“No.” I skid precariously on the parquet tiles into the rug and jog down the foyer.
“The study?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You do know you’re not twenty, don’t you?”
When I bound up the steps two at a time, Archer scolds gruffly behind me, “Act your age, River. I’d rather you didn’t break your scrawny neck.”
Instead of replying to his comment, I bend over the banister at the top of the stairs and pronounce, “The house was too big when half the rooms were closed off. We’ll have to make a concerted effort to spend fifteen minutes in each at least once a week. We could, of course, split up the task. I call dibs on the library.”
I can picture him shaking his head in the direction of my voice. “Right. I’ll be in there, then.”
Fifteen minutes later after I’ve performed my usual unmasking ritual, I’m ensconced in the middle of my four-poster bed, wrapped in a towel, my eyes fixed on an oxford blue article of clothing folded neatly on a shelf in my wardrobe. Since I moved back into the house and found that a few precious pieces of clothing had miraculously remained untouched by the fire, when home, I have been practically living in them.
Clean and pressed, Vale’s shirts sit there in an inviting stack. Besides long underwear and a single silk dressing gown, I have no other lounge clothes, which makes me think of the fact that I have no evening wear either. The one dinner party I’d attended with Selene, my costume had been rented for Reid’s use.
I’m afraid to stand, afraid I’ll be too tempted to walk over there and breathe him in—although no scent of him remains—to trace my fingertips over the worn fabric, to feel it against my skin. With my legs pulled tightly to my chest, my chin resting in the divot between my kneecaps, I consider my options as a tear rolls down my cheek. I cannot believe I have gotten through the whole day only to be felled by an odorless, soft shirt.
But I wouldn’t have fared so well if Allen hadn’t lain today’s outfit out last night, I remind myself. I also chastise myself for my weepiness these past two days.
“What’s your problem, exactly?” I whisper. I pause to reflect on this question, rubbing my chin back and forth across the tops of my knees. “Well, … like Archer doesn’t care enough for Kate, Vale doesn’t care enough for you, dummy. And he probably never did. Now that you can read him, you know that what you had was just in your imagination. So, basically, you’re feeling sorry for yourself.” Yeah, I am. Who else is going to?
The floorboards in the hallway creak. “A-Allen?” I question hesitantly.
“No. It’s me.”
“Oh, Quinn. Er, can I borrow a top? An undershirt or button-down doesn’t matter. Whatever you have will be fine.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and glance up to see him peeking in at me, halfway hidden behind the massive mahogany door.
“You’re crying.”
“It’s nothing. I was just remembering.”
He takes a few steps in and glances around, taking in the corners, ceilings, walls, windows, everything except the new furnishings and decor—as though the old bones of the room are still underneath, holding together the familiar essence of a past life. “Precisely why you shouldn’t have taken Reid’s rooms. There are plenty of others to choose from.”
I don’t correct him. “That’s okay, Quinn, I don’t mind, not at all. I want to remember Reid.”
He gives me a strained smile. “I’ll get you one of Allen’s shirts; you’ll be swimming in one of mine.”
He returns several minutes later and lays an ivory-colored linen shirt on my bed, eyeing the wardrobe. “You wouldn’t know it by his daily uniform, but Allen has more clothes than you or I combined. Counting what he’s wearing, it appears he has seven of everything.”
“Allen’s more than a little OCD—always has been.”
Quinn dallies for another minute, scanning the room for any telltale sign of Reid. His expression is grim and at once, aloof.
“I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Yes.”
Once I’ve dressed and collected myself, I slip into the library. “What are you reading?” I ask Archer.
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” he says without looking behind him. He closes said book and sets it on the small Belter table next to his chair.
I tap on a gilded red leather spine of another edition of the same novel. It’s shelved beside two equally beautifully bound copies of Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, which, in turn, resides on the shelf next to a long row of green clothbound books. “Oh good, it seems our man decided there were a few other titles worthy of shelving in addition to every edition of Cassell’s Household Guide to Every Department of Practical Life so far published. And in twos. No wonder the library looks fuller than I thought possible in six months.”
“We may want to read the same book at the same time,” he supplies succinctly.
“It’s practical,” Allen says, brandishing a platter with Archer’s now customary after-work drink.
Empty-handed, I plant myself across from Archer. He scans my outfit, a linen shirt and my post-fire black capris with a hole in the knee. One dark brow minutely flicks upward.
“Can I get you anything, River?” Allen asks.
“A glass of wine, thanks.”
Looking none too pleased, his eyes narrow and he asks, “Is that my—”
“Yes,” I say bluntly, knowing only one way to handle this. “Speaking of which, would you run to the shops for me tomorrow?”
Allen nods and flashes a row of perfect white teeth. His affinity for newness and duty overrides what everyone else considers a chore—shopping. As ever, like the rest of us in this way, Allen lives his role, and he’s been transitioning himself into the proper manservant mold since it became clear we were here to stay. He now excuses himself from conversations unless they have to do with the running of the household. Or he is absent from a family discussion from the start. He no longer dines with us regularly, nor does he involve himself in our investigations as he once did. If Selene were not coming to dinner Friday, I’m sure he would have excused himself already.
