Fifteen

Peter opened the pot of salve, inhaling the dual scents of honey and lavender. He mustered a smile for the young man sitting at the kitchen table with gritted teeth and wished he had the gift of conversation to put Treeve at ease. “R-Ready?”

It was hard to think of him as man rather than boy. Seven years his junior, Treeve had been a presence at Kensey Manor as long as Peter could remember, eventually taking over his father’s job in the stables. But for most of Peter’s memory, he’d been a child. Running about chasing butterflies and squirrels as often as he was helping in the stables or with errands.

His arm screamed, loud and red, when Peter unwound the bandage from it. The worst of the burn had healed—Mrs. Teague or Grammy could probably stomach dressing it now, though the first day they’d both fled the room to lose their breakfasts when they’d tried. Hence why it had fallen to Peter.

Oh, he could have found someone else. But the boy had been hurt saving his property. If anyone should tend him, it should be Peter.

“Does it s-still . . . hurt?”

Treeve’s fingers curled, then went flat against the tabletop, worn smooth from years of service. “Not nearly as much. I should be able to get back to work soon.”

Peter set aside the old bandage and dipped his fingers into the salve. Scooped up some, waited for it to drip. Applied it as gently as he could to the raised, bumpy skin. It wasn’t hot to the touch anymore. Hadn’t been for a while. “I am . . . I am less concerned with th—that than with . . . with your health.”

“I know.” Voice low, Treeve kept his gaze focused on the wall. In their daily meetings here in the kitchen, the young man had done his best to avoid looking at his arm altogether. “And I appreciate, sir, that you haven’t replaced me during these weeks when my arm’s been all but useless.”

Peter focused on applying the honey to each bit of burned skin. If the scarring ever faded, it would take years. The doctor had declared it one of the more severe burns he had seen—though thankfully not large. Had infection set in, it could have spelled disaster for the boy.

But they had been diligent. The honey had done its job.

“Re . . . replacing you was never . . . never a c-consideration.” He wiped his sticky fingers on the damp rag he’d set on the table for that purpose. Then reached for the fresh bandage awaiting him. At least Treeve he could help. Miss Gresham reported that her little sister was still battling infection, but Gryff’s man in London had failed totally in locating the family.

Which made precious little sense. He’d tried to find an address on her outgoing post again, but if she was writing to her family, he never saw the letters.

“It would have been for most. So I wanted to say it. Thanks, I mean. And for doing all this when it certainly ain’t your job to do.” Treeve lifted his arm six inches off the table, held it straight out.

Peter began the meticulous wrapping. They’d found a rhythm in the last fortnight. And usually performed it in silence. He wasn’t quite sure why Treeve had gone chatty today. “A s-small enough way to . . . to say my thanks. For your . . . your f-family’s loyalty.”

“Mr. Holstein.” Treeve shifted on his chair and latched his gaze onto the table. “I . . . are you going to that big bash on Saturday? The one what Mr. Arnold throws?”

Peter’s fingers paused. He looked up at the young man’s face, not sure how he ought to react to such a question from such an unlikely source. “No.”

Treeve’s jaw went tight, making him look more like his older brother than he usually did. “You need to.” He glanced up just long enough to meet Peter’s gaze, showing his own to be as hard-set as his jaw.

Peter frowned. “Why?”

“Because everyone in the village says you won’t. That you hate them all too much to go. You got to prove them wrong, Mr. Holstein.”

Father’s chuff sneaked out. He forced his hands to continue their task. “Is th—that even . . . even possible?” He ought to try. He knew that. Mr. Arnold had advised as much during their shared tea last week. And Gryff repeated it every time they met. But a ball, with all those people ready to sneer at him? “Maybe I’m . . . maybe I’m j-just a coward.”

“A coward doesn’t act like you did at that fire, sir. You would have taken that beam instead of me if you’d been half a second faster, and we both know it.”

But he’d been too slow, hadn’t had time to do anything but shout a warning when he saw it coming down. He could still see it all, playing out so slowly in his mind’s eye, whenever he tried to sleep. He had lunged, ready to push Treeve out of the way. But the flaming beam had been faster, had fallen, caught the boy, forced him down. Trapped that arm.

