Legs twitching with the desire to run headlong towards Elmsley, Hawk forced himself to continue on with the others and see to the task at hand. He might be able to convince the group that distribution of the firewood could wait for another day, particularly if the hour grew late or any of them appeared fatigued. Perhaps Mr. Forbes ought to look at the figures for each family and make a list of priority, thus streamlining their efforts.
After all, one would wish to be efficient in such matters.
Pile after pile of logs were loaded into the wagon, one of the men jumping into the bed and making a rather neat and orderly structure to it all.
Excellent, that would delay things creditably.
It also proved a fine point, as it allowed them to stack more wood into the wagon than they might have been able to otherwise. With a few simple steps, they had maximized their space and created order in the midst of their rather physical, seemingly menial task.
Whatever notion man had made of a thing called intelligence, it certainly was far more multifaceted than one might expect.
Certainly more than Hawk had expected, and each revelation of it made him ever more grateful for having his eyes opened, belated though it was.
Perhaps Nat would have the same experience, if he could be coerced to join them.
Glancing over at him now, there was no sign that his friend saw any kind of distance between himself and the men around him, often jumping down from his post at the reins to load wood with the rest of them. He’d toss logs up to the wagon bed, clap a few men on the shoulders and joke about their efforts, then spring back up to the seat and drive the horses on to the next pile.
If Hawk were not careful, Nat would outwork him, gentlemanly hands or not. He shook himself from his musings and returned to work, forcing his anticipation to be home to the back of his mind.
Finally, the wagon was loaded, and without Hawk saying a word, the decision was made to deliver and distribute the wood at another time. Handshakes went around the group, and then they dispersed, the tenants walking together towards their homes, apparently going for a drink at the village pub before they did so.
Nat stared after them with a furrowed brow.
“What?” Hawk prodded, catching the expression.
“A drink at the pub sounds rather perfect,” Nat grumbled. “I wonder that we were not invited.”
Mr. Forbes chuckled beside them. “I think, Mr. Robinson, it did not occur to them that you might wish to join them. If you wish to pursue them, however, I am sure you would be welcomed.”
As though he might consider it, Nat looked at Hawk hopefully.
Hawk shook his head firmly. “Not me. That would be a sure way to ruin their enjoyment. You go on, if you like. I’m for Elmsley.” With that, Hawk shook Mr. Forbes’ hand and turned on the path up to the house, not particularly caring if Nat followed.
Only a few moments later, Nat did follow, sighing dramatically. “I suppose you have a point.”
“I do try to, when I can,” Hawk said simply.
“May I partake of the spirits at Elmsley in place of the pub?”
“Of course, though I don’t know why you’re asking.”
“Politeness, my dear fellow. Pure and unadulterated politeness.”
Hawk shook his head in resigned disbelief, letting his friend ramble on in continued ridiculousness, without requiring much by way of response, until they reached Elmsley. At which point, Hawk immediately sought out his butler and the waiting message for him.
His staff at Elmsley being quite his favorite, the message was just as immediately produced, and Hawk broke the seal with a quick snap, his eyes tracing the letters before the page was fully at his eyeline. His heart pounded with an intensity that drowned out all else as Stafford’s words took shape in his mind.
“Is Clara back at Kirkleigh?” Nat asked simply, no hint of amusement, teasing, or any sort of irony in his tone.
Swallowing hard, Hawk nodded. “Yes,” he managed. “She is.”
Nat grunted once. “Good. Send her my regards.”
Hawk looked over at him quickly, then returned to the page.
He hadn’t planned on writing her. Hadn’t thought anything except wanting to know if she returned.
What in the world would he write to her about?
“Miss Moore, you’ve received a note.”
Clara looked up from her watercolor in the gardens of Kirkleigh in surprise, staring at Mrs. Clayton without shame. “I did? From whom, pray tell?”
The dignified, graying housekeeper smiled kindly at her, quirking a brow. “I haven’t opened it, Miss Moore. I believe that pleasure is yours.”
Snorting a soft laugh, Clara grinned and rose, setting aside her paintbrush. “I suppose it is.” She took the proffered note and opened it quickly, hoping for nothing and expecting nothing. She blinked as she stared at it. “It’s… it’s an invitation.” She looked at Mrs. Clayton in shock. “I don’t know anyone in the area anymore, Mrs. Clayton.”
Mrs. Clayton smiled further and patted Clara’s hand. “That is why one goes to such things, Miss Moore. To meet people and make friends.” She winked and proceeded back the way she had come.
Clara watched her go, grateful that the housekeeper had returned from her visit with her daughter and was here for this stay of Clara’s. She was a perfect match for Stafford in managing Kirkleigh, and she had been such a comfort to Clara in the two days she had been back.
There was a slight concern about how thick Phoebe and Mrs. Clayton were becoming. They had all taken tea together their first day back, and it was soon evident that the two women shared a similar commentary on the indecency of changing fashions, the inconvenience of stockings, and their growing intolerance for lack of musical ability, among other things.
