Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  Adkins bowed, clearing his throat, and scooted from the room, his lips quirking at Adrianna as he passed her.

  She did not notice.

  “I see your manners are not yet accomplished,” Hawk observed, clasping his hands behind his back and making his way around the sofa towards her. He indicated the streaks on her pinafore with his head. “What have you done there?”

  His sister did not look. “I was in the gardens for a lesson in biology,” she snapped, showing him the soiled tips of her fingers as proof. “And I would be washing now before taking my luncheon in those same gardens were I not standing here wasting words with you. What do you want?”

  Hawk grinned, oddly loving how fiery his sister could get and how completely unimpressed she was with regards to anything about him. She would never blindly accept anything he set down, would never turn submissive and meek towards him, and would never do anything he ordered without a rousing fight of her own. Which also meant she would never be any man’s plaything, nor take any abuses ill-advisedly tossed in her direction.

  It might make her a terror to several men in all classes, but God help him, he adored that about her.

  “I would not be disappointed in an embrace from my sister,” he said with a playful wince. “Particularly since we are not observed, and it would not embarrass her to anyone.”

  Adrianna’s mouth twitched, just as he’d hoped, and she marched towards him, hands returned to her hips. “I’ll not hug you,” she told him primly, “as it would be a crime to smear your excellent ensemble with this dirt.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” he replied in delight, looking down at it. “I wore it just for you.”

  “Charmed.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, winking with a smile as she lowered back down. “What are you doing here?” she asked again, her tone far tamer now.

  Hawk wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and kissing her hair. “Seeing you, of course.”

  She jabbed a sharp elbow into his side. “I mean it!”

  “So do I!” he protested, looking down at her. “You send me a letter asking for permission to volunteer, but don’t say anything about what you will be doing or what I need to say in order to give it to you. Since I was doing nothing in particular at Elmsley, I thought I’d ask you in person what you will be doing and what you need from me.”

  Adrianna jerked to stare up at him with wide eyes. “You did? I mean, you are? I mean… you’re going to give me permission?”

  Her disbelief was a clear indication of her fervent desires, and he’d have given her whatever she wanted for such a touching reaction.

  But he was her elder brother, and her guardian, so he knew better than to give in so easily.

  “More than likely,” he said with a cautious look, “but I need to know the details, Addie.”

  She beamed at the pet name, her eyes crinkling in a way they rarely did anymore, as she rarely smiled so broadly. “You haven’t called me that in ages, Georgie.”

  He sputtered and tapped at her ear with the hand dangling at her shoulder. “And you’ve never called me that, for which I am most grateful.” He gestured for her to give him whatever it was he had to look at. “Do you have a letter or something I’m to sign for this venture you want to be part of?”

  Adrianna scrunched up her face in consideration. “In a way, though hardly so formal. I was simply to provide proof of permission, but I can fetch the description of the opportunity, if you like.”

  “Please do.” He smiled, tapping her ear again, which made her squirm away. “I’ll wait here, we’ll talk about permissions, and then we’ll have tea. Does that suit you?”

  Nodding eagerly, Adrianna dashed from the room, leaving Hawk chuckling behind her. He sat in one of the nearby chairs, then rose again just a minute or two later when a maid brought in a tea tray, then sat when she had departed. He smiled to himself as he crossed one leg over the other, looking about the room again.

  It was rather charming, now he looked at it more comfortably. Perhaps he ought to do one of his drawing rooms in a similar shade and style, preferably one that had a goodly number of windows. The natural light added much to the room itself, and with the right sort of scenery beyond those windows, it would be a lovely room indeed.

  “Oh my…”

  He glanced back at the doorway and saw his sister returned, staring at him with wide eyes, no hint of a smile in her features. “What?”

  She blinked. “You look so relaxed and easy, so unnervingly like Griffin at this moment, I am not sure which brother is visiting me.”

