The girl lowered her head. “I… I haven’t the royals, Miss Olivia. Foster charges a pretty penny, and I can’t bear to ask Rosie or Missus Faraday, and….”
Olivia looked surprised, then angry, and then her face twisted into something Chris couldn’t recognize. She smoothed it all over, and it was gone. She sighed. “I… well. I can certainly do my level best, Mabelle. I’ll put it on the docket.”
“Ah, thank you, ma’am!” Mabelle said, her voice raising a full octave in her gratitude.
Olivia winced. “Miss, Mabelle, please. Ma’am is my mother. You’re allowed to call me ma’am the day she dies and convinces me to run this place in her absence and not a single bloody day before.”
“Yes, miss. I understand, miss.”
“Good. Now. Could you bring out Alouette and then saddle up some appropriately easy mount for my companion, here?”
Miss Greene was a fast worker. After bringing a beautiful, glossy black mare to Olivia, the young stablemaster brushed and tacked up a placid-eyed, white-socked brown gelding for him. Chris watched with apprehension as the girl murmured encouragingly, and the horse’s ears flicked forward and back in response.
While Olivia checked her mare’s hooves, Mabelle Greene swung an arm around the brown gelding’s neck and smiled at Chris. “Hobby’s a sweet old boy,” she assured him. “A little jerky on the canter, but his gallop is smooth as gnome-wheels.”
“Ah,” Chris laughed nervously. “I highly doubt that I’ll be galloping!”
Miss Greene peered at him and then burst into surprised laughter. “Mother Deorwynn! You don’t ride?”
“He’s such a city boy,” Olivia called. She was already up on her mare’s back with her skirts hiked up high enough that Chris had to cough and look away. “Come now, Christopher. You’re a right beanstalk of a fellow. I’m sure you can get up on a horse’s back with the help of a stirrup, seeing as I could scramble up bareback when I was nine!”
Olivia, apparently, has been capable of all sorts of country feats when she was nine years old. It made for a fascinating mental image if nothing else.
Chris looked up at the saddle. It wasn’t so very far. He had no real fear of heights… but he couldn’t say the same when it came to making a fool of himself in front of witnesses.
Olivia giggled. “Do you need Mabelle to give you a boostie?”
Well. That did it. He had to get up on his own, now, or he’d never hear the end of it. He approached the horse with trepidation and tried to remember things that he’d read in books. He recognized the pommel. So. If he reached up, just so, and gripped the pommel, and then placed his right foot in the stirrup, he could haul himself up and throw his leg over the far side….?
He was almost shocked when he found himself settled into the saddle without difficulty. Mabelle Greene grinned, and Olivia clapped and cheered.
“Very good, Christopher!” she crowed, and then, twisting back about in her saddle, called, “lesson two!” She kicked her mare’s sides twice, and Alouette set out at a brisk trot.
Chris shot a questioning look down at Miss Greene’s dark face. The girl nodded encouragingly and waved him on, and he took a deep breath before kicking his gelding’s sides. The mount surged into a trot, which felt worryingly fast, and he was off out of the dark, dim stable after Olivia.
He emerged onto a beaten-down path threading through a field of honeysuckle, aster, and yellowing grasses. The back of the house was to his right, large windows all facing the orchards. To his left, the field continued at some distance before a tangled forest of alder and elm claimed dominance.
And before him?
Apple trees.
They stretched out as far as he could see, descending down in a long slope from where the estate sat atop the hill. Rows upon rows upon rows vanished into indistinct green-and-yellow leafiness far in the distance, and all of them were heavy with fruit. The sun was bright and butter-yellow, and the air smelled like apple cider.
Chris breathed deep.
Olivia reined her mare in enough for him to pull up even with her. “Miller Orchards,” she said. She dropped the reins to point off in the distance, and he followed the line of her arm, squinting. There was an indistinct brown blur that he thought was probably quite a large grouping of buildings. “And the cider mill,” she said, turning to give him a brief grin. “Have you ever seen so much wild, open space in all your life?”
