by Jane Ashford
As soon as he realized this, his father had declared that their clothing would come from this source, saving untold sums by his reckoning. Papa had discovered that the castoffs of one particular forebear fit him perfectly, and he didn’t care a whit that no one wore full-skirted satin coats anymore. He’d used a long brocade robe from even earlier times as a dressing gown, pacing the corridors like a medieval grandee. And of course there was the Egyptian garment as well. Delia had fallen in line, refashioning sweeping skirts of silk and satin into more up-to-date styles with every appearance of delight. Of course, she’d been taught to sew.
Peter had never had as much luck. Taller and lankier than his father, he hadn’t found clothes that fit well. He’d hated it when he was sent off to school with his wrists protruding from the sleeves of outmoded shirts and smelling of camphor, which had not contributed to his success, even among the boys of his unusual school. He’d made certain Delia had more fashionable garb before he sent her off to hers.
In adulthood, Peter had found a seamstress in Wrexham who could alter the old garments. But the truth was, he didn’t always bother. There was no society in the neighborhood to exchange visits or give balls. Alberdene had been established to hold the Welsh Marches against attack, not entertain. His ancestors might have wasted the ready on building a cavernous house here, but he had no reason to spend time or money on clothes.
Except, now he did. He’d had his fill of Miss Charlotte Deeping’s sidelong glances and sour smiles at the clothes he wore. And Miss Moran’s understanding sympathy. And Miss Finch’s raised eyebrows, as if she couldn’t see why he made so little effort. But most of all he wanted Miss Ada to admire him. Yes, he did, even though he knew he should not.
He placed the lanterns on small tables set up to receive them, on either side of a cheval glass. They cast a pool of light that was reflected in the mirror. Darkness spread around this island of brightness into the corners of the attic.
Peter stripped off his coat and shirt and began a systematic search for better clothes, pulling out anything that looked as if it might do, trying it, and setting the most suitable aside to bundle off to Wrexham for tailoring. He’d ask the seamstress to be as quick as she could. He had to have more than one good coat. The black made for his father’s funeral, and then used at his sister’s as well, cast a pall of melancholy over every occasion.
As he straightened from bending over an open trunk, Peter caught a stealthy movement in the dark. Peering out of the circle of light he spotted one of the cats who roamed the older parts of the house, watching him from under a broken chair in the corner. “Hello,” he said to the animal. “I shan’t be much longer. Very good work keeping down the mice up here. I haven’t seen any signs of rodents.”
“Who are you talking to?” asked a female voice.
Peter started and dropped the filmy undergarment he’d been about to set aside. The gossamer set of drawers floated down to settle over the toes of his boots as he turned to find Miss Ada standing in the open doorway. She glanced at the unmentionables and away. Her small dog trotted over to sniff at them. “Ella, no!” she added.
“Cat,” Peter replied before he could think. Which was just the icing on the cake for a man standing bare-chested, apparently fingering an ancient undergarment.
“What?”
“I was talking to one of the cats.” He glanced at the corner. Of course it was empty. How could it be otherwise? With an effort at nonchalance, he fetched his shirt and put it on. He picked up the underdrawers and threw them back into the trunk. “What are you doing in the attic?” he asked.
Miss Ada came one step closer. She looked like a visitation from the bright world outside this shadowed space. “Ella ran up here.”
Peter suspected that this wasn’t true. He thought perhaps she’d followed him, an idea that filled him with elation and regret. “Indeed?”
“Also Charlotte thinks we should make a catalog of the whole house. We’re each taking a part.”
“For what purpose?” Peter closed the trunk he’d been rooting in. There was nothing to be done about the pile of clothes he’d chosen. He would ignore them.
“In case Delia’s note points us in a particular direction,” she said.
“Ah, yes, my sister’s mysterious last words.”
“Must you be sarcastic about it?”
