by Anne Renwick
Beatrix poked her head out. Flour dusted her cheeks and hands. “Have tea with Papa while I settle the howling pack. There’s a letter for you on the tray. Rob will be back soon with the Yule log, and we’ll drag everyone upstairs to the drawing room.”
A letter. From Oxford? Could it be? An entirely different kind of agitation churned in her stomach. Odds were it was a rejection. The one-year visiting medieval scholarship she’d applied for, one with unfettered access to the Bodleian Library, had yet to be awarded to a woman.
Evie opened her mouth to reply but found herself facing a swinging door. Chaos would reign from here until tomorrow afternoon, when the household would fall into a postprandial stupor. But only a brief one. A household filled with so many rambunctious boys was rarely quiet.
Best to rip open the missive, swallow the contents in one gulp, then let go of the fantasy. Easy enough to lose herself in the distractions of home, work… and Mr. Lockwood.
Why, then, did her heart hammer so loudly?
Nothing to do but have done with it. Avoiding the words inked within the missive would only give her indigestion. She hung up her coat and, hand pressed to her stomach, entered Papa’s study.
Here one always expected Lucifer lamps to swing as the floor bobbed and weaved beneath one’s feet, all while balloon and mooring tethers twisted and snapped in unexpected gusts of wind. In front of the window, a helm salvaged from a confiscated pirate’s airship was affixed to the floor, a quiet nod to Papa’s early days as a sky bandit. From hooks nailed to the wall hung several stratospheric oxygen masks and wing packs, near at hand for any crisis requiring a swift evacuation.
Every so often, his grandsons would invade. Timmy would lift the tarnished spyglass to his eye, ordering his brothers to steer the house toward the distant sliver of sky visible above the townhomes across the street. All would be smooth sailing at first, but, invariably, the airship would come under attack and evasive maneuvers would be required. A blunderbuss dragged from a brass-bound trunk and a pair of dull cutlasses liberated from the wall would hold back air pirates while futile attempts would be made to lift an old cannon ball that sat in the corner.
In the center of the room squatted two old and battered armchairs, one of which was occupied by the windblown airship captain himself. Papa held a cup of rum in his hand. Beside him upon a scarred wooden cask rested an empty tin cup, and the scent of tobacco hung in the air. Weathered airmen were forever dropping by for a chat. For advice. Papa had done well for himself and invested wisely.
“Ah, my scholar returns.” Papa smiled, half of his mouth hidden by the thin cotton mask he’d taken to wearing to hide the ulcerated and spreading cancerous skin lesion. His eyes searched her hands for a bottle or a jar. “No new herbal concoction?”
“Not yet.” Hands unsteady, she snatched up the letter from the roving tea table. Sinking into a still-warm chair, she injected her voice with an optimism she no longer felt. “But soon.” Though he rolled his eyes, she poured him a cup of tea and set it beside him along with a mincemeat pie. “You need to eat. And to drink something that won’t pickle your liver.”
“And you need to open that letter before your face permanently wears that expression. I can almost hear the alarm bells. From Oxford is it? Took them long enough.”
She tore into the envelope, unfolded the paper and froze at the words upon the page.
“Well?”
“Accepted,” she whispered. Internally, several organs came unmoored. “For Hilary term.”
A rejection would have made life choices easy, but this… The luxury of developing her very own research project under the guidance of a mentor? An entire year with nothing to focus upon save her own research?
Her heart leapt into her throat, even as her stomach flipped and dropped to her knees. The entirety of her internal organs were on the verge of rebellion.
Beatrix already managed the household circus unaided, but Evie couldn’t leave Papa. He needed her, needed her working on a cure. And what of her project with Mr. Lockwood? It was a rare thing for a librarian to be granted permission to work upon a research project during business hours. And what of the man himself who kissed her as if she alone could quench the fire that burned within his chest? How could she toss such passion aside when she’d already fallen halfway in love with him?