He was lucky it hadn’t caught his face or his chest. That Kenver had been there to help Peter lift the thing long enough for Treeve to roll away. All in all, God had preserved them that night.

Funny how it was easier to trust Him to do so in a flaming stable than in a crowd of gala-goers.

He pinned the bandage in place.

Treeve unrolled his sleeve to cover it. “Look, Mr. Holstein. We’ll all stand with you—but in order to do so, you got to stand too. For yourself.”

Peter rubbed at his temple. And realized he’d missed a bit of honey on his fingers, or gotten more on during the wrapping. “I don’t . . . I don’t know. A ball?”

The man-boy chuckled. “You sound like Kenny—though let it be noted he met his Tamsyn at the servants’ ball last Midsummer’s Eve.”

“But K-Kenver isn’t a . . . a stammering G-German.”

Treeve grinned. “Nah. Just a talkative idiot as like to put his foot in his mouth as anything. You need to go. Sir.”

Had Gryff put him up to this? He would have asked the question were the answer not pulsing from the young man’s dark eyes. No one had put Treeve up to it. It was his own idea, of whose merits he was thoroughly convinced.

“I’ll . . . consider it.”

Treeve nodded and reached for the cap he’d taken off and set on the table. He pushed to his feet. “Take Miss Gresham, she’ll help—she’s been in the pub a good bit this fortnight past. Making . . . friends.”

The way he said it left no question as to who her new friend was. Peter winced on Treeve’s behalf. “I’m sure she . . . she didn’t know.”

“I don’t mind if she likes Eseld. Everyone likes Eseld. What matters here is that everyone’s also becoming quite fond of Miss Gresham. Take her with you and they’ll all be kind, I think.”

Or maybe Gryff had gotten to him. “I d-don’t see why—”

“Just trust me, sir. Please. For your own good, and for all of ours. No one fancies finding anything else set ablaze.”

His chest went tight, his stomach turned. Treeve was right. He had a responsibility, not just to himself and his family’s good name, but to every last person who had aligned themselves with Kensey Manor. They were all at risk so long as he was at odds with the neighbors—and were all convinced it was a local who had done it. Constable Newth had questioned the stranger, but it seemed the man was taking his dinner in the hotel’s dining room at the time in question, seen by all.

Funny—he preferred thinking the danger from a stranger and a political adversary in London than that his own neighbors despised him so. Even if the man in the bowler had put someone up to it, it hadn’t apparently taken much convincing.

Peter gave one short nod.

Treeve pulled his cap on with his good arm. “Good. I’ll tell Kenny to have the carriage ready for you that night, then.”

Peter stifled a groan and managed another nod. As he cleaned up his mess and prepared to get out of Grammy’s kitchen before he could be in the way, he told himself it would be a good thing. It had to be. Perhaps it would be a few hours of discomfort, but what was that in the long run, if it could help his people?

He heard Treeve outside the door, informing someone—presumably Grammy—that she’d not need to prepare any supper on Saturday, as the master would be going to the ball. Grammy’s excited—and relieved—exclamation chased Peter from the kitchen before she could come in and gush approval all over him. Best they all keep that in check until they saw whether he made a mess of it or not at the ball.

He stowed the salve and bandages in the linen closet that held all their medicinals and hurried to the main hall.

The library door stood open, as it generally did. His first glance made him think it empty, but Miss Gresham had an uncanny knack for hiding from him. Not that she tried to hide, but he had gone in search of her several times only to discover she’d been in the library all the while, hidden behind a piece of furniture or a shelf.

He stepped into the chamber. The visible progress of two weeks ago had reverted to new stacks of books on the floor last week as she set about reorganizing everything left in here. But it still wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been before she arrived. And he now had a nicely organized secondary library upstairs. He wove around the maze of low shelves and books until, yes, he saw her. Sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, completely engrossed in whatever tome she had in her hands now. She chewed on a nail as she read, her lips silently forming the words. Must be a German book—those were the only ones with which she did that.

He knocked on the closest shelf to get her attention.

She didn’t even look up. Which was, he knew without question, payback for the way he inevitably kept her waiting when she knocked at his study door. But unlike him, she actually heard him. She’d look up when she’d deemed the punishment long enough.

