by Amy Faye
If only he had put it in the bank, or left it with someone, then everything would have been so much easier on her. As she flipped the back closed, she noticed something odd about the way that the last page turned. Sure enough, there was something folded into the spine, as if it were some sort of memento.
An envelope, on her father's stationary. It was addressed to one James Poole, in London, at Lisson Grove. The back was sealed with wax, and the front had a large stamp marked on it, that read "Return to Sender."
Entranced, Mary broke the seal. If it were nothing, as simple as a letter of greeting, then she would ignore it. Throw it into the fire. But if it was something…she could apologize later, but it was too important. She opened the envelope, pulled the paper out, and scanned it.
None of the shorthand nonsense, here. Mary pursed her lips. Her father had written this, after all. She would need to bring this to James Poole's attention immediately.
8
James
James Poole stood over his bags once again. It wasn't lost on him how briefly he'd had them unpacked for, and what it meant that he was packing them once again. There was no money, after all. He'd tried, for all the world. He cursed his luck, that he'd been so close and for nothing.
He'd gotten further than he had expected, and that was something he would keep close to his heart. At least he had done more than he had expected of himself. Why, then, did failure sting so badly?
The game had been rigged against him from the beginning. He had known that. He took a deep breath and let it out unsteadily. His eyes stung and for a moment he was worried that he would lose his composure.
He knew, of course, where his problems lie. He'd gotten close enough to taste success, and he knew where the impasse lied, but his effort, however frustrating, to solve the problem had only made things worse.
Mary Geis was an incredible woman, it seemed. A woman of supernatural beauty; when he'd seen her the first time, she had reminded him more of a Greek goddess than an Irish baron's daughter, and that hadn't changed. What had changed was the temper—a temper that brought her ancestry sharply into focus for him.
Certainly, he had been a bit brusque. That was unquestionable. But at least he had made the effort, in the end, to bridge whatever rift had opened up between them. That was more than he could say for her. What's more, he had tried to help her.
James picked his bags up from the bed and set them down on the floor. Then he laid down, still in his clothes, and tried to shut his eyes. As long as he could forget about things for a while, he could pick up the pieces of his life.
His situation was not too dire, he reasoned. Someone would surely hire him, even without the recommendation of his previous employer. After all, he had only been here a week, and then he had worked for no one in particular. He didn't even need to add it to his Curriculum Vitae.
There wouldn't be anyone hiring, at least not in an open way. There were other ways into positions, though. He knew people from his days in University, and a few army friends had gotten out since he had left. They might be willing to stick their necks out for an old friend. It wasn't completely impossible, or even exceptionally unlikely, but as he tried to convince himself, it all rang hollow.
This had been his long-shot gamble, his big chance to turn things around for himself. It was over, now, and in the morning he would be going back to his apartment empty-handed and broken-spirited.
A knock came at the door. It was soft, and for a moment he wasn't sure he'd heard it. He knew who it was, who it had to be. That made him want to answer it even less. He pretended that he hadn't heard it after all and rolled onto his side.
The knock came a second time, and Mary Geis's wonderfully melodic voice carried through the door into the room. It was strange how intoxicating everything about her was, even when she was being difficult. When she cooperated, he thought, it must be so much more.
"Mr. Poole? Are you in there?"
He thought about not answering for a moment, as if to spite her for that afternoon. Turnabout was certainly fair play, he thought, but it seemed a bit unfair of him. After all, he had positively hated it when she had done it to him, what sort of man would he be for doing the same to her?
He sat up and rubbed his tired eyes.
"What is it, Miss Geis? I'll be gone in the morning, and I'm sure that Davis can still be reached in town. In fact, I'll try to turn up his address if you'd like, and I'll call on him and have him come back tomorrow afternoon before I catch the train."
He found, surprised, that he meant it. He was too tired to fight with her; he simply wanted to be left alone in his grief for the night, before he had to go back out and face the world. If the promise of running an errand in the morning would keep her from coming to berate him further, then he would give her the promise gladly.
"Will you please open the door, sir?"
He rolled his legs off the bed and pressed himself upright. The door came open easily. Mary Geis looked like the most beautiful mess he had ever seen. Her hair was in disarray, and her cheeks were flushed. He wondered if she hadn't been crying, but he thought it better not to ask.
"What is it that you needed, Miss?"
"I found something of yours, Mr. Poole, and I thought you should have it."
"What on earth could you have of mine, Ma'am?"
She looked up, hurt by his tone, and he immediately regretted it.
"My father sent you a letter, before…" She trailed off and drew a shaky breath. He didn't ask her to clarify.
"I received no such letter."
"No, the postman failed to deliver it, so it was returned, a few days before his death."
"I see," he said, thinking. What on earth could any of this mean?
She held out an envelope; he could see that it had been sealed, and that the seal had been popped open.
"Did you do this?"
She nodded silently. Her eyes, he saw, were the most beautiful shade of green that he had ever seen. He found himself distracted by them, entranced. It was only with great difficulty that he managed to pull his gaze away from her and back to the letter in his hand.