Clara would not comment on their bizarre, budding friendship, unless they turned their bonding over disapproval onto her.
So far, she had been spared.
Time alone would determine if she continued to be so.
She looked back down at the invitation in her hand, the elegance of it rather remarkable, considering they were in a particularly quiet corner of Kent. It was embossed in gold, the writing on it particularly perfect, and it was distracting enough that Clara was content to admire them before actually acknowledging the content of the invitation itself.
When she finally did, her confusion was even more compounded.
Mr. and Mrs. Fleet requested her presence at an evening of dancing and cards next week.
Had she met the Fleets?
That was a stupid question, of course she hadn’t met them. She had not met anyone since being at Kirkleigh. She knew the Brownings, she supposed, though that meeting had been entirely unintentional. If they were in attendance, she would at least have someone to converse with, and perhaps not have to resort to mere politeness. Given she was supposed to investigate their estate, speaking with them would be paramount.
If they were not at the Fleets’, it would not be a disaster. After all, it was part of Clara’s assignment to act for all the world, to create a fixture in their imaginations, and it would be so much easier to do so without any previous impressions.
But she would always run the risk of meeting those who had known the young Miss Moore, and therefore would think themselves acquainted with the adult version. She was practiced enough by now, even without her training, to make allowances for such things, and to pass herself off well enough that it should make no difference. She would have to put herself out into the local Society soon enough, especially if she wished to gain any sort of favor with her neighbors, so she might as well do so at the Fleets’.
That would be far worse than any other aspect of the assignment. Clara had never been one eager for social engagement, though she would participate without any difficulty. Her ideal evenings were spent in the quiet of whatever home she imagined for herself, drawing something or other in a garden or by a fire…
It would likely be what she opted to do he
re at Kirkleigh, when she was not engaged in some other activity for the night.
But there was the issue of making free in a house that did not truly belong to her and allowing herself the comfort of using it as Hawk had encouraged her to.
It still seemed a foreign place without him.
Beautiful, immaculate, comfortable while still being immense and fine, but foreign still. Entirely unfamiliar, and a place she could not see her footing in.
She’d have to overcome that soon enough.
Kirkleigh was her place now, at least for a time, and she owed it to her character to be as familiar with it as Miss Moore had ever been.
Still, she could not bring herself to act on her once curious inclination to wander the house after all the rest had gone to bed. What would be the point of that now? She could wander the place during the day and claim simple reminiscence to any servant that wondered. After all, without Hawk…
Shaking her head, Clara returned her attention to the invitation again.
It would seem that the Fleets requested her Aunt Fern attend as well.
What a treat.
Phoebe would be delighted to go somewhere, to go anywhere, particularly if it meant that Clara would need to put on one of Tilda’s fancier ensembles. Why she took such delights when she was by far and away the more beautiful woman, Clara did not understand. She could have snatched any man of any rank, station, or fortune, and of any age, as well.
Clara would…
Well, attention was not something usually paid to Clara, and she was all the more accustomed to that.
What was Miss Moore’s life like in that regard? Did she have many admirers? Or any at all?
She’d have to go through the notes in her chest before the event, if not practice her dancing, as well.
It had been so long…
“Penny for your thoughts, Sparrow.”
Jumping in fright and clasping her invitation to her chest, Clara whirled, the exercises she had been taken through for her self-defense springing back into mind.
One of the Kirkleigh gardeners sat crouched there, grinning at her easily, a far younger man than one might have expected to have had a position on the gardening staff that was not at an apprentice level.
She had never seen him before, as far as she could recall, and no one should know her as Sparrow yet.
Especially not here.
“Easy,” he murmured, as though he were speaking to a skittish horse. “Milliner wrote me before you came back. I was placed here before your first visit in anticipation.”
Clara swallowed hard, her throat parched in a painful way. “Prove it,” she rasped, her fingers sliding against each other as they gripped the air.
The man’s smile never wavered. “Weaver took me from the Home Office fieldwork and bade me be of service to Milliner as needed. I worked at the Convent under Quinn, though I was out on assignment enough to rarely be seen. The day you started at the Convent, you wore a green muslin dress and a bonnet with yellow ribbon. Your first dormitory was the third floor, fourth window from the left. Miss Bartlett was the first window from the left on the second floor. Miss Lennox the third window on the second floor. After the first year, each of you rotated, and Miss Bingham—”
“All right,” Clara overrode, cutting him off with a quick slash of her hand even as her cheeks tinged with color. “I believe you. For heaven’s sake, it terrifies me that you possess such a memory. I half expect you to tell me the color of my petticoats on the third of October.”
“Cream with pink ribbons, Sparrow,” he replied without missing a beat.
Her eyes widened. “Now I’m only mortified.”
He chuckled and waved his hand easily. “No need. I’ve been trained to enhance my memory, and now it will not go back. I do not mean to frighten, only to inform you I am here.”
Hand at her throat, Clara nodded slowly, her fingers beginning to absently stroke and scratch at her skin in thought. “In what capacity? My protection? My watchman? My observer?”