And this apparent distancing is not because he resents us as his sister once expressed: “We can be servants anywhere. It doesn’t have to be here, in this house, for them,” but because Allen Bryce has always been purpose-driven. It’s of no use telling him we value him for more than what he can and does do for us. He’s even asked to relocate to the rooms in the basement. He goes too far.
“I have nothing to wear for our dinner,” I say. “A formal jacket, waistcoat, and trousers. You’ll know better than I what I need and the style. But nothing ostentatious, it’s just a small gathering of friends after all. And I’ve found that I need more in the way of casual wear too—comfortable lounge pants and shirts, a nightshirt or two, and another dressing gown.”
“No problem. About Friday … since I’m joining you, Archer suggested we ask Mr. Carr to hire out one of his footmen and an additional parlor maid for the evening.”
“Can’t we hang our own jackets and serve ourselves?” I ask.
“‘It is a mark of ill-manners for a guest to be constantly asking for things to be passed to him, or to reach them from any distance. Least of all must he, under any emergency, rise and help himself,’” Allen quotes, patting his hip pocket where a compact volume of Cassell’s conveniently resides.
Archer looks at me with such an utter lack of expression it’s comical. “Ha! Fine, Bryce. By all means, let’s go with whatever you and Messrs. Cassell, Petter, and Galpin think is correct. Though I do find those gentlemen less than accommodating.”
Allen’s forehead wrinkles in consternation and his lips tighten as though I’ve just insulted President Grant and his vice presidents.
“I may have to miss the first half of our meal and promise to keep my nose to my plate for the second half.”
“And why is that?” Archer asks, studying me over the rim of his glass.
“Because I am
planning on coming as myself regardless of the Carrs’ footman and maid. Meaning, I don’t intend to wear my man face or clothes. Please keep that in mind when you pick out my dinner suit, Allen.”
I can read the unspoken question is both their faces. For Vale?
Allen nods once and marches from the room, returning shortly after that with my glass of wine. “I’ll see to it that the staff make themselves scarce once your guests are received and dinner is served,” he says a little stiffly.
“Lovely.”
“So, …” I hedge once Allen has left the room for good. “Avis Day.”
He holds up his hand to waylay any further comment I might make. “I won’t push.” He hesitates, then says, “I’m under no illusions that just because you’re acting like your clever self, laughing and smiling, that you and I are all right. I think we’re almost back to our old normal, and that’s not what I have in mind for us anymore.”
I focus my attention on the flecks of dust floating on the surface of my wine and swallow the lump in my throat.
“One more thing,” he says in the softest, deepest tone, “maybe two.” He carefully sets down his drink and leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers woven together. “Vale mentioned you asked him, but you’ve never asked me in all this time. And still, it’s another question you shouldn’t have had to ask. …
“When we couldn’t find you after the fire and were told yours was probably among the bodies lining the streets, I felt cold with dread. I went through the motions of looking for you but soon gave up. We looked for just a couple of weeks.” He bows his head and sucks in a deep breath. “I know you’re thinking that that would have been so unlike me, and it had more to do with you and me or that I didn’t care.
“Reid and Marlowe’s deaths were more than I could bear at the time. I couldn’t bring myself to learn for a fact that you were really dead too, even though that’s what I fully believed. I had to. Then Martin came knocking on the door that first January, talking some nonsense about some ‘young master St. Clair’ lying in a hospital bed just six blocks away. I asked him if it was a police matter, and when he said it wasn’t, I dismissed him. I didn’t give it a second thought for a day or two, and finally, I decided to see what that was all about. The boy was a St. Clair, after all.”
“I suppose when I’d come to terms with everything, I would have realized someone was living here,” I say, my usually raspy voice raspier still. “I’d visited a handful of times before, and it looked unoccupied. Though, I was too afraid to get any closer than the lakeshore. I slept there once, you know?”
“When? Where?”
“After I left the Blackwells. I slept behind the rocks. Just for the one night, though. It was blustery and cold, I remember. I was miserable. I knew I had to find someplace else for the longer term. You pretty much know the rest.”
“Christ, River, I’m so sorry.”
“Accepted. Now I—”
“The second thing … about having four hundred and fifty-one days to reveal the truth.”
I had about been about to put an end to Archer’s confession. But now, I am listening so intently my eardrums may pop from the strain.
“In that context, telling you that we were waiting for you to be ready must have sounded like such a copout. But for practically a year, I thought there was a chance we might return and simply imagined it was best if I let you forget about him. It seemed as though you had. You never mentioned him. And Reid was gone, you had enough to deal with. Basically, I didn’t want to rehash it all and cause you any more pain. … Do you remember looking out of the window at Lily Grace’s and spotting the man walking away from the building?”
“Yes.”
“I swear to you, River, I really did not know it was him then. It was only later that week he came forward.”
I bob my head absently. “He said.”