But the Bodleian Library! If she turned Oxford down, there would never be another offer. Her heart gave a twist and slipped, falling to land beside her stomach. Perhaps its queasiness could be quelled with a bite of mincemeat pie. She snagged a pastry for herself and bit into it, but the flaky crust and rich spices on her tongue failed to work their usual magic.
“Well, then, about that gentleman caller you’re expecting for Christmas dinner tomorrow. When he speaks to me, do I welcome him into the family or break the news gently?”
“You do neither.” She couldn’t tear her eyes from the letter. Would the correct path forward ever be clearly marked? “I’m three and twenty, Papa. Quite capable of handling this situation myself.”
“Five years since Samuel was lost. Four since your mother slipped away.” Papa tossed back his rum. “I’ve no regrets about sending you to Girton College, but it’s time to move on with your life. What’ll it be, Evie? Your books or a family? Either way you shouldn’t be fussing over an old, dying man while your sister raises half a cricket team.”
She glared at him, irritated that he continued to address his own mortality with such little care, but refused to argue with him. Not tonight.
Most thought Papa had wasted hard-earned money sending a female to college. She disagreed. But her critics were right about one thing, college had given her ideas. A certain kiss had generated yet more new ones. Why not a family and a career? She liked children, though six seemed excessive. One—perhaps two—might be manageable.
Best to proceed as if no letter had arrived. “Certain opportunities have arisen at the Lister Institute. I’ve no intention of leaving London.”
“Stubborn child.” Papa shook his head. “About these salves of yours. It’s time to stop.”
“What! I certainly will not. There’s still—”
Her father raised a hand. “Davy dropped by.” An old friend. He and Papa had risen in the ranks together. Though Davy stubbornly refused to retire, claiming the adventure kept him young. “Wants me on his next voyage.”
“Absolutely not!” Evie dropped the pie back onto its plate and shot to her feet. She began to pace. “You’re not deaf. You heard the doctor. You must stay out of the sun.” Even with the enclosed helm of a luxury airship, there was no chance Papa would remain indoors. High in the sky and above the clouds, the sunlight was intense.
“Now, Evie. Shuttered in this room is not how I intend to spend the rest of my life, be it months or years. I’ve not been to Japan in a few years, and I’ve a mind to visit the geisha girls.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Papa!” Such was not a topic she wished to discuss with her father.
“Oh, don’t look so horrified. Life is to be lived, not spent wrapped up in cotton wool.” He tossed back the last of his rum and lifted a mincemeat pie. “I wasn’t going to tell you until after Christmas, but as you’ve a man on a hook, you’ve not but a few days to drag him ashore if you want me to give you away. Might be I could pull some strings, acquire one of those fancy special licenses.” Papa tipped his head. “Or will you follow that dream of yours to Oxford and become a distinguished professor of medieval studies?
Her mind locked onto one word. “Days?”
Papa nodded. “We lift off in three days.”
“Three.” Her mouth dropped. “You’re set on this?”
“I am.” A certain stubbornness to his jaw told her there’d be no changing his mind.
She dragged in a deep breath. Forget making any decisions about her own future, she had only three short days left to find a cure for her father. Everything else must wait.
“Well, then.” Shock petrified her words as s
he attempted to fill them with false cheer. “I’ll be at work tonight, back at dawn to see what Father Christmas has tucked inside stockings.”
“Evie—”
She held up a hand and let her voice grow firm. “Before you float away, I wish to speak with the airship’s doctor. You’ll leave with an assortment of treatments.” Her mind flashed to the crates in the library’s office. Odds were low they’d contain a Christmas miracle, but there was no way to know until they were unpacked. She certainly wouldn’t find one wishing upon a Yule log. Instead, she’d do her best to hunt one down. Starting tonight.
“Stay, Evie. You ought to be at home tonight. Besides, it’s not on your shoulders to produce a cure. Some things can’t be fixed.”
Papa was right, of course. The notion of missing one of his last evenings at home, especially Christmas Eve, weighed heavily upon her. But if she stayed, she would spend it pacing before the fire, her mind elsewhere. Better if she returned to work to examine the contents of the crates. If there was nothing noteworthy, at least her mind would be at ease.