His broad shoulders shrugged with a nonchalance that did not suit such a powerfully-built frame. “Yes, and a dozen other things, perhaps. If the need arises.”
The sound of an approaching carriage disturbed them, and the man turned to work at some weeds at the base of a bush nearby.
Clara raised her chin and walked in his direction, sitting herself on a bench nearby and pretended to read her invitation again. “And what do I call you?”
“Brick will do,” he muttered, yanking on a weed and placing it on the stone pathway beside him. “Mr. Brick if we’re formal, plain old Brick if we’re being official.”
“That makes it rather simple, doesn’t it?” Clara murmured as a smile creased her face.
He grunted once. “A rarity, you’ll find.”
Clara’s smile slowly faded as resignation set in. “That does not surprise me a jot. Do you know Phoebe, then?”
“Flora?” He laughed to himself, a rumbling sort of sound that reminded Clara of pipe tobacco and whiskey, her grandfather’s favorite combination. “Of course. I’ve known her for years upon years. We worked a number of assignments together in our younger years.”
“You’re not so old,” Clara said before she could stop herself, and clamped a hand over her mouth the moment the words escaped.
Brick laughed far more heartily now, his attention still on his work. “I’ll thank you for the compliment and swear not to tell her you said so.”
Clara put her hand to her flaming cheeks. “Now I feel very mortified.”
“That will fade,” he assured her. “Listen, Sparrow. You must take advantage of that party. The Fleets are in thick with the Brownings, and have connections in Bristol, which could indicate interests in shipping. You recollect the reports of Barcliffe cove and its possibilities?”
“Yes, of course.” Clara nodded firmly. “The first fair night, I intend to walk out and observe.”
Brick paused, glancing over at her. “Do me a favor and don’t venture there at night alone.”
Clara huffed once. “Then when should I, Brick? If I have an assignment to fulfill, I have a responsibility to fulfill it at all costs.”
“I said alone, Sparrow,” Brick insisted, exhaling roughly. “I’ll take notice of the tides and anything suspicious and leave word in your rooms. We will go down together, that way I may protect you from your own foolhardy judgment.”
“I think I am supposed to thank you, but I rather think I won’t,” Clara said with a sniff. “But the plan seems sound. Back to the point: I should acquaint myself with the Fleets for potential connections to the cove at Barcliffe. Any particular note of how I might improve relations once I am known?”
Brick made a playful face of consideration. “Possibly. They have daughters, and daughters need accomplishment, do they not?”
Clara blinked at him. “And the daughters are not at school? With the Convent being so near?”
“Not everyone finds education outside of the home palatable.” He continued to pull the weeds from the ground and set them into their pile. “I daresay a demonstration of artistic ability and a few lessons in improving theirs would set you highly in their favor.”
“Would it?” Clara mused, eyeing the invitation in her hand one more time. “Well, well. We shall see what I can do about that.”
“Miss Moore!”
Clara threw her hands in the air. “Now what?”
A maid hurried towards her, a note in her hand. She curtseyed when she reached Clara. “Begging your pardon. Mrs. Clayton asked me to bring this to you.” She handed her the note, bobbed again, then darted away.
“My, my, when did I become so sought after?” Clara muttered to herself, shaking her head. Breaking the seal, she felt her heart give way and sprout wings, fluttering within her.
Miss Moore—
I do believe I have forgotten a pair of gloves at Kirkleigh when I left for Elmsley Abbey. Would it be a terrible imposition to ask you to send them on, if you find
them? I shall be very grateful.
Kirklin
How had he known she was here? Why in the world would he send this note to her instead of Stafford or Mrs. Clayton? What sort of gloves were they?
Was that all he wanted to say?
Her mind spun on various questions, then she grinned without reserve or shame.
The Duke of Kirklin would never know one pair of gloves from another, and leaving a pair behind was a valet’s concern, not his own. This note was useless, by all accounts.
Except one.
“Have you noticed an abandoned pair of the duke’s gloves, Brick?” Clara asked almost airily.
“Have I what?” he repeated, not having any idea what she was saying. “Why in the world would anybody notice a thing like that? White doesn’t leave things, and the duke rarely wears gloves.”
Clara grinned further still. “Never mind, then. Must be mistaken. I shall have to write and tell him so.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Oh dear, oh dear, how foolish of me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Hawk looked up from his letter, his laughter still echoing in his breath. “What?”
Nat blinked owlishly, a book in his hand and his pose in the chair growing more inelegant by the minute. “You said ‘oh dear’ and something about being foolish.”
Had he really said it loudly enough to be overheard? Cursed idiot, having a friend always hanging about him was growing more and more inconvenient.
Hawk gritted his teeth, forcing a smile. “I thought I had forgotten something at Kirkleigh, but apparently, I did not.”
“Of course, you didn’t,” Nat said with a scoff. “White never forgets anything, and he is famous for it.”
Nat knew that, and Hawk knew that, but Clara wouldn’t know that.
Fortune Favors the Sparrow Page 16