  Hawk scoffed and pushed to his feet with a scowl. “I beg your pardon; he is a popinjay in need of a close shave and limited access to spirits. I barely resemble the man.”

  Adrianna blinked again, her lips curving into a smile once more. “Ah, it is you, George. What a relief.”

  He snorted at that and waved her in, gesturing to the sofa nearest the chair he’d chosen. She scampered in and handed the document to him before sitting at the very edge of the sofa, her hands tightly gripping each other in her lap.

  Hawk smiled as he eyed the paper before him. “You really want to do this, don’t you, Addie?”

  “Yes!” she all but squealed. She scooted somehow closer, her eyes filled with a passionate light. “The girls that come into the school from the Rothchild Academy are so impressive, Hawk. You would never know they are lowborn, or cast-off orphans, or taken in from the streets themselves. One of my very closest friends here was a Rothchild-sponsored student, and she could do anything when she leaves here. I think she would make a rather marvelous woman of business, though she’ll likely never get to do anything of the sort.” She shook her head, her throat working. “I want to help, Hawk. However I can.”

  It was impossible to be anything less than moved by her words, and Hawk had trouble enough returning his attention to the list without emotion.

  The items were simple and straightforward enough, but even if they had been more involved, had put Adrianna in more of a public light, he probably would have agreed.

  As it was, there was no question.

  “All right,” he murmured, his voice surprisingly rough. “Where should I sign?”

  “And in here, we have the library, which was not much before my grandfather inherited, but now I think you can agree, it is rather impressive.”

  Clara sighed in a show of delight, looking around at the shelves which were, admittedly, full of books, but the room itself held no distinctive features, no admirable architecture, and no indication of any recent use.

  For an impressive room, it did not seem to be so for those that owned it.

  “What a fine collection, Mr. Browning!” Phoebe praised, lying through her teeth, though her tone hid that perfectly. “Are you an avid reader yourself? With such a delightful collection, you surely must be!”

  Mr. Browning hemmed and hawed, blustering with some show of modesty, though it was impossible to tell how much of it was genuine. “To my everlasting shame, Mrs. Daniels, I am not as avid a reader as I ought to be with such a collection at hand. I have not the patience for it, nor the inclination to spend much time doing so.”

  Clara moved to the windows, too small for the size of the room, but positioned well enough to give someone within a lovely view of the cliffside. Barcliffe was closer to the coast than Kirkleigh was, actually giving her a glimpse of the waves curling on the sea. Why, one could easily stroll from the house to the edge of the cliff without growing the least bit breathless or fatigued.

  That was an interesting position, and one that not a lot of people would have enjoyed. Certainly, small children would not have done well in a house with such risks near it, but if anyone had interests in the sea…

  Well, then Barcliffe was rather perfectly set.

  She’d struggled with the disappointment of the night on the beach with Brick. Hours upon hours sitting there, falling asleep while waiting for ships to arrive or anyone to appear on the bea
ch, and nothing had happened. She’d questioned Brick a number of times, ashamed that she had slept on her first assignment, and he’d repeatedly assured her that there had been no sign at all of anything happening other than night on the shore. No smugglers, no ships, not even any small fishing boats.

  How could there have been nothing when she’d heard something so promising from the very person whose property she needed to explore? Had she jumped into this entire venture completely blind? Was she too naïve, too inexperienced, to do something of such importance as work to protect the country’s interests?

  These questions continued to swirl about her mind, though Phoebe had refused to let her grow melancholy or morose since then. She’d been the perfect mentor, taking Clara aside to commiserate on the uneventful evening, on the perceived failure, and what it could mean for her and for them. It might have been a failure, Phoebe had said, but that did not mean the mission had failed. Rather, it could simply add another aspect or dimension to the assignment, and it now fell to them to determine what the failure meant about the situation.

