Page 19
19
Sunlight sparkled like handfuls of diamonds cast across the snowy lawn. As Bram pulled the wagon to the front door of Inman Manor, Eva could hardly believe yesterday’s landscape had been so brutally harsh in the serenity of this fine morn. Though it was just as chilly. She held tightly to the blanket around her shoulders as Bram helped her down to the drive.
He didn’t pull away when her shoes crunched into the snow. Rather, he straightened her bedraggled bonnet atop her head. “I wager you have never been so glad to return home.”
“We did have quite an adventure, did we not?” She angled her head. “Then again, it seems I always do when I am with you.”
His easy laugh was as brilliant as the sunshine. “And after such a harrowing journey, I suggest you take it easy today.” His smile faded. “I would not have you suffering any illness from being so chilled.”
“Oh, I intend to—take a care, that is. Listen.” Cupping her hand to one ear, she leaned toward the house. “I believe I hear the call of a hot bath.”
He mimicked her gesture. “And I hear a steaming pot of tea saying, ‘Bram, drink me. Drink me now.’”
She couldn’t help but grin at his falsetto voice. “It would be a crime not to heed such calls. Until later, sir.”
He swung back up to the driver’s seat. “I will meet you in the workroom after dinner as usual.”
Thankfully the front stairs had been swept clean, but even so, Eva gripped the railing until she reached the door. Once inside, she pulled off the blanket and hung it on the coat tree while calling, “Poppet! I am home.”
As she fumbled with the ragged ribbons knotted beneath her chin, footsteps clacked down the corridor toward the hall. She pulled off her bonnet just as Dixon sailed around the corner.
“Oh, miss! I was so worried! Why, Sinclair was just about to organize a search party for you and Professor Webb.” The housekeeper frowned at the dirty blanket hanging like a collared cat. “I’ll have Mary see to your wraps straightaway. I am so thankful to see you remained in Cambridge overnight. How were the roads this morning?”
“Em...” Stalling, Eva hung up her bonnet. How deceitful would it be to allow everyone to think she and Bram had stayed at an inn in the city?
Probably very deceitful, judging by the hitch in her spirit.
She unbuttoned her coat, loathing to disappoint the woman yet hating even more to lie. “Now that the sun is up, the roads are passable. I think you should know, though, that the professor and I did try to make it home yesterday, but the storm turned so fierce, we ended up staying at the Robinsons’ farmhouse.”
“The Robinsons’?” The tail end of the name hissed like the whisper of Satan himself. Dixon’s lips pinched tightly. Clearly she was mortified—as she had every right to be. “Well, I won’t speak any more on the matter. Suffice it to say you made it home in one piece, and for that I am grateful.”
Eva reached for the old housekeeper’s hands and gave them a little squeeze. “You are a dear.”
“I trust you, miss. It’s that young professor I have my doubts about.” Dixon sniffed as if she smelled something rotten.
“I assure you Professor Webb was a perfect gentleman the entire evening. He kept me safe and warm by staying up all night to tend the fire. Now then, after such an ordeal I crave a hot bath. Would you have one drawn as soon as possible, please?”
“Yes, miss, but a few things first. If you intend to see Miss Penny, you’ll have to go out back, for she is currently engaged in building some sort of snow fort with the college gents. Professor Pendleton is yet abed with a sore back and didn’t think it prudent to send the students to the dig unattended. I have every hope, though, that Mrs. Pottinger’s mustard poultice will have him back on his feet by tomorrow.”
“Indeed, I shall pray to that end.” Poor fellow. Eva smoothed her palms along the wrinkled fabric of her skirt, not that it did any good. This gown needed a good washing as much as she did. “I guess it is straight to the bath for me, then.”
“Not quite.” The short housekeeper held up a rigid finger. “Mrs. Mortimer and Mrs. Quibble are waiting for you in the sitting room. I told them you weren’t at home and didn’t know when you’d return, but they were quite adamant about waiting around on the off chance you arrived soon.”
“Oh dear. I look a wreck. Would you please distract them so I can at least change out of this rumpled gown and do something about my hair? Maybe you could—”
“I thought I heard voices.” A voice chirpier than a wood warbler drew both their gazes. Mrs. Quibble peeked out the sitting room door, an absurdly feathered pelerine half cape draped about her shoulders. “Ahh, Miss Inman. Just the woman we were hoping to see.” And yet as her gaze swept over Eva, the widening of the woman’s birdlike eyes expressed she wasn’t hoping to see Eva in such a state of dishevelment.
Eva’s fingers frantically tucked and poked at her hair to somehow contain the wild nest. “Good morning, Mrs. Quibble. Please pardon my appearance. I had quite a ride from Cambridge.”
“You drove all the way from Cambridge this morning?” The question pipped out of her.