“No,” he replied. In all honesty, he was a little overcome. He loved the city. He loved the whirl of happening, the fashions, the variety of smells, the interesting people, the feeling of being a small part of something grand. But this? This was an entirely different pleasure. A lonely, rambling, windswept acreage where everything was lush and overrun and the way it should be, the way that Eadwyr and Healfdene had formed it with their cracked and wrinkled hands. He could start walking in one direction, go for hours, and never see another human being. The thought gave him a sharp bite of panic, but there was something liberating about it, as well. All of this… it made city life seem so artificial and claustrophobic, in comparison.
“Come on, then,” Olivia said, urging her mare back up to speed along the beaten path. Chris followed her, trying not to take note of her hiked skirts or prominent bloomers. Goodness, Olivia.
It took two kicks before Hobby, the gelding, obeyed his commands. He had a feeling the horse knew he was an inexperienced rider and was enjoying a lazy afternoon. “Where are we going?” Chris asked.
“The guest house,” Olivia replied. “It’s a small estate on its own, and that’s where Em was staying—she and Doctor Livingstone both. She set up a laboratory there. I figure it’s as good a place as any to start. I won’t pretend that I’ll be able to make much sense of Em’s research, but we should at least be able to get a sense of where she was with it, which might give us some idea of where she could be and what chased her away from here.”
The path split. The more heavily beaten branch twisted off to one side of the orchard, while the rougher one leads beneath the apple trees. It was the latter path Olivia turned them down.
“Do you… really think she’s in trouble?” Chris asked.
Voicing the question created a sense of heaviness in his middle. He’d avoided thinking about it after Maris’s initial appearance at the office yesterday. Between preparations for travel, anticipation at the thought of seeing Rosemary and Rachel, and, of course, what had happened with William, it had been easy to push those occasional paralyzing thoughts of Miss Banks in distress from his mind.
But with the words spoken, the bright day seemed to darken slightly.
Olivia ducked her head as they went under the first row of trees. Chris echoed the movement.
“Mn, well,” Olivia said, glancing briefly back, “I’d be a bloody idiot if I didn’t think that she was in some sort of difficulty. Garrett Albany has specifically taunted her before, and she claims that she regularly receives ‘helpful’ letters from the Combses suggesting where her efforts could be more productively spent. She’s frequently back in the city, working on all manner of threatening projects that could overturn the status quo. When she’s not, she’s here, in Summergrove, associated with Doctor Livingstone and not so far a throw from your sister. The attacks at the Piffleman’s Gala House might have included you and your father’s mysterious list in their considerations, but it was Emilia’s automobile that was the primary target of the attack.”
A whole lot of words to avoid the main thrust of his question. Chris brushed aside a branch heavy with apples and swayed to avoid another. “I mean to ask if you think she’s in a position of danger right at this moment, Olivia. Not about some nebulous threats that may never come to fruition.”
Olivia sighed. “I know,” she said. She reached up and plucked a russet apple from a branch with a quick twist of her wrist. “In truth, while I hesitate to speculate, I think that Maris is both jumping the gun and entirely right to be concerned. Do I think that Emilia is right now, as we speak, b
eing held at gunpoint in need of a rescue? Most likely, no. But that doesn’t mean I think that coming here was a mistake. Gods know, I wouldn’t have subjected myself if I didn’t think there really was a risk to my friend.”
Chris’s eyes widened. “Friend?” he repeated.
She shot him a glare and then thrust her nose into the air and turned away. “Did I say friend? Nonsense. You heard wrong. What bollocks.” She sank her teeth into the apple and moaned with overt pleasure in that way she did when trying to distract him. Juices slid down her chin. Even knowing the game, Chris averted his eyes; it was altogether pornographic.
“Then… should I be worried about her?” Chris asked quietly.
Olivia sighed. “Who am I to say? Worry if you’re worried, Christopher. Personally, I’ll settle for investigating. Answers trump anxieties every time.” She stood in her stirrups, seized a russet apple from a laden bow, and tossed it playfully in his direction.
Chris gasped and reached for it. He managed to catch it in two hands, and Olivia clapped delightedly. “There you are!” she exclaimed. “Take a bite, do! Miller russets are the best snacking apples anywhere in Tarland, everyone knows.”