  It had been an eye-opening experience, learning to view such a mistake in such a way. The discussion had gone on for several hours, long after either of them should have been asleep, but Clara, for one, had never felt her mind work so vigorously. It had certainly cured her of the despondency she had felt brewing, and she had quickly adjusted her thinking in the way Phoebe had encouraged her to.

  Which meant this outing to take tea with the Brownings was more than just a social call.

  It was an investigation.

  So far, it had been rather uneventful, and downright boring. They’d come for tea, as promised, and Mrs. Browning had carried all conversation in her own hands, hardly granting either of them opportunity to say a single word. Neither of them minded, of course, but it had gone on so dreadfully long. Then she had insisted on their touring the house with her, taking them to each and every room she could. Mr. Browning had taken over when they had found him in his study, and Mrs. Browning had begged to leave them to discuss a few household matters with their housekeeper, leaving them to the effusive and longwinded explanations of her husband without any rescue.

  Should she have had any rescue to give them.

  Clara ignored whatever their host was saying now as she observed the scene from the window, the day growing far more dreary than it had begun. The distance from the house to the cliffs was the most exciting thing Clara had found about this house yet, and she could yawn at its discovery.

  It was growing more and more evident that the Brownings were not involved in whatever was occurring at their cove, if anything was occurring there, and Clara could not say she was surprised.

  They were both so completely ordinary that she wouldn’t think them proper candidates for their own village’s interest, let alone England’s, and especially not France’s. It was entirely possible that their shoreline and cove were being used by this French faction and its supporters without them having any idea of it.

  Sympathy for them was not overwhelming in Clara’s heart, and she could not rightfully say why. They had not insulted her nor offended her, and they certainly seemed to be fair enough neighbors, but something about their keen interest in everything and everyone irked her beyond polite irritation.

  They were no simple busybodies, that was certain.

  “Miss Moore, did I hear you in conversation with Mrs. Fleet the other night?” Mr. Browning asked, his voice booming needlessly. “Something about helping their daughters to increase their artistry?”

  Clara turned from the window to smile at him with the kindness she ought to possess. “I promised to advise the girls on their artistic abilities in watercolor, Mr. Browning,” she corrected with the gentleness of a dove. “I daresay each possesses her own version of artistry, as the word stands.”

  Mr. Browning blinked without comprehending. “Yes, yes, of course,” he eventually muttered with a bland tone that proved his lack of understanding. “Well, you shall find them very accomplished girls. Might I persuade you to bring them here? They could paint our cove, and all!”

  Really, it was as though Mr. Browning wanted her to discover something.

  Smiling further, Clara nodded with an eagerness she did not need to entirely feign. “What a lovely notion! I am sure it would be perfect, Mr. Browning, if you do not feel we would be an imposition on your property.”

  “Not at all, not at all!” he exclaimed, the volume of his voice making her jump. “And you must stay for tea, all of you, and them as well. Mr. Fleet and I will be able to discuss tedious affairs of business while the ladies are at their art, and we might all walk the beach together once the tea is done! What say you to that, hmm?”

  “I say perfection could not be more suitably settled,” Clara praised, dipping her chin in a show of modest approval, tucking bits and pieces of his words into her mind to record in her diary later.

  There would be much to plan and much to consider.

  “Then I shall write to Fleet today!” Mr. Browning insisted, grinning so broadly his girthy cheeks strained with it. “Extend an invitation to them all. Shall we settle it for next Tuesday, hmm?”

  “That would be the morning after the assembly ball, Mr. Browning,” Phoebe pointed out with a severe look. “Are the Fleet girls out?”

  He turned to give her a blank expression. “I haven’t the foggiest, Mrs. Daniels. Pray, at what age do girls usually get out?”

  Clara put a hand to her brow, now that she was out of her host’s eyesight. ‘Get out,’ he’d called it. And this was a man who had raised children? If he was a spy for the French, she would call herself Marie Antoinette, never mind the poor taste in it.

  Phoebe, thank heavens, was kinder towards him. “When did your own girls come out, Mr. Browning?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he admitted without hesitation. “Before their marriages, certainly.”

