“If I may be so bold, sir, you may be wrong, you know. While it’s true Oliver is an angry man, and rightfully so, having suffered such hardship, that does not mean he cannot change. Nor are you so advanced in years and trapped in rigidity that you cannot alter your ways. I’d say there is much hope for you both, for God yet softens the hardest of hearts.”
The barrister’s jaw stills. His frock coat pulls taut against his steeled shoulders. He is tense. I am tense. Did I say too much?
His face swivels to mine. Like a kestrel poised to attack, his green gaze pins me in place. For an eternity he says nothing, nor do I. I can’t. My throat is clogged.
At last, a small smile eases the strained lines on his face, and once again I breathe freely.
“You are good for Oliver, Miss Lee. For me as well. How much your own father must adore you, unless…” His smile fades. “Forgive me if I misspoke and he is no longer among the living.”
I shake my head. “There is nothing to forgive, sir. My father is very much alive. He runs Rag and Bone Books down on Milsom Street.”
“Oh? Have I so greedily consumed all your time that you’ve not had a moment with him?”
“It’s not you. I’m afraid it’s me. I’ve gotten so caught up in this whole affair of restoring justice since I’ve arrived, I own I haven’t given my father much thought. So you see, before you give me too much credit, I am as rogue an offspring as your son. But rest assured that when this is all over, I shall call on my father straightaway.”
“Why wait? Go now.” He strides towards the door. “I’ll have a carriage brought around.”
I dash after him. “Oh, but I don’t want to trouble you.”
He flutters his fingers in the air. “No trouble at all.”
It may be no trouble for him, but will it bring peril to my father? “I really think I should wait until after the party, when everything is settled.”
He faces me, undeniable pain flashing in his eyes. “Do not make the same mistakes as Oliver and I. Trust me when I say there is nothing more important than seizing the present moment to mend relationships.”
His words hit home, and I nod—then dash off to snag my coat and bonnet. In a trice, I climb into the carriage and rumble down the road to see a man I’ve not conversed with in nigh on a year. Though my father and I made peace with each other long ago, it’s still generally awkward when I visit. He yet feels bad for being forced to send me away at such a tender age. I feel awful for having blamed him in the first place. But we both hold on to the truth that all worked for the good, being that neither of us ended up in the workhouse. Therein do we stand united.
The closer the carriage draws to Milsom Street, the lighter my heart. In witnessing Oliver and his father’s relationship—troubled as it is—I am suddenly aware of how much I miss my own papa. Even if he’s engrossed in a book, just to see him will be a balm to my soul. And I suspect that after nine months of no contact whatsoever, I just may be a balm to his as well.
As soon as the carriage stops, I open the door and descend to the pavement before the driver can assist. Though I doubt Mr. Groat will bother me before Friday, I cast a quick glance around me. Seeing nothing suspicious, I dash into the bookstore.
Wonderful scents take me back years. The somewhat greasy smell of ink. The slight mustiness of dust collecting on the highest shelves. The unique aroma of old books that comforts like a gentle spring rain, as ancient as time itself.
“Papa?” I call as I wander the familiar maze of shelving. “It’s me. Maggie.”
I run my finger along the spines while I search, greeting old friends. Wuthering Heights, The Count of Monte Cristo, Barnaby Rudge. A smile stretches across my lips. These titles and more are where I found my solace after endlessly long hours of waiting on customers, where I escaped to when Papa paid me no attention, where my little girl heart was mended after Mother died. The written word taught me I was not alone, that hardship comes to all, and connected me to the heroes and heroines who conquered those hardships, ultimately giving me courage. Indeed. Books are light and air.
Rounding the final corner before my father’s office, I once again call out. “Papa? Are you—”
A man strides out the open door. Brass-framed spectacles draw circles around his eyes. His coarse brown hair is rather unkempt, sticking up in uneven patches like a lawn that needs a good mowing. He is tall. He is gangly.
He is not my father.
He nods towards me. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Yes. I am looking for the owner.”
“Why, you’re looking at him, miss. Mr. Wasterwell at your service.” He dips a polite bow.
