’t wait to see if he had anything to add. Gaze distant, he tapped the pipe to his palm. “Or . . . or Michael FitzSimmons. He—”

“Right.” Peter had to fight the urge to borrow one of Gryff’s abundant sighs. Or bring Father’s chuff to life again. But he forced his lips up. “So what you’re . . . what you’re telling me is that it could have been . . . anyone. Anyone at all in the village. They all . . . distrust me.”

“It isn’t you. Those men would turn on their own grandmothers if it suited their panic.” Another tap of the pipe and Gryff leaned forward, sudden humor blazing in his eyes. “You know what you need to do to put it all to rest?”

Given his recent conversation with the elderly Mr. Arnold, Peter could well guess as to the advice. “I still feel . . . uneasy. About selling. My cousin said . . . he said someone has been buying up . . . stock. Trying to gain majority holds. If I sell . . .”

But Gryff shook his head. “That isn’t actually what I meant, though I do think that ridding yourself of those German holdings will be wise in the long run. But immediately—be seen. Be seen as one of them, one of us. Come to church on Sunday. Have dinner at the pub with me and Santo on Tuesday.”

Peter could only pray his face didn’t really twist in distaste as badly as it felt like it did. He got along well enough with the younger Penrose brother, but they weren’t exactly friends. And Gryff knew well that he had a hard time worshiping among so many people—and the vicar understood too, which was why he came over for dinner every Monday, if Peter didn’t make it to church. They had conversations on whatever Mr. Trenholm had studied for his homily the week prior.

Of course, he’d just promised Miss Gresham they would take dinners together, and luncheons too, to discuss whatever she found in the library that day, any questions she had. He would have to make Mondays the exception to that.

Gryff’s eyes grew still brighter. “And you know what would make it even better? Go out with Miss Gresham on your arm. She’s obviously of fine common stock—the villagers would love her. She’d make you seem . . . rooted.”

Peter folded his arms over his chest. “You are, as always . . . hilarious.”

“Aren’t I?” Chuckling at his own joke, Gryff leaned back again. “Though listen, old boy, it’s not as bad an idea as all that. Go out. Be seen. Remind everyone of my excellent taste in friends.”

A quick laugh tickled his throat, insisting on being heard.

Gryff waved his pipe in the air. “If I know Jenny, she’s already making plans with Miss Gresham to go to the millinery or whatnot this week, so people will soon be seeing her. And if Jenny likes her, everyone else will too. And they’ll all know she’s working at Kensey. So then if you’re seen with her now and then . . .”

“Gryff. I will not . . . not put on a . . . a show.”

The amusement in his friend’s eyes snapped away, quick and sure. “I’m not talking about a show. I’m talking simply about convincing her of what an upstanding character you are, and then letting her chatter about it. Heaven knows you’ve ridden into town now and again with your staff. Do the same with her. I’m not saying to pretend there is some romance there, simply to let it be seen there is respect. Good feeling, even though she hasn’t known you forever as I have. That will suffice.”

Peter’s fine mood seeped out onto the fading Turkish rug beneath his feet. Always good to know that his dearest friend had so little faith in him that he knew nothing Peter did would convince anyone to hold him in esteem—but that if Miss Gresham just chattered for a few minutes to the baker, all would be well.

He was right, but that was hardly the point.

The floorboards squeaked again, and within moments the distant feminine laughter grew louder. More distinct. He could pick out Elowyn’s easily, and then Jenny’s. Which in turn identified Miss Gresham’s.

The little girl skipped ahead of the women into the parlor and headed straight for Peter with that dimpled smile that always reminded him how blessed he was to be counted an uncle to her. He helped her clamber up onto his lap and chuckled as her gaze now darted to the wrapped package and was held there as if by glue. “Would you like your . . . your birthday gift now, Ellie?”

She twisted her neck around to send him a scowl. “You mean Wyn.”