He pulled it out and scanned it over. The top was certainly addressed to a Mr. James Poole, Esq. The bottom was signed Thomas Lord Geis.
Then, confused, he walked back to the bed and sat down to read it more closely.
'You will wonder,' it began, 'why I thought it appropriate to hire a twenty-four year old steward for a noble house. You would be right to wonder that.'
Lord Geis went on to answer the question he had posed for himself, and James's eyes widened. He had wanted, he went on to say, someone who had no connections in the legal world. Someone who couldn't be tainted. A stranger in every possible way, and that meant someone who was newly graduated.
The details had been left out, in wide swaths. The letter referred to "a certain man or group of men," who were planning something "most foul." Lord Geis would inform him of more in person, but he feared that he was already putting himself, and more importantly, James in danger by sending the letter as it was.
It was postmarked July 10, 1916. James folded the letter back up, and slipped it into the envelope.
"I was gone, that week. I was out west…in Wales, for the week, seeing my father, and…" He let out an unsteady breath. "If only I'd gotten this letter sooner, I might have… You've read this letter?"
Mary nodded. She hadn't spoken since she had handed him the envelope, but had waited in the doorway, silently.
"Mr. Poole." Her voice was soft and shaky. She had been crying, that much was certain, but more than that he realized that she had only barely gotten a hold of herself. She spoke haltingly to maintain what little restraint kept her from falling back into tears. "Does that letter mean…what I think it means?"
"I think your father knew he was going to die. I think you and I both know that whatever he was involved in, it was dangerous." James flipped open his pocket-watch and looked at the time. It was late; too late to start w
orking for the night. "I think we need to get to work immediately, Miss Geis, on deciphering the puzzle of your father's finances. If he was killed he was killed for a reason, and that is by far the biggest question in the house."
Mary didn't say anything, and at first he thought he would repeat himself. In the morning, they would need to work, and she would need to help him. He could feel the buzz of energy in his fingers. The bet was back on; back to work tomorrow morning, and he was closer than ever to solving the Geis family's financial slump. With that, he could solve the mystery, but surely the two were closely related.
After a moment, though, he realized that Mary wasn't only distracted, but hadn't heard him at all. After a long moment of silence she spoke.
"That's absurd, though." She slumped to her knees and leaned against the frame of the door, looking at the far wall but not seeing it. "He didn't become sick until the 14th."
9
Mary
The hour that had passed after she'd taken the letter to Mr. Poole had been a blur. He had taken her to her room and made her promise to whelp him in the morning with his work. She thought that she had probably said yes, but it was hard to remember. Everything was swirling in her head, and it would take more time to figure out her feelings than it would to figure out what had happened.
She was exhausted, she knew that much, but she didn't sleep. She laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to think about her situation.
Up until now, it had seemed perfectly strange, and she had been assuming that danger might lurk around every corner. That feeling couldn't hold a candle to her feeling now, the absolute knowledge that danger had lurked for her father, and that it was more than likely to come for her as well.
James thought there was something suspicious going on with the books; he'd said as much to her. Her father had brought him in, it seemed, to solve whatever the problem was that had ultimately lead to his death. It stood to reason that whatever it was, the finances would reveal it.
That meant that, as much as she didn't want to deal with all of the numbers, she would have to make sure that he could do his job. If he said he needed her help with it, then she would help as much as she could.
There was another reason—two reasons—that she wanted to keep him around, as well. He was a big man, powerful and tough, and he had experience in war. That much alone meant that he was useful to her. She was afraid for her life, afraid that at any moment some bogeyman would come to murder her.
Having a big, tough man was infinitely preferable to being alone, especially this far outside of town. Her nearest neighbor was a kilometer in any given direction, and she was well and truly alone in the house. Outside of her new steward, that was.
The second reason…she blushed and squelched the thought as quickly as it had arisen. She didn't have time for silly romantic notions, not now.
She rolled over and tried to sleep once again. Taking long, slow breaths, she slipped eventually into a fitful sleep. When she woke again, it was with the sun.
For a bachelor and a lawyer, Mary thought, James was not an incapable cook. That was the first surprise he'd given her that morning. She had scarcely awoken and dressed when a knock came at her door, and James met her with a platter full of food. They ate quietly.
Mary noticed, now that they were sitting together, that he didn't look at her. It was odd, and a bit disappointing. He actually seemed to make a note of never glancing in her direction, and when he did it was only for a second before he turned back toward facing the wall or looking at his food.
When she had finished, he took her plate from her, stacked it on the carrying tray, and carried the whole thing away, leaving her alone. Mary didn't know what to make of his behavior. Perhaps he thought she was particularly unattractive. More likely, he didn't know how to act around a Baron's daughter. It wasn't the first time that she'd experienced people being unsure how to act around her.