My nose scrunches. He smells of kippers and brandywine, nothing at all like Papa’s scent of warm tallow soap. Why is this man pretending to be that which he is not?
I advance a step and square my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wasterwell, but you must be mistaken. Mr. Lee is the proprietor here. Mr. Theodore Lee. I should like to speak with him, so if you wouldn’t mind stepping aside…?”
“Hmm.” His lips press together, and he doesn’t move from blocking my way to the office door. “Apparently you’ve not heard.”
If there is some sort of news, I prefer to hear it from my father, not this stranger. Still he doesn’t budge, forcing me to ask, “Heard what?”
“I am sorry to say, miss, that Mr. Lee’s been gone these past three months.”
My frustration mixes with a rising alarm. I grip my reticule tight, trying to make sense of all this. “Where has he gone? Where is my father?”
His brows shoot skyward. “Am I to understand that you are—”
“Yes. I am Margaret Lee. Theodore’s daughter.”
Mr. Wasterwell’s throat bobs and his voice comes out tight and thin. “I see. Please, wait here.”
He disappears inside my father’s office. My stomach knots. Either the man is eccentric, or there is a reason for his odd behaviour—a reason I’m not sure I want to know. When he returns, he holds out a paper-wrapped package, a book, judging by the feel of it.
“He wanted you to have this.”
My grip turns icy. “Then why did he not give it to me himself?”
Mr. Wasterwell shakes his head. “I regret to inform you, Miss Lee, that your father is deceased. May God rest his soul.”
Picking oakum until his fingers bled. Breaking rocks with a small pickax until his muscles ached. Neither compared to crossing the servants’ hall balancing a tray filled with champagne flutes on an upturned palm beneath the iron stare of James, the first footman. Sweat dotted Oliver’s forehead as he peered at the quaking glasses. Liquid sloshed to the rims of each little devil. Sweet mercy! If he dropped yet another salver, he’d never again be able to look James in the eye, so complete would be his humiliation. The flagstones were already littered with broken glass and spilled water.
But four paces later, he reached the sideboard and gently—ever so gently—lowered the tray atop it. Victory! He spun to face James, satisfaction lifting the sides of his mouth. “There. How’s that?”
“Well…” James pursed his lips, as imposing as any member of Parliament in his starched and ironed livery.
Smile wavering, Oliver’s brow crumpled. “Well what?”
“At least you didn’t spill anything.”
“All right.” His smile vanished. “Let’s have it. What did I do wrong?”
“Above all, a footman must stand tall.” James lengthened his neck, growing half an inch. “Shoulders back.” His suit coat leveled to a razor-straight line at his shoulders. “And your gaze must always be fixed dead ahead.” So focused was his stare, even if Oliver tossed a rock at the man, James wouldn’t so much as blink.
Oliver frowned. “I thought that’s what I was doing.”
Like a soldier standing down, the footman’s taut posture relaxed, and his gaze swung back to Oliver’s. “I’m afraid you slouched, sir, and you spent more time peering at the glasses on your tray rather than to where you were
going.”
Blast. Guilty as charged. How would he ever pull off blending in with the rest of Corbin’s serving staff tomorrow night? “I must admit, James”—he shook his head—“your job is harder than it appears.”
“Thank you, sir. Not many gentlemen would say so.” Pride gleamed in the man’s blue eyes. “How about we work on opening champagne for now?”
Good. This should be a stroll through the park. He nodded. “Now that’s something I can manage.”
“We’ll see.”
The words were cryptic. So was the flash of a smirk slipping across James’s usually stoic expression before he turned to retrieve one of several bottles in a nearby ewer. Doubt tried to elbow its way into Oliver’s confidence, but he merely sniffed and crossed over to the man. He’d popped many a cork in his lifetime. This wouldn’t be so hard.
With a white towel draped over his arm, James cradled the champagne like a baby. “In opening a new bottle, it is not necessary, and indeed not advisable, to allow the cork to pop loudly. If properly cooled—and make sure that it is at all times—the cork is easily extracted without exploding. Keep it at a forty-five degree angle, with your thumb atop the bottle. Don’t think so much about removing the cork, but rather about easing the bottle away from it. A few twists, a small amount of gentle pressure, and…”
Hsst. The cork came away with a sigh.