That would take some getting used to, if she held to it for more than a week. But he smiled. “Right. Wyn.”

Giving another grin, she nodded and reached for the box.

“Careful.” He steadied the package with a hand beneath it. “It’s . . . it’s breakable.”

Her eyes went wide, visible as she positioned herself sideways on his lap. “What is it?” Her fingertip traced the ribbon.

“I believe . . . the idea is to . . . to open it and see.”

First she smiled up at him, eyes filled with that pure, unquestioning love. “Thank you, Uncle Peter. I’m sure it’s lovely. Whatever it is.”

He smiled back. “Even if it’s a . . . a warty toad? Or . . . or a slimy worm?”

Her giggle was joy as she pulled the ribbon from its bow. “You wouldn’t give me those! And they’re not breakable.”

He may have teased a bit more had he not made the mistake of glancing up and spotting Miss Gresham ambling in beside Jenny, thereby rendering his tongue utterly useless. Not that the ladies were paying any mind to him. Jenny was leaning close to examine Miss Gresham’s . . . shoulder? As if it contained all the secrets of Locryn James’s past.

“But it’s perfect! I can mend a tear or sew on a button, but skill like that . . .” Jenny straightened, eyes as wide as Elowyn’s could get. “You have real talent, Rosemary. If ever you tire of books, you could open up shop as a seamstress and I could send you dozens of customers.”

“Oh.” The hand Miss Gresham pressed to her waist was less self-conscious than absent. Her expression less flattered than baffled. “I had never even considered it. It isn’t something I enjoy so much as something I must do if I mean to look as I should. I cannot afford to hire anyone else.” But her eyes stayed thoughtful. Almost confused, it seemed to him. As if she had never once considered doing something other than what she did.

Which was odd indeed. Surely no young woman grew up with such single-minded determination to be a librarian.

“If your position does not support you so well, why choose it?” This shot came from Gryff, who apparently forgot that he had given up his dislike of her. “It was hardly an easy path for a woman, I should think.”

Miss Gresham arched a brow that reeked of challenge. “Indeed it wasn’t. Especially, sir, since a woman does not garner pay equal to a man for the exact same job. But that’s the way of things, isn’t it? And as I have a dozen siblings to support, I count myself lucky to find anything not in a factory, and I make our clothes so that I can look the part I need to play. Aiming at a better-paying position is hardly an option for someone born absent a silver spoon already in her mouth.”

Peter lifted the box for Elowyn so she could rid herself of the paper she had folded away from it. And he tried not to be so impressed by a too-thin woman with a manner as inviting as a steel trap.

But there it was. Had he not been born to a life of privilege, he was none too sure he would have had gumption enough to rise above his birth and fight for something better. To make his own way. Especially in a world that labeled one less simply because of one’s gender.

Or last name.

He lowered the box again for Elowyn and held the bottom while she lifted off the lid. His chest felt a couple sizes too tight. He wasn’t sure he had the gumption to fight for fair treatment now, either, when his silver spoon did nothing to protect him. When the friendships he had made put him at risk—and put those friends at risk too.

Not that King George or Prince Edward had anything to fear because of him. But if Gryff defended him in the village, it could well turn opinion against him too. And he hated to even think about how old Mr. Arnold could suffer—would his Austrian heritage put him in any danger? If so, Gryff would have said something.

But the very thought of a rock coming through one of these windows, frightening Jenny and Elowyn . . . and what if Mr. Jasper really did accuse him of espionage? Could Gryff be arrested too, being his barrister and friend?

“Oh, she’s beautiful.” Elowyn drew out the doll, hands gentle and reverent, eyes wide as she took in the dark curls and the perfect face painted upon the porcelain. “Look, Mama! Isn’t she beautiful?”

Jenny stepped near them, making obliging oohs and ahhs.