Finally he came back and asked her to follow him to the study. As they walked he spoke. His voice was soft and he seemed to be trying to make apologetic motions, but they didn't fit him well. He was too self-sure, too intelligent, and too…
Mary couldn't put her finger on it. He seemed like someone who shouldn't apologize, because…at last it clicked. Because he was too much of a man. That was where the problem lie. Because under all those clothes was something that wasn't entirely civilized, an animal's instinct that he couldn't quite hide.
"I've been an awful guest, I'm afraid, going around you so often, and I hope you can forgive me." He waited a moment, and when Mary didn't respond he went on. "I had the bank provide me with your family's financial statements for the past several months, and I will get to the specifics momentarily, but…suffice to say that the Geis family has seen better days, if you don't mind my saying, Miss."
"Call me Mary," the young lady said softly. It was a step too far, she knew, but that didn't change how she felt, and she wanted to hear him say it.
"Very well…Mary." He paused to feel the name on his lips. It felt wrong, but he said it again. "Mary. I decided that the solution to your family's issues would be two-fold. First, I would need to slow the flow of money out of your accounts. Then, I could address the central issues that were causing the problems."
"Obviously."
"Well, as it happens, there isn't much that your family is spending money on. I can tell you that whoever was keeping your books, they were nearly healthy by themselves. Which makes it seem a bit strange that there would be an issue at all. You can see, I hope, why I sent the servants home until I could get things in hand and the new head of the household arrived to relieve me."
Mary gave a sound to indicate that she understood, and waited for him to continue.
"I'll try to spare you the figures themselves, but I can confidently say that the way that Lord Geis's accounts were emptying, you would have been unable to feed yourselves by Christmas."
He waited for her to respond, but she made a pinched face and kept quiet. She wasn't some waif who would faint on hearing bad news, not after all the bad news she'd gotten over the past couple of weeks. She knew how to deal with those sort of issues now.
They were nearly there, now, and James walked the rest of the way in silence. How could Mary help with what he'd said so far? It sounded like a case of the money being spent or lost off the books, then. If the ledger showed the household being healthy, and the accounts were decidedly unhealthy, then the ledger must have been wrong.
He turned the knob and pushed the door to the study open, gesturing for her to go inside ahead of him.
"As you can see, there were notes beside the ledger. They are…obscure. I tried to show them to you yesterday, but you were…unavailable for comment."
Mary blushed lightly. Now that they were on the same side, it seemed as if her actions earlier were childish and embarrassing. She stepped up to the desk, and sat back into the chair when she felt him push it in for her.
"Mr. Poole, you didn't know my father, did you?"
"No, I did not."
"Well, he had a number of peculiar habits, sir. They often confounded the other people in the house, but that didn't stop him from keeping them." She picked up the papers and looked at them. Yes, she could make some sense of them. "He rose far earlier than most of the staff, and then napped throughout the afternoon."
She waited a moment, picked up a piece of newspaper from another pile and read it.
"He liked to smoke cigars, which was a foul-smelling habit all around—regardless of what polite society's view on it." She picked up a third and paused for a moment. 'P 5'. She knew who P was, and she blushed. It took her a moment to regain her composure. "And most infuriating of all, he very rarely wrote in long-hand."
She set the paper down and turned back toward James, who was standing in the doorway watching her.
"He had a strange, self-created shorthand that made very nearly no sense to anyone but himself, and was nearly indecipherable to someone who hadn't seen it b
efore. I can see why you might have struggled with it."
"The numbers appear to be expenditures and income. That puts us within a hundred pounds each month of the expected numbers, which is much closer than the ledger shows."
"And you wanted to know what the rest of it meant, I presume?"
"Just so, Miss…Mary."
"I'm pleased to say that I can probably help you with that." She turned back toward the desk and plucked a few exemplary notes from each of the piles. "'D'—well, that is probably Davis, after all. He's worked for my father for as long as I've been alive, at least, and I'm sure that he'd be willing to give him extra spending money if Davis needed it. 'O' is my uncle Ollie. He's a Colonel in His Majesty's army. I'm not entirely sure what he would need the money for. As for 'B' and 'P'… I couldn't say."
She tried to hide the lie on her face as best she could. He frowned.
"I was afraid of that," he said, stepping forward. He took the stack of 'O' papers and fanned them out. "Oliver Geis takes the majority of the money from these stacks."
10
James
James had leaned in to look over Mary's shoulder as she spoke. It had seemed inconsequential and harmless at the time, and when she finished speaking, she turned toward him. Suddenly it was intensely clear how close together they were. His nose nearly touched hers, and he could smell the perfume on her so powerfully that it made it hard to think for even a moment.
"Good work," he said softly.
It was good work. With just that, he could get back to work, and take care of all of it. He knew it made things more difficult for him, but if he knew what he was up against he knew he could do it.
The weight that had been sitting on his chest for the past two days was gone, now, and he could feel it making his knees into jelly. He took in a deep, unsteady breath. There was that scent again, that incredible flowery smell.
Before he could think, his arms were around Mary's waist and he was pulling her up out of the chair and into him. He looked at her for a long moment, trying to stop himself, but he didn't want to stop. And then their lips were together.