“Don’t argue. I inherited my stubbornness from you.” She bent to kiss her father’s forehead. “Festivities are about to commence in the drawing room, and the boys will want to know if they can expect snow tomorrow.”
“My joints most certainly think so.” Knowing he could do nothing to stop her, he sighed, caught at her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “Take a warm coat, Evie.”
Weary, she stuffed the letter from Oxford into her pocket, then climbed the stairs to her room, intending to change into a more serviceable dress, one better suited to sitting upon the floor midst packing material, dust and crumbling parchment. Fingers at the buttons of her collar, she sighed at the stacks of books and papers, at the fountain pen that lay abandoned beside them. Had its ink run dry? So much for her plans to spend a few hours working upon her monograph of medieval remedies over the holiday. At such a pace and with Dr. Wilson’s tragic death, it would be months before she could submit her paper for publication.
Unless…
Were Papa’s imminent departure and Oxford’s acceptance letter signs that she ought to move on with her life? She shook her head. No. Such meaning could also be ascribed to Mr. Lockwood’s declaration of interest and the approval of their project.
Though her mind raced, first contemplating one perspective then the other, it was impossible to choose a path forward.
Outside, a steam wagon clattered to a halt and a shout went up. With a sad smile, she twitched aside the curtain to peer out the frost-edged window. From the back of a steam wagon, her brother-in-law wrestled a far-too-large damp log—one festooned in red ribbons and sprigs of holly—and hauled it indoors. A country tradition her mum had brought with her from the north and shoehorned into a city drawing room. A tradition Beatrix insisted upon continuing. For the next twelve days, her nephews would work hard to keep a yule log burning in a fireplace grate designed for coal.
Wait.
Was that—? No. Disbelief and denial competed to widen her eyes. But it was. The glow of a streetlamp illuminated Dr. Bracken as he broke away from foot traffic and approached her front door, a bouquet of hothouse flowers in hand. Grimacing, she dropped the curtain. Had his suggestion of marriage not been in jest? Aether forbid. On the heels of his colleague’s death, he thought to press his suit?
Her stomach sank. It was impossible to reach the front door before Dr. Bracken did. One of her nephews could, even now, be escorting him into Papa’s study. She cringed. Not ten minutes past, her father had suggested she might like to plan a swift wedding. Would he mistake Dr. Bracken for an over-eager holiday guest and welcome him with open arms?
Bells and blazes.
A lady wouldn’t run, but if she made an appearance, Dr. Bracken would glue himself so tightly to her side that she’d never break free. Politeness would force her to play hostess and, by the time he left, it would be too late to return to the library.
There was no choice but to flee.
Evie stuffed her coin purse into her pocket, then dug into the back of her wardrobe to yank out a thick woolen coat that had seen better days. She shrugged it on and snatched up a pair of red, woolen mittens and a hat, then slipped down the back stairwell.
“Beatrix!” Evie hissed, edging into the warm kitchens.
Pots and pans and bowls and spoons were piled beside the sink. The counters were dusted with flour and sugar and spices too numerous to count. The oven ran full blast and something bubbled on the stovetop. The steam cook kneaded dough at the table while the automixer whirled away. Treats of all kinds—recently pillaged by her nephews—were stacked upon plates.
“Where on earth do you think you’re going?” Her sister wiped her hands on her apron. “You’ve a finely dressed gentlemen caller who asked to speak with Papa.” Beatrix’s sing-song voice teased. “I’m willing to wager there’s a ring in one of his pockets.”
Evie grimaced. “This man’s attentions are unwelcome. Scoot the self-important weasel out the door as soon as you can manage it.”
“Oh?” Her sister’s eyebrows rose. “I thought—”
“The extra plate I asked you to set for Christmas dinner is for a Mr. Lockwood. Not a Dr. Bracken.”
“Oh, really?” A smile broke out across Beatrix’s flour-streaked face. “Two men in pursuit of your hand? And one regarded with distaste and disdain. There’s a story here, one full of drama and intrigue. Tell me more.”