“Not quite, but I am sure you are not here to discuss such trivialities. Shall we make ourselves more comfortable?” After a nod of dismissal to Dixon, Eva crossed to the sitting room.
“Oh, there you are and—my!” Seated on the sofa, Mrs. Mortimer pressed her sausage fingers to the pearls at her neck. “Pardon my saying so, Miss Inman, but you look atrocious. Tsk, tsk. You have overtaxed yourself once again. I daresay you take on far too much.”
“I, em, yes. I suppose so.” Desperate for a different line of conversation, she spied the tea set on the table. Perfect. “Let us have some tea, shall we?” Yet she was sorely disappointed when naught but a few drops dribbled from the teapot. She set it back down and strode to the service bell. “I will ring for more.”
“Please don’t do so on my account.” Mrs. Quibble sat on a wingback, the feathers on her capelet taking flight with the movement.
Mrs. Mortimer held up a finger. “If you’re going to the trouble, dear, I wouldn’t mind a few more of those tasty jam toasts.”
Of course you wouldn’t.
Eva bit back the retort as she took the opposite end of the sofa. “I am sorry to have kept you both waiting. What is so urgent you felt you must await my return?”
Mrs. Quibble opened her mouth, but Mrs. Mortimer beat her to the punch. “Miss Ellsworth’s aunt died last Friday, God rest her. Apparently the woman had a London town house that must be disposed of. Being that her next of kin is Miss Ellsworth’s mother, Miss Ellsworth now finds herself in the position of having to accompany the woman—for her mother is, as you’ll remember, confined to an invalid chair. They departed yesterday.”
Just then, Dixon entered. Eva ordered more tea and toast before turning back to the ladies. “That is dreadful news. Please convey my condolences to Miss Ellsworth when you next speak with her.”
“We shall,” Mrs. Quibble said before Mrs. Mortimer could steal the entire conversation. “And yet we did not come all this way simply to elicit sympathy. The thing is—”
“Miss Ellsworth was overseeing the annual Christmas fundraising gala,” Mrs. Mortimer cut in. “And we should dearly love for you to take it on. You have such an aptitude as a hostess.”
Eva leaned back in the chair, one finger tapping on the arm of it. She had missed serving with the relief society. The camaraderie of banding with other women for the good of others made her heart happy. She was beyond weary of always thinking about money and Penny. How delightful it would be to set her mind on something else—and a worthy cause at that—so the prospect was tempting indeed.
Her finger tapped faster. The society was in a conundrum. They needed her, and it would pain her to refuse them.
Yet life was often pain, was it not?
She stopped tapping. “As much as I would like to accept, I am afraid I shall have to decline. As Mrs. Mortimer has pointed out, my hands are quite full here at home. Not only have I my sister to look after, I am also hosting a team of archaeologists from Trinity College.”
“I had heard the rumour.” Mrs. Quibble’s beakish nose lifted as she stared down the length of it. “Yet as Mrs. Mortimer also pointed out when we were discussing replacements, you could organize the gala with your eyes closed and hands tied, so well suited are you for such a task.”
“I am surprised to hear it, for she knows how overtaxed I am.”
“Look! Here is the tea now. How lovely.” Mrs. Mortimer shifted on the sofa cushions, beaming at Dixon as she set down a new tray.
It was nearly impossible for Eva not to roll her eyes as she poured the woman a fresh cup and handed it over.
“Thank you, dear. Now, as Mrs. Quibble was saying, in the past you have elevated the fundraiser to one of the most well-attended social events of the season. I am loath to admit Miss Ellsworth hasn’t had quite the same success. Don’t get me wrong, she is a fine young woman, yet she does not own the same attention to detail you possess, so please say you will take the reins on this.”
Eva shook her head. “As I said, I have a lot to manage as is.”
“Oh, do say yes. The entire fate of the relief society hinges on this one evening.” Mrs. Mortimer’s lower lip quivered. With a great flourish, she produced a flowery handkerchief and clutched it to her chest.
Such dramatics. Overly so, actually, for despite Mrs. Mortimer’s distress, Eva would swear before a magistrate that she caught something calculating shining in the woman’s eyes, almost as if Mrs. Mortimer wanted to push her to the brink of overexertion. But that made no sense, not with the way she was always harping on her about being far too busy.
“At least consider it, Miss Inman,” said Mrs. Quibble.
Eva poured her own cup of tea. Planning a gala would be a welcome distraction to brooding over the unpaid tax bill and the endless waiting to hear about the relics sale. Honestly, though, it would be more than that. She had always found her charity work to be profoundly fulfilling. When she was helping others, she felt a sense of purpose and belonging that nothing else quite matched, as if she was making a real difference in the world—for she had been, leastwise to those in need.
She fortified herself with a stout swallow of black tea. “Can you tell me what Miss Ellsworth has accomplished thus far?”
“The Rosewood Assembly Hall has been reserved,” Mrs. Quibble answered. Mrs. Mortimer’s mouth was too full of toast now.