“I wasn’t.” He hadn’t meant to be. He’d been thinking how foolish he must look. And wishing to be otherwise. Like the polished young men she would meet in London next season. One of whom would undoubtedly carry her off into marital bliss. Peter felt a quick hot flash of hatred for this imagined gentleman.
“You certainly sounded it.”
“It’s difficult to judge one’s tone sometimes. Don’t you find?”
Miss Ada gazed at him from under her formidable eyebrows.
“The simplest phrase can have a wildly unintended effect,” Peter added.
“Wildly?” she echoed.
And just like that, wildness swirled to life between them, like a vortex of autumn leaves suddenly raised by the wind. Peter felt it as an urgent invitation from desire. Passion would certainly have been part of their life, if they could have had a life together. Peter was tight and breathless. He curled his hands into fists, restraining his impulses, remembering his limitations.
Miss Ada’s dog sniffed at the corner where the cat had been sitting. Ella snorted with disapproval at the scent. Peter almost remarked that it was easy to be disdainful now that the cat was gone. He just managed to keep those words from escaping.
Miss Ada crossed her arms over her chest, and then seemed surprised to see that she held a pad of paper in one hand and a yard-long measuring stick marked out in inches and feet in the other.
“Where did you get that?” Peter asked about the latter.
“Charlotte made it.” She sounded shaken. Peter couldn’t help but be glad.
“She’s extremely enterprising, isn’t she?” At the girl’s raised brows, he added, “That wasn’t meant to be sarcastic.” He laid a hand over his heart, and only then remembered that he hadn’t put on his coat. He hastened to do so. When he turned back he noticed a smile tugging at Miss Ada’s lips. Appreciation or ridicule? Always so hard to tell. “Are you actually going to measure the attic? There’s nothing up here but discarded things.”
“Charlotte thinks we should check everywhere.”
“And she gives the orders?”
“No. We each have our areas of…proficiency.”
“Proficiency.” He repeated the word because he liked it. She frowned at him. That hadn’t been sarcastic either. Should he say so?
“Charlotte says the inner dimensions of the house must match the outer ones.” She looked around the attic. “If the inside is shorter, then there is a hidden space.”
“I understand the concept.” His father and sister had undoubtedly found any such hideaways that existed in the house, Peter thought. But he didn’t want her to go. “I’ll help you.”
She looked pleased, which made him glad. Peter threw caution to the winds as he took the stick and applied it to a stretch of wall.
Her little dog ran around smelling boxes and corners as they moved about measuring. Miss Ada noted the results on her pad.
They came to one of a line of stone pillars set into the wall that supported the roof. Peter held the stick up to the column. “No way to measure this,” he said. “We’ll have to estimate.”
Miss Ada took a ribbon from her hair, stretched it around the half circle of stone, then laid the resulting length onto the measuring stick. “Fifteen inches,” she said.
“How very clever,” said Peter. Indeed, he admired her quickness very much.
She looked gratified.
At the far end of the attic, Ella exploded in a frenzy of barking. Peter could just see her small cinnamon-colored form bouncing in
the dimness.
A bat swooped out of the dark corner, fluttered over Miss Ada’s head, and veered up toward the roof peak, pausing to cling there upside down. Ella skidded to a stop below it, madly barking and jumping up and down like a mechanical toy with an overwound spring.
“Ella!” said her mistress, with no effect.
The bat shook itself and dove, swooping toward Ella as if it meant to hit her. Ella leapt and snapped her tiny jaws. At the last moment, the bat jerked away. And then it led the dog up and down the attic on what seemed like a teasing dance designed to wear her out. Peter chased after them, but he had nothing to bring the bat down, and he didn’t quite want to grab it with his bare hands.
Finally, the small creature swooped back into the corner where it had emerged and disappeared. The dog went after it, barking.
Peter waited a moment, then followed Ella. She was pawing at something in the corner. He had to move a small chest, kneel, and then thrust his head into the narrow opening to see that there was a small jagged hole where the slant of the roof met the attic floor. “Good God, this is where the bats get in,” he said. “We’ve searched for this for years.”