At some point in the weeks since her arrival, it had begun to amuse him. He reached for a small silver key on top of the low shelf, flipped it around in his hand, set it down again. Then picked up a slender booklet sitting beside it and frowned at the title. How to Organize Your Library. . . . What would a professional in the study of such things need with such a handbook?

But then, had he come across one called How to Write an Adventure Novel, he would have read it too. Just to see if it agreed with his own methods.

Still, when Miss Gresham stood and walked to his side, he couldn’t resist lifting the book, and his brows.

She grinned and took it from him. “Thought perhaps your grandfather had used its methods, since it was in here.”

He kept his brows hiked.

She chuckled. “He didn’t.”

“Ah. That would have been . . . been t-too easy. W-What about the key?”

“I’ve no idea.” She set the booklet back down and meandered over to the window that stood open to the fresh June breezes. “Your timing is perfect—I had a question. Does your mother’s family, do you know, have any connections to Russia?”

She seemed to like the out-of-doors better than the in. Rather strange for a librarian, on the one hand. But he could understand it. He often preferred it himself. Just yesterday he’d happened upon her on the cliffs and had ended up sharing his luncheon with her.

It wouldn’t be a chore to spend an evening with her. Though it would be less of one if it didn’t involve the entire village. “Yes. My m-mother’s . . . stepmother. She was Russian.”

Miss Gresham turned her face back his way, though she kept her arms propped against the windowsill. “Did she know the Duchess of Edinburgh, perhaps?”

King George’s aunt? He didn’t know how she would have. “I . . . don’t know. But I have a . . . a question for you. I w-wanted to . . . to invite you to—”

“Dinner again with the vicar?” She turned fully from the window now, though the sunlight still clung to her. “As I told you last week, I appreciate the invitation, but I don’t need to spend a whole evening talking religion.”

An incredulous snort slipped out, halfway to laughter. “You don’t . . . don’t seem to mind it with me.” Not that he really spoke of such things. Much. But every morning there was a new letter on his study floor, with more questions.

The kinds of questions that said she was looking at it all with fresh, unaccustomed eyes. As if she’d never heard any of it before. Another oddity he couldn’t quite resolve with this Miss Gresham, who cut through a swath of books with speed and without hesitation. An oddity, but he rather enjoyed it. Sometimes that childlike perspective shed brilliant light on age-old questions.

Miss Gresham rolled her eyes and set the book she’d been reading on the top of a stack as high as her head. “It’s different. It doesn’t seem like talk of religion with you. It’s more . . .”

Warmth spread through him, even as she rolled her hand in a circle as if the right word would leap from the air into her mouth. He smiled. “Faith. But it’s . . . it’s the same with Mr. Trenholm.”

The wrinkle of her nose said she wasn’t inclined to find out.

An argument for another day. “That’s not actually . . . that’s not what I w-wanted to in . . . invite you to do. There’s . . .” Blast. Even speaking about it made his tongue go knotted. He’d be an utter dunce when there. “A b-ball. On Saturday.”

“Mr. Arnold’s Midsummer Ball, I know. It’s all anyone talks about in the village.” Her brows drew together, and she planted her hands on her hips. “You can’t mean to tell me you’ve decided to go. And that you expect me to go with you.”

He put on his most pleading look, the one that he’d used to wheedle Grammy out of an extra biscuit. “Please?”

Panic flared in her eyes. For a moment he feared it was at the thought of going with him, but the way she dug her fingers into her skirt said otherwise. “Are you mad? I’ve nothing to wear beyond those two dresses I use for dinner every night—neither of which are suitable for a ball like this. Jenny has been talking incessantly of what everyone has worn in years past, and they’re all . . . they’re all . . .”

“But it . . . it doesn’t matter. There are only a . . . a handful of women who . . . who can afford that.”

She didn’t calm. If anything, the opposite. “But you, Mr. Holstein, are the wealthiest man in the neighborhood! You can’t show up there with raggedy me.”

He tried to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. He did. It was hardly his fault he failed when her hair, bent on proving her point, slipped from its pins. Or half of it, anyway, giving her a lopsided look that turned her expression from panic to exasperation.

She pointed a finger at his chest. “Don’t make fun or I’ll throw a book at you.”

“Wouldn’t . . . dream of it.”