He polished the rich green-brown skin against his greatcoat until it shone, and then, conscious of Olivia’s eyes on him, he took a bite. The flesh beneath exploded into nutty sweetness in his mouth, and his eyes widened and flew to his employer.
She laughed. “It’s good, isn’t it?” she pressed.
He swallowed and wiped the juices from his chin with his sleeve. “It’s fantastic,” he admitted, impressed. “It’s almost like… like a pear.”
“But better,” Olivia stressed, tossing her head, laughing and turning away. She kicked Alouette up into a trot once again, threading beneath the trees. Munching on his marvellous apple, Chris followed her.
The beaten path threaded in and out of others, all leading in different directions, and Chris was soon hopelessly lost as they wound their way beneath the cover of the trees. Hobby’s hooves crushed fallen, overripe apples and the air was heavy with their sickly sweet scent. Occasionally, Olivia would point to a new line of trees.
“Those are Bramleys,” she said, indicating a tree heavy with apples green as budding leaves. “Don’t snack on them, because they’re heavy, tart, and will break your teeth off, but there’s nothing better for pies or crisps.”
“Cox apples, there.” This tree was covered with fruits so small they looked like the crabapples that grew on the tree down the road from the Buckley estate. “They’re just sprouting, now. Late season growers, those. They help spread labour out through the year, and we can pick them until heavy snows.”
Her voice was filled with pride when they reached a row of trees laden with shiny red apples.
“Miller reds,” she said, positively glowing. “The perfect blend of sweet and tart, heavy in tannin and perfect for cider brewing. My many ancestors spent generations developing them, perfecting the breed. It’s the secret to Miller Ciders. Well,” she corrected, tapping her nose. “Part of the secret. No one knows exactly how to reproduce the Miller recipe except a Miller.”
He shouldn’t ask, but the flames of curiosity licked at his stomach. “For someone so disinterested in the family business, you seem awfully proud of it.”
Olivia blinked. She looked away. Her shrug seemed feigned and insincere. “No one ever accused me of humility, Christopher,” she said, voice flippant. “Surely you don’t find it out of character for me to claim responsibility for something impressive out of a desire to be complimented for it.”
He itched to say something insightful and poignant. Perhaps along the lines of I know quite a bit about confusing family legacies, myself. But every scenario he imagined ended with Olivia snapping something sour, kicking Alouette into a canter, and leaving his inexperienced self lost in a labyrinth of apples. Better to let it lie, no matter how badly he wanted to unlock another piece of her puzzle. He kept his peace, and they soon arrived at the guest house.
Olivia had told true when she said it was nearly an estate in its own right. Two stories and decidedly sprawling, it was as rustic and quaint as the main manor house, constructed from fine woods with little paint to interrupt the rich shades of brown. It had its own small stable, a hitching post, and, from the lovely smells coming from somewhere nearby, a kitchen. When they pulled their horses to a halt, he could hear the babbling of water coming from somewhere behind it.
A garden of brightly coloured pansies formed a rainbow moat around the structure. Chris exclaimed as he slid down from Hobby’s saddle. He’d never seen so many shades at once. Not only were there pansies of every colour, but many flowers had multiple, different shades on each petal. Some had beautiful dark cores. Others were uniform. Still others wore their colours as a gradient. “How remarkable!” he said, bending to gently run his fingers against the satin folds of one flower, a rich strawberry red with each petal outlined in shockingly pure white. “I’ve only ever seen lavender and blue pansies.”
Olivia brushed past him to knock at the front door. “A talented horticulturist in the family made it a personal project,” she said. Her tone was flippant, but there was something in her voice… some deep emotion that he knew, somehow, she was desperately trying to hide from him.
“They’re very beautiful,” Chris said.
“They’re utterly impractical,” Olivia retorted. “What a bloody waste, playing the artist with flowers instead of hybridizing superior apples. Can you imagine being so useless?” But there was no venom in her voice. He could have sworn that, instead, he heard a note of… fondness.
Maybe even sadness.
She seemed to hear it, too, seemed to realize that she may have revealed too much. She sniffed, faced forward, and knocked again, harder. “Hullo?” she called. Her foot was tapping. “Doctor Livingstone! You had better not have your nose in a book, or somewhat! I’m here on official business!”