“You see, we do solve mysteries,” Miss Ada replied.
He turned his head to gaze up at her. Her dark eyes twinkled in the lantern light, full of warm amusement. Peter eased out of the corner and burst out laughing. She joined in. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt such free and easy merriment.
“I’m so glad to have made you happy,” she said.
Her voice was like a warm fire on an icy night. Sitting on the dusty attic floor, with Ella trying to nose past him and hunt bats, Peter melted. “What makes you happy?” he asked.
“All sorts of things.”
“Tell me some of them. Three things that make you happy.”
Miss Ada smiled down at him. Peter grew warmer still. “I will, if you will do the same,” she said.
He could only nod, speechless with longing. He wanted her with him always. He wanted to know all about her.
Her thick eyebrows came together in an adorable, considering frown. How had he ever thought them a flaw? He edged out of the corner and stood up.
“It’s like being granted three wishes in a fairy tale,” she said. “How to choose?”
“We didn’t say there were only three,” Peter answered.
“True. Very well. Dancing makes me happy. I love to dance.”
“Ah.” Peter’s skills in this area were rudimentary. He could just about tramp his way through a country dance. He had heard of the quadrille. For the first time, he was almost glad of his isolated situation. He would never meet her in a ballroom, with boundless possibilities for humiliation.
“Now you choose one.”
“Walking in the countryside. Except—” When he saw a tumbledown cottage where a tenant was trying to survive, this happiness was spoiled.
“Except what?”
“When I step into a bog and lose a boot to the mud,” Peter said.
She laughed. “You should watch where you walk.”
She was playing a game, Peter thought. While he was grasping at shreds of her company before she disappeared from his life. Being with her under any circumstances at all made him happy, he realized. Not that he could say this. “Always good advice in a pasture,” he answered.
Miss Ada nodded. “Lemon tarts make me happy,” she said. “Particularly when they’re served at tea with my friends. Because not only are they delicious, but Sarah adores them, too. And so my enjoyment is compounded by hers. Oh.” She looked thoughtful. “That’s the real bit making me happy, sharing enjoyment with friends. Seeing them glad.”
“Of course,” said Peter.
She looked up at him, a soft silhouette in the dim lantern light. “Are you choosing the same thing? That’s not fair. You must use your own.”
As if happiness was to be found in many places. “Making something right,” he said. “By my own efforts. Like repairing a broken floorboard or a cracked windowpane.” As soon as he’d spoken, he worried that she would despise such endeavors, as his footman did. Yet he’d spoken the truth. It did make him happy.
Miss Ada showed no sign of judgment. “And my third thing,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on his. “Is kisses in the night.”
Desire shot through him, compelling, demanding. “You must allow me to agree on that one.” His voice was thick with yearning.
“I will.” She smiled and moved closer. Peter’s arms reached for her.
Ella growled, the sound reverberating with an odd depth. Miss Ada’s smile died. “Oh, don’t let her go in there,” she said.
Peter turned and found that the little dog had pushed her head into the hole where the bat had disappeared. She seemed bent on making her shoulders follow. “She wouldn’t fit.”
“Ella can wriggle into the smallest spaces.”
Peter strode over and picked up the dog before she could try. He handed her to her mistress, then pushed the wooden chest snugly over the hole in the wall. “This should help until we can block the opening permanently,” he said. He gazed at Ella, who had saved him from wild imprudence and deprived him of what he wanted most in the world right then. The dog stared back from slightly bulging brown eyes, looking as thwarted as Peter felt. With an annoyed yip, she squirmed out of Miss Ada’s arms and returned to the corner to paw at the chest.
A call echoed up the stairwell.
Miss Ada stiffened. “Oh dear, what is the time?”
He took out his pocket watch and consulted it. “Twenty minutes past one.”