  Clara looked up at the ceiling with a long-suffering sigh she could not hide, longing to be rid of their host, and to simply wander the unremarkable home to discover its more remarkable secrets. Enduring the tedium of his company was trying enough, but to investigate his home and his manners for the sake of the kingdom? She’d rather investigate the King himself and would not consider her efforts there in the least wasted.

  The art upon the ceiling, however, was also not a waste.

  Of all things, they depicted ships at sea, and a great many of them, in one place or another. They were positioned strangely, at odd angles and without much pattern to them. They varied in size, yet all were clearly schooners or clippers, with tiny rowboats dotted along here and there. It was almost as though they mirrored the stars in the sky, though the clusters of boats were too gathered to do such a thing.

  “Ah, you notice our fine artwork above, Miss Moore.”

  Slowly, she lowered her chin to look at Mr. Browning, the change in position of her head making her a bit light-headed, though it cleared quickly enough. “It’s magnificent,” she praised without hesitation. “It perfectly captures the struggle man faces upon the seas.”

  He seemed impressed by her assessment and glanced up himself. “Yes, I suppose it does. All the waves and the winds… So many ships… yet the sea always has her way…” He nodded in approval and smiled at Clara again. “Very astute, Miss Moore. Perhaps you ought to be a teacher.”

  Her ears seemed to burst into flame at his words, and the backs of her knees suddenly lost all feeling. Tingling pains pulled at her stomach as she struggled to maintain her smile at him, and her mind spun with the attempt to answer appropriately.

  Did he know? Or was he simply paying her a compliment with a secret irony he could not fathom?

  “I was barely a passable student,” Clara heard herself say, her smile aching. “I can only imagine how I should fare in attempting to teach any myself.”

  “I am sure you are too modest,” he replied, his tone losing just a hint of the boisterous air it always carried.


  Something was wrong here. It was slight, it was unclear, but it was there.

  Something.

  “Oh, dear me!” Phoebe exclaimed, looking at the clock on the mantle. “Is that the time? Mr. Browning, do forgive me. We have enjoyed our time here to such an extent, we have stayed far longer than we ought to have done. I am this moment due to call at the milliner’s shop in the village for my new bonnet. Will you forgive a hasty departure from us?”

  “Certainly, certainly,” he replied, gesturing to the door. “Mustn’t keep Madam Garlet waiting. She does have an eye, as I understand, so you shall want for nothing, Mrs. Daniels, though your beauty would make any bonnet quite fortunate.” He offered her an arm and escorted her to the door, and Clara followed, breathing barely steady.

  Retreating now was fortunate indeed, and she had much to consider, surely. An odd statement here, a particular drawing there, and that strange shift in Mr. Browning that was not at all called for, yet entirely unnerving.

  Much to consider, indeed.

  Whatever had passed, Mr. Browning was ever himself as he loaded them into the carriage, Mrs. Browning belatedly rejoining them for farewells.

  Once they had safely rolled away, Phoebe groaned in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “Had we stayed in that house one moment longer, and I would not have had to feign any sort of headache to beg our departure. Remind me to purchase a new bonnet before we see them again, will you?”

  “Of course,” Clara murmured, looking out of the window, still unsettled by her exchange with Mr. Browning. “I think they are hiding something, Fern.”

  “Good,” came the calm reply. “I think so as well, and I look forward to discussing our individual reasons later this evening.”

  Clara smiled to herself, bemused by Phoebe’s complete lack of concern for their situation, but also reassured by it. If the more experienced of the pair did not fear, why should she?

  Kirkleigh was soon before them, as welcoming a sight as Clara had ever seen. They stepped out of the carriage without much fuss and Clara removed her bonnet at once, having left the ribbons loose and untied at their departure. She sighed as she entered the house, swinging her bonnet round by the ribbons as she smiled at the maid waiting for her things.