“It was clear we weren’t going back, so we decided on our alternate plan. I should probably let Vale tell you, …” He scratches his shadowed jaw. “He had been purposely avoiding the house and us. He even considered moving to Boston. He was frightened out of his wits of being pulled back to our time.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
Again I nod, staring blindly into the yard. “His life had become unbearable because of the St. Clairs. Nothing was waiting for him back there, nothing but a concrete cell to call home. We were as much his jailers as his own mind was.” Part of me wonders if Vale resents the blood that flows through veins too. Seeley Roth had chained him and the St. Clairs had caged him.
“Exactly.”
I swivel my head to look at my brother. “I can’t take anymore, Archer. Thank you for not making me ask, but I need a break from the drama. Please. Let’s talk about something not so exhausting.”
“I’ll tell you all about our missing-persons case over dinner. It’s about that time,” he says, unfolding his long limbs and rising to his feet.
Allen’s footsteps on the tiles of the butler’s pantry confirm Archer’s observation.
“We’re on it, Allen,” I announce getting up from my chair and following Archer across the hall.
“Find Quinn,” Archer says.
Our second new maid, a girl of eleven or so, scurries out of the room just as we are about to enter it. I hurriedly duck back behind the wall separating the foyer from the dining room.
“What is she still doing here?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” Archer murmurs back.
“Well, get rid of her!”
“Ruby?”
“Yes, sir?” The girl slinks back in the room. Shoulders hunched, head bowed, she twists her fingers together nervously.
“Why are you still here?” Archer asks in his usual severe forthright manner.
“Well, sir, I … that is, I was of a mind to ready the table for your sup-per this evening. This being my first time an’ all. I’m needing the practice ’fore Friday, sir, and Mr. Bryce said that would be fine so long as I were to disappear ’fore you come.”
“Well, I’ve arrived, and you’re still here.”
“Um, yes. I were just leaving, sir,” she says, talking into her chest.
“Practice your departure so is at least a quarter of an hour before my arrival in the future, okay, Ruby?” he says in a gentler tone. Without explaining the odd request, he adds, “Ten minutes at the latest. Now, go. Please.”
“Yes, sir.” She curtsies demurely and shuffles back out of the room.
“Who are you hiding from?” Quinn asks in a measured tone, sidling up beside me against the wall.
“Ruby, our new scullery/parlor maid.”
“Ah. You were almost caught, then.”
I pinch two fingers together to illustrate how close I’d come to being discovered. Although I still look like ‘a lad’ without my persona intact, Ruby has seen me as Reid St. Clair. If she’s astute enough, she would question my need for the disguise, put the pieces together, and possibly run with the story. Whatever use such news would serve her, it would do me no good, quite the opposite. In the hands of a gossipy servant—which I don’t know that Ruby is, truth be told—the news could absolutely ruin my life (all over again).
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“AND MRS. COOK?” I ask, looking at my watch and then scoping the kitchen from the doorway from which Ruby had exited.
“There is no need to hide her away anymore. I have been making adjustments since Selene left. Most recently, I added periodic pauses, lifts, and descents to her glide, such that her movement now simulates bipedal locomotion. And while still not very conversational, she’s been passing muster as the kitchen taskmaster for several weeks. Allen has not said otherwise. And when he asked the maid—Ruthy?”
“Ruby,” I supply.
“When Ruby was asked what she thought about working with Mrs. Cook, the girl—She is a girl correct? She looks to be twelve, …”
“Yes,” Archer confirms.
“The girl reported that Mrs.
Cook is clear with her instructions and fair. Ruby especially appreciates that Mrs. Cook tells her precisely how long to beat an egg, how long to stir a sauce, how long a soufflé stays in the oven, etcetera, as well as provides reminders should she forget or get caught up with another chore.” Quinn takes his usual chair across from me at the center of the table, Archer next to him.
“River.”
“Hm?”
Quinn dips his head and eyeballs a beveled green glass jar with an ornate silver lid that he’s pushed in between the soup tureen and the saucer of gentlemen’s relish. Why the condiment is ever-present, morning or evening, despite that none of us like anchovy is a mystery. I unscrew the lid and peer down at the creamy contents of the jar as Archer ladles a hearty soup of a greenish tint into bowls and thick slices of crusty bread onto plates.
“I found a partially empty container of your old face cream and was able to reproduce it,” Quinn says, taking the proffered portion.
“Quinn, you are a wonder!” I exclaim, sniffing the concoction. My brows furrow; I suspect my brother had missed a few key ingredients.
“I removed the fragrance as I’m sure you do not want to smell feminine. Also, I tested it with a small quantity of your current foundation. The effect is smoother, more natural coverage.”
I glance affectionately at him, but he is looking down at his dinner, his hands planted on either side of his bowl. I notice for the first time that he’s not wearing gloves. “My God, Quinn.”
He then looks up, and Archer does as well, following my gaze. “Yes, it works rather well.” He tilts his head and grants us a glimpse of the side of his jaw and his neck. The stark blue lines of the tech under the wrinkled and pink patches of burned skin seem to have vanished. The strange hollowness under his eyes and cheekbones remains, however. “I can make you a batch with scent if you like.”
“I would. Very much.”
“Also, the item you discovered in the tree Sunday—”
“Monday,” Archer says, spooning aside a questionable piece of meat in his bowl.
“What?”
No Time Like the Present Page 20