Rolling her eyes, Evie shook her head. “Later. I have to go. I left something important at work.”
All humor fell away. “Evie, it’s Christmas Eve and it’s late. This can—”
“No, it can’t wait.”
“But Papa—”
“He knows.” Ought she tell Beatrix? Yes. She deserved to know. “Papa intents to float away to Japan with Davy. They leave in three days.”
“No!” Disbelief dropped her sister’s jaw. “But the doctors said—”
“When has that ever stopped him?”
Beatrix’s lips flattened. “And so you’re going back to the library to continue your hunt for a cure. Evie, you’ve run yourself ragged—”
She held up a hand. “One last try. There are some new books…” Guilt trickled into her stomach as her eyes surveyed the disastrous state of the kitchens. “I’ll be back at dawn to tie on an apron and do your every bidding. And,” she stabbed a finger into her sister’s shoulder, “you’re not to lift a finger doing dishes. Leave them all for me.”
“They’ll be stacked to the ceiling.” Beatrix pointed a finger at her. “And I intend to drag every detail out of you about this Dr. Bracken. I might even tidy up, take tea in the parlor and have a look for myself. Two gentlemen!”
“Careful, this one might bite.” Evie snatched an iced biscuit off a plate and backed out of the kitchen door into the garden. Though cold nipped at fingertips, ears and noses, the streets were abuzz with people rushing to and fro on last minute errands. Many frantically searching out the perfect gift for a loved one.
Much like her.
Chapter Five
Ash closed the door upon the cold drafts swirling about his rented room. With no one to share his evenings with, he rarely spent any significant time in the boarding house. Why spend his hard-earned coin on coal when there was a cot tucked away in a back room of the greenhouse near the warmth of the dedicated furnace, a necessity for maintaining year-round growing conditions?
Here in London, the plants were his closest companions—and he’d spend Christmas Eve with them while making arrangements to tempt a bride. He missed his parents, brothers and sisters, as well as the holiday traditions of the north—wassails, a Yule log, evergreens dragged in from the countryside—and had torn into the package waiting for him, but a bright future with the Lister Institute beckoned. Trailing behind his father through the grand gardens for so many years had sparked his love for all things botanical, it just hadn’t been enough.
Here lay opportunity.
&
nbsp; Working together, he and Miss Brown could win the contest, elevating both the library and the greenhouse in the eyes of Lister’s scientists and permitting them to tap into the genius of the men and women who worked within its many laboratories.
There was much to admire about Miss Brown herself. Imagine being able to hold so many languages—both living and dead—in one’s mind that every book was a treasure trove of knowledge. He marveled at her determination and drive, at the cutting insight she brought to so many projects. Yet for all her hard work, she’d gained very little. Even when the committee chose their project—for he refused to consider the alternative—she stood only to win academic prestige, while he would secure a promotion and, with it, a more generous salary. The means to support a wife. A family.
He would do all he could to see her contribution was not forgotten, but he also hoped she might consider merging their two lives by taking him as her husband.
With the holiday underway, not another soul would be present in the greenhouse to mock the small romantic touches he had planned. Tomorrow evening, as the sun fell, he would lead Miss Brown down a magical garden path to the small arbor tucked in a corner where the glass roof sloped downward, revealing a sweeping view of London. There, beneath an arch of passion flowers, he would lower himself onto one knee.
Aether, that kiss. Luring him behind a bookcase. Daring him to touch her. Melting beneath his lips. His heart pounded at the memory. Would that he’d declared himself weeks ago. He’d wasted far too much time, time they could have spent in each other’s company outside the library. A mistake he’d not make again.
A feverish heat swept over him. During that private tour she so craved, he might make the most of their solitude. Learn the shape of her lips. Savor their taste. Permit his hands to wander without worry of discovery.
He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. Pointless to let his thoughts drift in such directions when it would be hours before would be in Miss Brown’s presence again, and most of that in the company of her family. He was counting on the approval of her father, for family mattered very much.