Miss Gresham kept to her post nearer the door. She was smiling, but he had the distinct impression that it was simply over Elowyn’s reaction, not over the doll itself. Or his buying it for her. Which mattered not the slightest to him—he had gotten the thing to bring delight to the girl he thought of as a niece, not to impress anyone else. Certainly not a prickly librarian he hadn’t even known when he saw the doll on display in a toy shop window in London.

But would it kill her to relax half a degree?

Elowyn fussed with the lace of the dress the doll wore, then toyed with the curls. “I shall name her Rosie after you, Miss Gresham! Doesn’t she look like her, Mama?”

“That’s perfect, Elowyn.” Jenny smiled.

Miss Gresham’s smile went warmer too. Though her shoulders didn’t relax any. She may have curls of the same shade of brown as the doll, but any resemblance ended there—she certainly wasn’t all soft stuffing from the neck down.

Jenny let Elowyn chatter on about her new Rosie for a few minutes more, but then she held out a hand, her smile that particularly unshakable one that meant argument was futile. “All right, chiel. Time for you to go back up to Janey.”

“But Mama—”

“Now don’t get teasy. You knew you’d have only ten minutes, just as you know well that Uncle Peter will come back to see you more on another day. For now, you must have your supper and get to bed.”

Miss Gresham’s brows puckered. “Pardon me—teasy?”

“Sorry, a bit of local dialect. Fussy.” Jenny smiled again.

Elowyn didn’t. With a long sigh too weary for a five-year-old, she wrapped an arm around his neck and gave him a mighty squeeze. “Thank you for Rosie, Uncle Peter. Will you come back soon?”

“Of . . . course.”

She kissed his cheek and then scurried down, pausing to dip a wobbly curtsy to Miss Gresham before putting her hand in her mother’s. “Good to meet you, Miss Gresham.”

Miss Gresham chuckled. “Likewise, Miss Penrose. Have a lovely evening.”

Peter stood, now that his lap wasn’t occupied and it became loudly obvious that he had neglected to do so when the ladies had entered the room.

Gryff did as well and motioned to a chair. “Please, Miss Gresham. Make yourself comfortable. Jenny will be back in just a minute.”

She edged toward a chair, though the look she sent them was as baffled as the one she’d given Jenny over the thought of a different profession. “Thank you.” Posture as careful as her tone, she eased to a seat on the very edge of the chair’s cushion.

Peter sat back down too, as did Gryff. Which she seemed to find either confusing or amusing, given the twitch of her lips.

“So.” Gryff toyed with his pipe again. “How went your first day in the cave?”

“Oh.” Her fingers fluttered once against her dress. Went still. The smile she put on was confident . . . and inscrutable. Showing nothing of her thoughts. “A trifle overwhelming, but quite interesting overall.”

“You weren’t frightened, I hope, by the rock’s intrusion last night?” Gryff arched a silver brow. She would have had to be a fool to miss the veiled challenge in his tone, though why he was directing such a challenge at her, Peter couldn’t determine.

She lifted a brow in return, a parry to Gryff’s thrust. “Why would I be frightened by a rock? It is a coward’s way of sending a coward’s message.”

Gryff’s smile was far more easily deciphered than hers. It said he liked her attitude, despite himself. And because his wife’s acceptance had told him he should. “Good. Well, I hope you like pasties, Miss Gresham. Jenny makes the best pasty in Cornwall. Which, of course, is the only place that knows how to make them at all.”

A happy breath leaked from Peter’s lips. It had been too long since he’d had one of Jenny’s pasties.

Miss Gresham still wore that nothing-smile. “I look forward to it.”

“You’ve never been to Cornwall, have you? I told her I didn’t think you had. But she maintains that if you come to Cornwall and don’t have a pasty, you might as well be in England still.”

Now her brows drew in. “We are in England still.”

Peter choked on a laugh. “Don’t . . . don’t say that too l-loudly in these . . . these parts, M-Miss Gresham.”

“Ah.” She said no more. Just smoothed out her brow and kept her face in that pleasant, neutral smile.