Huffing out a breath that would have made Father proud, she twisted the disobedient hair back up and jabbed it into place with the pins. “At least you see my point. I am not an appropriate companion for this ball.”

Peter leaned against the shelf at his back. “Nonsense. You are . . . are already better liked than . . . than I. Please, Miss Gresham. As a f-favor to me.”

“Mr. Holstein . . .” Her tone became every bit as pleading as his had been. “It’s not the same as driving me to Marazion or to church. I’m not a gentlewoman.”

“And I’m not . . . proposing m-marriage. Just a ball.”

The pleading hardened into what could only be termed stubbornness. “I can hardly dance.”

He folded his arms across his chest to deflect that stubbornness back at her. “Nor c-can I. We’ll be a . . . a matching pair.”

“But—”

“I don’t . . . don’t want to go either. But I must, and . . . and it would mean a lot. To have a friend beside me.” He straightened again, cleared his face of all exaggeration. Leaving nothing but the raw truth.

Her arms fell to her sides, and her latest exhalation sounded blessedly resigned. “I’m a friend?”

Should it have surprised her? Probably—it rather surprised him when the word came out so easily. But it was true, just as Gryff had predicted. They’d shared two meals a day for several weeks and had ended up speaking of many things beyond the books in this library and his family’s history. They wrote to each other daily, sharing things neither ever spoke aloud.

If that didn’t make them friends, then what would? He just lifted his brows in answer.

She had become adept at reading his expressions. Hers now went soft. “I suppose we are. Which is a very odd thought, don’t you think?”

He granted it with half a smile.

She huffed again. “So be it. I’ll go with you—on one condition.”

Gratefulness pulsed through his veins. “Yes?”

He’d only seen that look on her face a few times, but he’d quickly identified it as a warning of mischief. And had borrowed it for Rosita, whenever she was about to do something slightly dangerous and utterly surprising to Locryn.

Miss Gresham leaned close. “Tell me what it is you do all day at that typewriter.”

His lips pulled up. Crooking his finger to motion her closer, he bent over, hand cupped, mouth at her ear. And whispered, “I type.”

She slapped him on the arm. But her laughter also wove through his as he turned and headed for his study.

Rosemary checked over her shoulder from habit more than the suspicion that anyone paid her any undue heed. But the townspeople bustled about as they always did. The only difference in the last few weeks was that they’d begun to greet her by name whenever she walked to the village, and everyone except Mrs. Gladstone seemed happy to do so.

She suspected it was in part because many of them found it amusing that she’d given Gladstone the what-for. No one she had found particularly liked the old biddy. Though she was one of theirs. So if it came down to an actual taking of sides, Rosemary wouldn’t ever count on anyone coming over to hers.

The vicar’s father was the only one out just now, and he’d already lifted his wizened hand in greeting. Rosemary had already called back her good evening, so now the old man was back to whatever book he had in his hand. And Rosemary was free to enter the post office without notice.

They’d be closing in a minute. Which was why she’d timed it this way, so that it was unlikely there would be a line of others behind her, ready to see the envelope she handed over. Not that she thought it her fault that someone had been snooping around Retta’s flat those weeks ago—but she had just sent a letter there, and anyone either at Kensey or in the village could have seen the address. Best to be cautious—no one wanted to have to move again.

Especially with Olivia still doing so poorly.

The postmaster greeted her with that distracted smile that shouted, Hurry up, then, I want to go home. Perfect. She rushed in, coin and letter at the ready, her smile as apologetic as ever. “Sorry, Mr. Dell! I tried to get here earlier today.”

“No matter, Miss Gresham, no matter. You’re always a quick one.” But the man’s rotund belly was no doubt growling for its tea, and he scarcely paid her any mind at all. Glanced only a moment at the direction upon her letter before affixing the proper postage to it. “There we are, ready to go. See you next week, then.”

“Or Saturday, if you’ll be at Mr. Arnold’s ball. I’ve been convinced to attend.” And if she were going to go, she might as well make it known. Announcing she’d be there with Mr. Holstein could well relieve a few tongues of their opinions of him.

Mr. Dell greeted her words with lifted brows and a warm-enough smile. “Are you, then? Very good. Going with Treeve?”