“I’m dreadfully late for Aunt Julia’s lesson! She’ll be so annoyed.” Miss Ada thrust the pad of paper and measuring stick at him. “Come, Ella.”
But the dog declined to leave her discovery. She sat as if she intended to contest the entry of any bat that tried to squirm through the reduced opening.
“Bring Ella down with you,” said Miss Ada. She ran out.
The space felt so much emptier with her gone, Peter thought. Far more than before she’d come. A waft of her sweet floral scent lingered behind, like a taunt on his solitude.
He went over to the pile of clothes he’d picked out. Putting down Miss Ada’s implements, he looked for a container and spotted a half-empty wooden box. He dumped out the contents—a clutter of mostly broken crockery—and filled it with the clothing. The pad of paper went on top, the measuring stick laid across it.
“I’m leaving,” said Peter to Ella. “You don’t really wish to stay here all alone.”
Ella’s resolve appeared unshaken.
“A cat will return once I’m gone. More than one perhaps.”
The dog ignored him.
“Large, fierce cats,” he added.
Peter made a sudden unexpected swoop on Ella, picking up the small animal and tucking her under his arm. Ignoring the dog’s objections, he hefted the box and left the attic.
Eight
“Miss Julia Grandison knows a deal of things,” Tom reported as the Earl of Macklin prepared to go down to dinner that evening. “She had us put together a load of this po-purry stuff. Turned out Cook had most of the ingredients on hand.”
“My mother used to make that,” said Arthur, settling the folds of his neckcloth before the long mirror in his bedchamber. “Quite a pleasant scent.”
“Lasts for years, she says,” replied Tom. “And fleas don’t like it. Right clever. Then we put by bunches of herbs and petals to dry.”
“She didn’t mind your joining them?” Arthur had wondered how Miss Grandison would react to Tom.
“Not so long as I behaved proper.”
“Which I’m sure you did.” Tom grinned at him, and Arthur thought again how much he enjoyed the lad’s lively company.
Clayton cleared his throat. Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You think this
neckcloth is too wide?” He trusted his valet’s taste above his own.
“No, my lord. Quite elegant. I was wondering—”
“When we are going back home?” Arthur supplied.
“If you please. There’s his lordship Jocelyn’s grouse hunt in November.”
The baron’s hunt was a much-anticipated feature of the autumn. His coveys were renowned, and a host of luminaries was invited. Arthur was expected to attend. Jocelyn, a neighbor and a friend, counted on him.
“And the family coming for Christmas,” Clayton added.
“We have to be back by then, of course.”
“Christmas,” said Tom.
Had the lad ever had a proper Christmas? Because it was the way they dealt with each other, Arthur simply asked him.
“Not certain what you mean by proper, my lord,” he answered. “The missus made a plum pudding when I was at her dame school. She roasted a goose as well. Right tasty, that was. I never turn down a good feed.” His smile was sunny. “But mainly I ain’t… Haven’t had much to do with Christmas.”
“Well, you will see a fine celebration at my home.” Arthur wondered what his grown children would think of Tom.
The lad nodded, acknowledging this promised treat with less enthusiasm than Arthur had expected. “I wonder if there’ll be a bat at dinner tonight?” he went on. “Conway said it was a rare sight to see. Miss Ada Grandison’s little dog going mad trying to catch the creature.”
“You won’t know, because you refuse to sit down with us.”
“Miss Grandison wouldn’t like it, my lord.” Before Arthur could answer, Tom added, “Or I wouldn’t. Too many finicking rules to remember. Not to mention trying to make po-lite conversation between bites.” With another smile to show he was joking and a gesture like a salute, Tom went out.
Clayton busied himself tidying the room.
“You are still wondering when we will leave Alberdene,” said Arthur. “As I have not answered you.” After all their years together, he could practically divine the valet’s thoughts.
“Yes, my lord.”
“You are more than ready to return to a familiar household.”