“Immediately after opening,” James continued, “wipe the mouth, thus.” He swiped the hem of the towel against the opening, then lifted a brow towards Oliver. “Got it?”
It wasn’t his usual flamboyant way of cracking open some bubbly, and not nearly as festive, but if it was a requirement, he really had no choice. He reached for a fresh bottle. “Yes, this I can do.”
He unwired the cage, pressed his finger to the top, twisted, and—
Pop!
Champagne geysered out. The cork shot like a bullet, nicking the plaster near the doorframe, inches away from the butler’s eyes, who happened to enter at a most inopportune moment.
Foster scowled at them both—and instantly Oliver was a lad of nine, wilting beneath the butler’s glower. Strange how the little boy yet lived and breathed in the body of a thirty-year-old man. Shoving down a sudden unease, Oliver straightened as tall as he should’ve been whilst carrying a tray.
“Sorry to interrupt this…” Foster circled two fingers in the air, indicating the huge mess Oliver had created. “But there is someone here to see you, sir. In the sitting room.”
“Thank you, Foster.” He turned to James. “We’ll have to practice more later tonight. It could be a late one. I’m afraid it might take longer than either of us will like.”
James dipped his head. “Very good, sir. Oh, and sir? For what it’s worth”—he leaned closer, lowering his voice for Oliver alone—“I wouldn’t be too concerned if I were you. At the first dinner party I served, I dropped an entire tray of Bollinger and lived to tell the tale. It is politeness and civility towards guests that is of the utmost importance, not your grace or lack thereof. Don’t let Foster’s glower put you off too much.”
“Thank you, James.” He clapped the man on the back and, without giving the butler a second glance, strolled out of the servants’ hall.
Fatigue tagged his heels, and he stifled a yawn as he ascended the stairs. After a late night considering all Maggie had said, then spending the better part of the day learning the finer points of being a footman, he was weary.
But fatigue faded as he entered the sitting room and spied a man in a tatty purple tailcoat. It paid to be on one’s toes around Filcher. Though the fellow was a good asset for connecting discreetly with the shadier portion of society, you never could tell what a man in need might do with a fortune in his grasp. And now he stood with his back towards the door, hunched over one of the barrister’s golden Chinese urns. So did a boy, dressed in a smaller version of Filcher’s trademark tailcoat. Oliver frowned. As far as he knew, Filcher didn’t have a son.
“I don’t think that will fit beneath of either of your coats. Not without a noticeable bulge.”
Both turned, eyes wide. Filcher fumbled with the urn, nearly dropping it. Oliver sighed. Was that how he’d looked when trying to balance that tray of flutes?
“What? Why, I’d never!” Filcher patted the vase as if it were his own wee babe. “Just admirin’, tha’s all.” With great care, he lifted the urn to the mantel and tenderly eased it into place.
Oliver’s gaze drifted to the boy. Face clean. Hair trimmed at the brow so that his brown eyes were unobstructed—eyes that looked familiar. Oliver peered closer until gears started clicking. Ahh. The boy. The one who’d helped him and Maggie escape Barrow’s long arm.
“I see you’ve gained an assistant.” He winked at the lad then faced Filcher.
“Aye. I discovered Bodger that day he escorted yer lady back to Avon Street. Right smart lad.” He cuffed the boy on the back of the head. “I’m groomin’ him.”
Oliver bit back a snort. Grooming him? For what? A life of nefarious contacts and shady dealings?
Still, though he hated to admit it, the boy was cleaned up, the wan hollow of his cheeks not nearly as pronounced. At least Filcher wouldn’t beat the lad and would keep him fed—a step up from life alone on the streets. And if—no!—when Oliver returned to his rightful place in Parliament, he’d see to it his housing legislation passed, which would better Bodger’s lot even more.
The boy advanced, holding out the paper-wrapped package he’d been clutching to his chest. “I’d like to return this, sir. It were a fine coat, but Mr. Filcher here’s got me a new one what fits much better.”