It shouldn’t grate on her that he assumed she’d be attending the servants’ ball held outside Mr. Arnold’s home, rather than the formal ball within. By rights, that was where she belonged. But he shouldn’t have known it. “No. With Mr. Holstein.”

“That so?” Rather than the disbelief she had expected, Mr. Dell’s face looked . . . impressed. “Who convinced who?”

“He convinced me.”

The postmaster smiled. “Didn’t know he had it in him. And I hope you have a good time with him, Miss Gresham. Help him enjoy himself a bit. That boy’s become so backward . . . his parents would be appalled.”

“Would they?” She turned to go . . . but figured it would be a good idea to show some solidarity with him, if she were going to a public event on his arm in a few short days. “I rather think they’d be appalled with everyone in this village for treating him as they do. It’s hardly his fault he cannot speak well.”

“Does he with you?” Usually by now Mr. Dell would be all but pushing her out the door. Perhaps he’d sneaked a snack earlier in the afternoon and wasn’t as famished as usual. “Speak, I mean.”

“Of course he does.” And really, he hardly ever stuttered anymore, unless the subject itself distressed him. Still fumbled for the right words, but it was more hesitation than stammering most of the time. Besides, if one were to watch his face, one could all but read his mind anyway.

She should really warn him about that—a good thief could exploit such things, if he or she were the confidence-scheme sort. And whoever had been listening in the alley beside the pub the night of the fire could well still be out there.

She’d taken to paying attention to every bowler hat she saw in town, but none of the men under the hats she saw looked particularly underhanded. And she knew underhanded. The only thing she was certain of in regard to Mr. Bowler was that he wasn’t Mr. V. She’d had a wire from him the next morning, from London.

He may not be lurking about the village, but he was still looking over her shoulder—and she still didn’t like it. She could do her job on her own.

Which made that funny little twitch wriggle around inside. Why was she thinking about warning Mr. Holstein about guarding his expressions, given that she couldn’t very well issue it until she’d already stripped him of everything that mattered?

Blast it all. She sighed heavily. “He’s really a very nice man, Mr. Dell. One of the nicest I’ve ever met.” It had to be a front. Or just part of the story. Because, really, no one could be as good as he seemed. No one could really spend so much time dwelling on thoughts of God and Jesus and what faith really meant and then turn around and write notes in some secret code and spend all his time typing something.

Maybe he was writing a theological treatise on that contraption of his all day. It could explain why he insisted on those dinners every week with the vicar. She’d slipped into his study twice now to try to poke around, certain both times that no one would disturb her.

Kerensa had nearly caught her the first time. And the second, she’d managed to rummage through only a filing cabinet in the corner before Mr. Holstein had come back down for something. Last week she had even worked up the gumption to come over in the night—Teague had heard her at the kitchen door and come to open it for her before she could even pull out her lock picks. She’d had to make up some story about forgetting something in the library, and he’d hovered behind her the whole while, smiling indulgently, so he could lock back up behind her.

Blasted staff were better security than electro-magnets.

Mr. Dell gave a thoughtful little hum. “Perhaps you’re right about him, Miss Gresham. In which case, perhaps you can help him show it.”

She made her lips smile, made her eyes reflect it rather than the doubts clamoring about inside her head. She was the last person in the world to help him. But in another world, the world where she was Rosemary Gresham, librarian, instead of Rosemary Gresham, thief, that may be just what she’d do. “Let’s hope so, Mr. Dell. Good day. Tell your wife I said hello and look forward to seeing her on Saturday.”

She slipped out of the door as Mr. Dell assured he would do just that, and then she headed directly for the pub. Eseld, still an hour from the start of her shift, would be getting a bite beforehand. Rosemary’s gaze found her the moment she stepped into the warm, fragrant building, and she slid over to their usual corner booth with a smile. “What’s on the menu tonight, then?”

Eseld smiled and pushed a full bowl of some sort of stew toward her. Her own was half-empty already. “You’re a full two minutes later than usual. I was beginning to think it wasn’t really Monday and I’d asked the second bowl of Mam by mistake.”

“Mr. Dell was chatty.” Rosemary leaned over the bowl to inhale. She’d done more talking than eating during the midday meal, and it was catching up to her, as she’d also skipped breakfast again. Her stomach just didn’t know what to do with three meals a day. “Smells divine.”

