Page 8 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)

Kudos to the set designer. Well, the house designer three hundred years ago.

They crossed paths with a man dressed in a costume that didn’t merely resemble that of the butler characters in The Beau but also far surpassed them. Impressive. This must be a privately owned historic site, one that was receiving a tremendous amount of donations.

“Where’s Miss?” the housekeeper asked the probably butler.

“Her’s in the book room.”

The housekeeper nodded in that way that said she ought to have been able to guess. “Quieter in there.”

Quiet er ? This place was as silent as the man he still wasn’t certain wasn’t a serial killer.

Every step any of them took echoed. The site’s season hadn’t started yet.

Once tourists flocked here, he would probably miss the reverberations.

And everyone’s insistence on being in character might not be so annoying.

He followed the housekeeper up a grand staircase, then down another hallway, this one far more impressive than the servants’ hallway belowstairs.

Mrs. Jagger took him to an open door and stepped inside. “Pardon the interruption, Miss Archibald, but Mr. Ivers fished somewho out of the water and us is certain him’s Quality.”

“Good heavens.” A woman’s voice, sounding more like the hoity--toity accent the leads in The Beau had used. “Is he injured?”

Mrs. Jagger eyed him quickly, then shook her head. “Looks to be cold though.”

“Please, show him in.”

The housekeeper stepped aside, assuming a very deferential posture. They truly were adhering to protocol.

He knew his part. He made certain his posture was impeccable and his expression filled with a mixture of gratitude, self-assurance, and just enough humility to make him endurable. And because Tennyson had specialized in it, he kept a laugh in his eyes as well.

He entered the room, shelves of books explaining why Not-Mick-Jagger’s-Mom and Probably-the-Butler had called this the “book room.” Kip was ready to greet the person running the historical site.

Malcolm had said he knew her and that she had overseen the running of the place for at least fifteen years.

This woman, though, looked to be in her mid-twenties. And it was more than her unexpected youth that rendered him shocked.

She was ... stunning. Ethereal. There was a wispiness to her that, coupled with her amber hair and haunting eyes, made her seem almost magical.

For her sake, he hoped Osbourne was also planning to cast a fairy tale sometime soon.

She could play a sprite or fairy or any number of beautiful, otherworldly, enthralling creatures.

And she was watching him from her chair with a look of such concern that he worried that she thought he was going to die at any moment.

“Why were you in the water?” she asked.

He smiled. “I assure you, Miss Archibald, that decision was made by the sea and not at all by me.”

Her light-amber brows pulled. “Where are you from? You speak oddly.”

One hundred percent of the people he’d encountered since being fished out of the water had mentioned how he talked.

Yes, it was only three people out of three, but that was still one hundred percent .

His British accent was good enough that people often thought he was British. But no one here seemed to think so.

“I am originally from”—was America called America in 1800--whenever? In season two of The Beau , they’d made a reference to his home country, and the wording of it had felt kind of ridiculous—“the former colonies.”

That seemed to explain things neatly to Miss Archibald. An “Ah” from the housekeeper told him she was satisfied as well.

Kip wasn’t a big enough name as an actor to be offended that these two women hadn’t recognized him, though he was beginning to wonder if they actually had and were making a point of cutting him down a hair.

“What has brought you to this area of the kingdom?” Miss Archibald asked.

“I am not entirely certain.” He hadn’t received any information about his character, after all.

“You do not know where you were bound for or why?” She didn’t actually seem to doubt that explanation, which made him think she might have been informing him of his story line but doing so like everything else on this island— in character .

He could play along. There’d been an amnesia storyline in season three, though it had involved a character other than his. “I will confess, I find myself a tad befuddled. It seems my time in the water has mildly addled my wits.”

Miss Archibald turned to Mrs. Jagger. “We cannot toss him out into the storm while his mind is struggling.”

“The Iverses haven’t room for anywho in their tiny house,” Mrs. Jagger said.

“And the sea road is currently underwater,” Miss Archibald said, “so he can’t leave the island.”

This was helpful narration, though why they were resorting to it, he didn’t know. There was literally no one there but the three of them. They could just tell him what his part was.

“He’ll have to stay here,” Miss Archibald said. “If my uncle learns of this, though ...” She clutched her hands tightly on her lap.