After the boy handed off the parcel, he hooked his thumbs inside the lapels of his recently acquired coat and puffed out his skinny chest.
Oliver smiled. “And a very fine coat it is, Master Bodger. Thank you for returning this instead of selling it for a profit.”
“Aye, he’s an honest boy, God love him,” Filcher rumbled. “Which might be a problem…”
Before Oliver could ask what he meant, Filcher pulled out a canvas case from inside his coat then opened it up atop the tea table, effectively silencing them all. Three identical ruby necklaces sparkled in the ray of sunshine angling in from the window.
“Caw!” Bodger breathed out.
Oliver didn’t blame him. The jewels could steal the breath from the coldest of hearts.
“Ol’ Billy did a right fine job of it, if I say so me’self.” Bending close, Filcher huffed on one then buffed it shiny with the hem of his velvet sleeve.
Setting the package aside, Oliver closed in on the necklaces and studied each in turn. “It is quite good work. But which is which?”
“See here?” Filcher lifted the farthest necklace on the left and turned it over in his hand, then pointed to the clasp. “That engraved X means this is the all-paste necklace. The other two are half and half.”
Once again, Oliver compared the three, then let out a long, low whistle. “That’s amazing. Completely identical save for that etching. Had Groat originally gone to this Billy of yours, I fear Mrs. Corbin would’ve never known her jewels had been stolen in the first place. Once again, Filcher, your connections pay off. Literally. Wait here, please, while I fetch your money.”
He strolled from the room, intending to collect the banknote from his father for Filcher’s work, but as he neared the bottom of the main staircase, the front door flew open. In dashed a billow of skirts and the distinct sound of choppy breaths and sniffling. Maggie didn’t even stop to remove her bonnet or wrap.
Oliver paused, one hand on the balustrade. Something wasn’t right. “Maggie?”
She didn’t so much as look up, just plowed ahead, chin tucked, face hidden by the brim of her hat. Clutching a paper-wrapped package, she gave him a wide berth and darted towards the other handrail.
Until he sidestepped her, blocking her way. “What’s happened?”
She shook her head, still refusing to meet his gaze. Alarm snaked up
his spine. She’d faced Groat, run from Barrow, dragged him broken and bleeding off the moor, and none of that had affected her so visibly. What the deuce had shaken her thus?
With the crook of his finger, he lifted her chin. Brown eyes puffy from crying finally looked into his. His gut clenched. Would to God that he could make right whatever it was that caused her so much anguish, but without knowing what that was exactly, he was helpless. “Do you feel ill? You’re not hurt, are you? Have you had another run-in with Groat?”
He tensed, waiting an eternity for an answer—any answer.
“I’m fine,” she finally clipped out.
“Clearly you are not. What is wrong?”
“Just…” She drew in a shaky breath, a world of hurt in the sound, one that punched him square in the gut.
“Just what?” He stroked her jaw with his thumb, hopefully coaxing some sort of explanation from her.
Her gaze burned into his. “Oliver, please, promise me you will make things right with your father.”
He frowned. Her request didn’t match the torment in her voice. He’d given her no reason since last night’s quarrel for her to think he’d cleaved the rift any wider between him and his father.
“Why?” he asked.
She grabbed his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves. “Promise me!”
The words spewed out, echoing in the hall. A lost little girl couldn’t have sounded more desperate.
“Shh,” he soothed. “Calm down. I promise I will try, all right?”
Her eyes filled, shimmering with a sorrow he couldn’t begin to understand. Biting her lip, she slowly nodded—then burst into tears and burrowed her face into his shirt.
Speechless, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her. Just… holding. Each of her sobs cut deeper into his heart. Whatever had caused this outburst couldn’t be good.
It couldn’t be good at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It is futile, this looking out a carriage window into the shadows of night. Even when the coach ventures into the gas-lit lanes of Bath, I still don’t see anything but black. The darkness of grief filters everything. And no matter what I do, I cannot shake a deep foreboding that day or night, this gloomy view will be mine for quite some time.
The House at the End of the Moor Page 24