Peter’s brows puckered. Why would someone develop that particular expression? It had the look of a mask. No, more a cloak. Meant to render one invisible. Not to hide feeling so much as to hide oneself.

But she had thoughts ricocheting through her mind, he knew she had. They had snapped out at him plenty today, yelling from behind her polite lips. Keeping her shoulders as sharp as blades and her fingers utterly motionless now in her lap. She had thoughts and she had judgments and she had opinions well beyond the few she had voiced.

Perhaps, if shared meals ever wore away the unfamiliarity between them, he would learn to decipher some of her opinions. It could prove interesting—she obviously had grown up in circles far different from his. She would have different points of view on almost everything.

That was invaluable. He needed more perspectives than his own if he meant to write convincing characters.

“Now then.” Gryff leaned forward, frowning, but in that way that said he was intrigued. “Have you really a dozen siblings?”

Her smile shifted. A slight change, but enough to turn it from a cloak to a ray of sunshine. “Well, counting me. Barclay is the eldest, and then me and Willa. Retta is next, and Lucy, then Elinor and George. Then we have the little ones—Jory and Olivia and Nigel and Cressida and Fergus. Not that Cressida and Fergus appreciate being called little ones, as they both are eleven.”

Gryff blinked. “Twins?”

“Eleven months apart. Cress will be twelve in a month.” A shadow whispered over her features. “I suppose I shan’t be home for it.”

“You’ll have to send something, then. If Cressida is anything like Elowyn, the idea of getting mail will send her over the moon dreckly.”

She didn’t question the Cornish dreckly as she had teasy—perhaps it sounded enough like “directly” that she assumed that was what he’d said. Perhaps because she was too caught up in examining the idea. Her gaze went a bit distant, her lips turning in a curious way that was neither a proper smile nor belonging to any other category he knew. “What a good idea. She’s never got a letter in the post. None of them have—I ought to write to each of them while I’m away.”

She would need paper, then, and he doubted she had brought any stationery with her, since it seemed to be an idea she’d never entertained. He would deliver some to the library for her—heaven knew he had no shortage.

Jenny soon returned, and a minute later she and Gryff led the way into the dining room. The maid stood sentinel, ready to unveil the food from the shining silver dome holding it captive. Peter went to his usual chair, on the far side, next to Gryff at the head.

Jenny touched a hand to Miss Gresham’s elbow. “You’ll sit by me. A bit unconventional, I know, but that way we can chat while the men devolve into their interminable discussions of books and politics. I cannot tell you how glad I am to have another level-headed female to keep me company.”

Gryff laughed. “So you can talk of level-headed things like dress patterns and hats?”

Jenny’s scowl was playful. “And children. Rosemary said her youngest sister is near Elowyn’s age, so no doubt we can exchange many stories about their antics.”

And of course, Peter oughtn’t to have gone to his usual chair—he ought to help Miss Gresham be seated. He rounded the table before anyone noticed his oversight—hopefully—and pulled out her chair for her as Gryff did the same for Jenny.

She sat in time with their hostess. Nothing awkward or uncertain in her movements. But her shoulders were blades again.

Peter rounded the table once more and took his own chair, across from Jenny. After Gryff spoke a blessing over the food, she gave the nod to the maid, who lifted the silver dome from the plate.

No doubt Miss Gresham, if she lived as modestly at home as it seemed, was unaccustomed to formal meals. She didn’t seem to be watching any of the rest of them too closely, but her actions were still a half second behind everyone else’s as she picked up her napkin, placed it in her lap, smiled her thanks as the maid served her, and then reached for her fork.

Peter frowned. She held it in her right hand—none of the left-handed people he had met, even if forced to write with their right hand, also ate with their right hand.

Perhaps her parents had insisted on binding her left arm even when at home.

Or perhaps . . . perhaps she had lied. Though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine why she would have.