“I’ll tell my mam you said so.” Eseld smiled her charming smile and tucked back an escaped curl of the black hair Rosemary had found to be rather common—though no less pretty for it—here in Cornwall. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out why Treeve had been courting Eseld three years ago. Though why the pub owner’s daughter had tossed him over to marry the moody Colin Thorn, glowering now from behind the bar, she hadn’t yet figured out.

But then, Rosemary was no expert on that kind of love. And she didn’t rightly know what she’d do if and when her family members started thinking about romance and marriage. Ellie was the only one to ever talk of such things.

Eseld ate a bite of meat and carrots and then pointed her spoon at Rosemary. “Chatty, you say? At this time of day?”

Rosemary grinned and sampled her stew before going back to Mr. Dell. “When I mentioned that I was going to the ball on Saturday.”

“Oh good! With Treeve?”

“No, not with Treeve.” Rosemary expelled a breath. “Why is that the natural assumption?”

Eseld chuckled. “I suppose because he’s the only unmarried man near your age at Kensey, and that’s where you spend your days. And I want him to be happy—he deserves to be happy, so if you two—”

“There’s no ‘us two.’ Nor will there ever be.” She wasn’t stupid enough to get involved with anyone here, not given that she was likely to have to leave in a hurry. Though let it be noted his teeth were superior to his brother’s and his face every bit as pleasant. Hard to think she’d barely even known his name when the fire was set—now she saw him nearly every day, since he had to come to the house to have his dressing changed and usually stopped by her open window to exchange a tease on his way in. “He’s just a baby. Three and twenty!”

Eseld rolled her eyes. “And I’m one and twenty. Am I a baby too?”

“Barely toddling.” Rosemary reached for the mug that Eseld had waiting for her. “It’s a wonder you’re not still in nappies.”

With a sweet little laugh, Eseld threw her balled-up napkin at Rosemary’s head. “You’re terrible. And only two years his elder—Mam’s two years older than Tas, you know. It’s no great thing.”

It became a great thing when one of them still believed the world was basically good and the other had known better for going on two decades. And when said idealistic one was still in love with a certain curly-haired Cornish girl. But she certainly wasn’t going to point that out. “Much as I appreciate that you want him to find his true love, he’ll not find her in me, Eseld Thorn.”

Eseld’s nearly black eyes danced as she took a leisurely sip of her steaming tea. “All right, then. Tell me who it is you’re going with so I can weave you a romance with him instead.”

A little snort of laughter escaped. “Hardly. It’s Mr. Holstein. He’s decided to go and wanted a friend beside him.”

“Peter Holstein?” Spoon halfway to her mouth, Eseld froze. “Are you fooling me?”

She’d tried to tell him, hadn’t she, that she wasn’t a good choice? “I know. It doesn’t make sense that he’d ask me—”

“Well, it does if he’s sensible. But I rather thought he wasn’t—that he fancied himself too far above the rest of us lowly villagers to want to spend any time with us.” Eseld set down her spoon and traced a finger along the edge of her teacup. “You mean to tell me I’ve judged him wrong all these years? Next thing you’ll be saying he’s not the confirmed bachelor we all assumed.”

“Haven’t the foggiest idea about that.”

A lack of insight that didn’t seem to put Eseld off any. Eyes unfocused, she tilted her head. “Though I suppose you’re not quite a common villager. You’re educated.”

Rosemary took a bite of stew. The School of Hard Knocks, as someone had put it in an old issue of Cosmopolitan she had found, was hardly the education Peter Holstein would value. But she was smart—one couldn’t survive the streets without being smart, much less learn how to bypass all the newfangled alarms that were put to use in London. And when one had a few brains to spare, one didn’t need a fancy college. Just a will to learn. “When it comes down to it, Eseld, I’m still nothing but a barkeep’s ward.”

“Well.” Eseld shook herself. And grinned. “Good for him, seeing beyond it.”

Rosemary just smiled and took another bite. And kept to herself the thought that bubbled up—that she didn’t need a man willing to look beyond her past. If ever she found a man—which was hardly a priority—she wouldn’t settle for less than one who loved her for what she’d come from.

And that was a tall order indeed.