A bit dramatic. Still, this was additional, helpful information.

There was a likely villainous uncle character who, apparently, would play a role in all this.

It was, admittedly, a more intricate story than he’d thought they’d be enacting.

Did visitors return repeatedly to get updates on the drama playing out at Guilford?

That wasn’t a bad idea, really. Repeat customers meant more revenue.

“Us’ll keep a weather eye out for Mr. Stirling,” Mrs. Jagger assured Miss Archibald. “Him’ll not be able to surprise you.”

For that bit of fierce defense, the older woman received an entirely convincing look of gratitude. “And perhaps by the time I see Uncle Stirling next, Mr.—” She turned to Kip. “I am sorry, I do not know your name.”

Was he meant to have a character name? If so, he didn’t know what it was. He’d rather his coworkers call him by his name. “Kipling Summerfield.” He dipped a very nineteenth-century bow, minus the doffed hat since he hadn’t been provided with one yet.

“I do hope you are able to recover more of your wits very soon, Mr. Summerfield,” she said.

“A bit of rest might help he manage that,” Mrs. Jagger said. “The blue bedchamber, perhaps?”

Miss Archibald nodded, though she did give him a questioning look. “That room looks out over the sea. Will that be uncomfortable for you?”

“It’s an island. Can there even be a room without an ocean view?”

He swore she actually shuddered. But she’d managed it with impressive subtlety. Well done. “Some rooms have an obstructed view of the water.”

“But that is not the case with the blue bedchamber?”

She shook her head. “It looks out over the Channel. Water everywhere.”

“Despite my frigid dip in the water earlier, I am not aghast at the prospect of seeing the ocean out of my window.”

“How fortunate.” Miss Archibald turned to Mrs. Jagger. “Perhaps a meal could be brought to him so he needn’t interrupt his rest.”

Room service? That was both unexpected and exceptionally welcome. He doubted it was a daily occurrence, but it would explain the lack of a modern kitchen.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Miss Archibald.” He bowed once more, bestowing on her one of the Tennyson Lamont smiles that had been written into a shocking number of episodes, even if they hadn’t received the attention in the press that Malcolm’s grins did.

Not all redheads blushed prettily, but she did. More than pretty, the effect was a little breathtaking. Osbourne might be on the verge of a truly enormous discovery.

Miss Archibald remained in the book room while Kip walked with Mrs. Jagger out into the hallway, then up yet more stairs and down another hallway.

He was brought to a bedroom that was, indeed, decorated with pops of blue.

Mrs. Jagger lit the fire using what looked like steel and flint.

Authenticity didn’t have to be this inconvenient.

“You can lay your clothes out near the fire when it gets more roaring.” Mrs. Jagger crossed back to the door. “The maid’ll knock at the door when her brings food up for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jagger,” he said. “And thank Miss Archibald for me once more. Her hospitality is greatly appreciated.”

That must not have quite been the right line; he received a look that bordered on suspicion. He hadn’t received any information about his role. What did she expect of him? Magic?

She pulled the door closed, and Kip let his posture return to the more comfortable twenty-first-century version he was accustomed to. He laid his pile of wet clothes, unfolded, near the fireplace to dry. It wasn’t “roaring” yet, but he didn’t particularly want to keep holding the sodden pile.

He pulled the wool blanket he’d been lent by the potential serial killer more firmly around himself and wandered to the windows.

The room did overlook the Channel. He could also see the small stone lighthouse at the other end of the island.

He hoped that in the morning, someone would tell him more about his role, his hours, and the site’s expectations.

In the meantime, he was exhausted. Convincing the ocean that he didn’t want to drown had really taken it out of him.

He looked around the room but didn’t find his suitcase.

Maybe Malcolm hadn’t had a chance to get it there.

The storm might have delayed things. He wanted to lie down and sleep while he had the chance, but his clothes were too wet, and his costume was too uncomfortable.

That meant sleeping in “the altogether,” as his grandma used to call it.

At some point, someone would be bringing up some food. He’d simply have to pull the itchy trousers back on or, if enough time had passed to dry them out, his trousers. In the meantime, the bed was calling his name, and he didn’t intend to ignore it.