Something prickled between Chris’s shoulder blades. He became aware, with a sort of crystal-clear certainty that made his bones vibrate, that someone was watching him.
Just as he was about to turn, the door opened inward. A plain young man in shirtsleeves with extremely thick eyebrows stood at the threshold. Chris was certain he’d never seen him before, and yet there was something incredibly familiar about his eyes. They were blue-grey and seemed to dance and sparkle even as the fellow ducked his head shyly.
Olivia made a thoughtful noise. “Well,” she said. “You’re not the good doctor at all, now are you?”
“Ah, no,” the young man admitted. “That is, I’m his research assistant. Ah, I mean, that is to say, I’m his nephew. Doctor Livingstone’s nephew that is.” He wiped a hand on his wrinkled trousers before extending it to Olivia. “Mister Arthur Norwood, ma’am, at your service.” He seemed to remember, all at once, that the doctor was here secretly, and he should be suspicious. “I—who are you, exactly? And what need have you of Uncle Francis?”
“Ugh.” Olivia made a face. She shook his hand as if she were removing a dead cat from a drainpipe. “Miss, please, not ma’am. My name is Olivia Faraday, Mistress Elouise’s daughter. I’m sure you see the resemblance? Yes, quite right, there’s a good lad. This is my assistant. I need to ask Doctor Livingstone some questions.”
From deep within the guest house, a familiar, warm voice called down. “Arthur? Who’s that, now?”
With an apologetic look at Olivia, Mister Norwood half-turned and raised his voice. “A woman named Olivia Faraday, Uncle, with an assistant.”
A pause, and then: “Christopher Buckley? By all means, Arthur! Let them in!”
As Mister Norwood stood dutifully to one side and Olivia swept past, Chris chanced to dart a quick look behind him. His chest went cold, and he could have sworn that he saw a twisted, nightmarish visage slipping between two apple trees, out of sight. But after that brief glance, nothing moved in the orchard, and when Olivia clucked her tongue impatiently, Chris turned away and hurried t
o follow after her.
hris expected to be led to a laboratory. Instead, Mister Norwood escorted them to a small room absolutely filled with photographs.
They were pinned up on clothespins above their heads, hanging in rows along the walls, stacked or laid out on surfaces. Olivia exclaimed delightedly, reaching up as if to lift one for closer examination, only to find her arms too short to reach. Chris, on the other hand, felt the top of his head brushing against some of the lower hanging specimens.
“Uncle Francis?” Mister Norwood called. His voice was of a tremulous sort. He really was a timid fellow, Chris thought. Perhaps self-conscious, due in part to the unfortunate eyebrow situation? “Your guests are present.”
“Just one moment, dear boy.” The doctor’s voice was muffled, and Chris spied a doorway in one corner of the room. It was the only surface, vertical or horizontal, that was not covered in photographs. The voice seemed to be coming from there.
“Uncle set up a small dark room in that closet.” Mister Norwood rubbed the back of his neck. “I say he should be spending more time in the lab and less fiddling with a flashbulb, but….”
“But your baby cousin is the light of my life, Arthur, and I want there to be a record of my years in exile for her so that she never thinks I abandoned her.”
Olivia raised an eyebrow. She finally found a photo that she could actually reach and held it up to get a better look at it. “A very thorough record,” she said archly.
“Just so, Miss Faraday.” The door opened, and Doctor Francis Livingstone emerged.
The last time Chris had seen the good doctor, he had just been released from his many months in police custody, where he had been mistreated and neglected. He’d been barely a skeleton, all life crushed from his once spry body.
Three months of good, honest work; big, regular meals; and hearty country air had done a world of good. The doctor looked less like the hopeless wisp who’d stood accused of orchestrating the greatest single tragedy civilization had ever known and more like the pleasant, kind, bright-eyed older gentleman who had first offered Chris a way out of Darrington City that spring. He’d never been able to follow through on that offer, but to this day, Chris cherished it. The good doctor had made him feel as if he had choices. Options. Chris only wished that he’d trusted Livingstone earlier.
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