“And?” Eva asked.
“And what?”
An uneasy feeling settled like a layer of oil over the swallow of tea in her belly. “Have invitations been sent? Musicians held on retainer? A menu planned with a cook and serving staff hired? How about table linens and dishes, someone in charge of giving a speech, and take-home pamphlets ordered from the printer to remind the guests of what the whole occasion is about?”
“She didn’t say, exactly, but I do believe she left behind a list.”
“That is good. It would be impossible to know where to begin without that.”
Mrs. Mortimer clapped her hands together, twittering a squeal of delight. Crumbs flew past her lips. “I knew you were the right woman for the job, and I don’t mind telling you how much we have missed your attendance at the society meetings. It is so lovely to have you back.” She rose, beckoning for Mrs. Quibble. “Come along, Marian.”
“Wait a moment.” Eva stood as well. “I have not said yes yet. How many days remain until the gala?”
Worry marks traveled across Mrs. Quibble’s brow like tiny bird feet. “The event is slated for December seventh, so—”
“Eighteen days,” Mrs. Mortimer answered. “And I’m sure I needn’t remind you it is this occasion during which the relief society garners most of its funding for the entire year. If we do not hold the gala—or the affair is such that it leaves a bad taste in the mouths of donors—then I daresay the poor of Royston will suffer the most. None of us would want that on our conscience.”
Sweet heaven. The woman certainly knew how to go right to the jugular. But la! In the past Eva had started planning for the gala by the end of August, and here it was with November more than half spent. If she agreed, how in the world would she pull off a successful fundraiser in a little over two weeks? That would be more than a challenge. It would be impossible.
Mrs. Quibble reached for Eva’s hand. “Please, Miss Inman. You are the relief society’s one and only hope.”
Bram ducked—barely in time. An icy ball of snow whizzed past his ear and splatted against the cottage doorframe. Frozen flecks hit his cheek. Hoots and hollers rang out at his back.
“Did you get him?” Penny shouted.
“Not yet,” yelled Jonathan Barker.
Bram yanked open the door and slid inside, the distinct thwack of another snowball hitting the instant he shut it. Boys ... and a tomboy girl. Playful pups all.
He doffed his hat and shook off the ice crystals from the shot that had skimmed the top of his head.
“Well, well,” Uncle Pendleton called from across the room. “I see the lost sheep has returned to the fold at last.”
“I could not leave you and the fellows unattended for too long. Heaven knows what sort of tomfooleries the lot of you would get into—or are getting into, as is the case.” Bram dragged a chair over to his uncle’s bedside, the strong scent of a mustard-glazed ham hanging like a cloud above the man. “How are you?”
With only a slight wince, his uncle pushed up from the mattress, stationing himself higher on the mound of pillows behind him. “I find I am unable to shake the craving for Scotch eggs with mustard sauce, but other than that, thanks to Mrs. Pottinger’s poultice, my back is feeling much better.”
“Excellent. That is exactly what I wanted to hear, though I insist you continue to lay low until tomorrow. We won’t get much accomplished today, what with the snow, though with the sun shining so brightly, I expect it should mostly be gone by tomorrow.” Hopefully, at any rate. They could not afford any more delays.
“And how did things go with Grimwinkle?”
Bram smirked. “As well as can be expected. He gave no answer about purchasing the goods, yet bid that I leave them in his care instead of shopping them around anywhere else.”
His uncle scowled. “Odious man.”
“Here. This ought to make you forget about him.” Bram pulled the cigar he’d bought from an inside pocket and handed over what was left of the matches in the box.
Uncle Pendleton’s thick brows lifted. “A cigar? I can hardly believe you didn’t smoke this on your way back to Royston.”
“Miss Inman would not have appreciated that nor, I suspect, would she welcome me smelling of tobacco when I meet with her to go over the day’s findings. Speaking of which”—he rose—“I should see about pulling the students away from their snow frenzy, though I suspect the bigger fight will be convincing Penny it is time to head back to the house.”
Uncle Pendleton reached for Bram’s sleeve, giving it a slight tug. “Tarry a moment, will you?”
Alarm crept down his spine. Slowly, he straddled the wooden chair. “What is on your mind, Uncle?”
“You ... and Miss Inman.”
Oh. Of course. He might have known being gone all night alone with the woman would raise a few eyebrows, though he hadn’t expected his uncle to play the part of a suspicious old aunt. “I swear nothing happened between us.” He held up both hands. “We stayed the night in a farmhouse where I kept a fire going and Miss Inman slept. That is all there was to it.”
A grumble rumbled in his uncle’s throat. “I don’t think so. I know my mind has been slipping of late, but on the matter of you and Miss Inman, I have complete clarity.”
Sadness twisted Bram’s empty gut. Since when had Uncle Pendleton noticed his faculties were dimming? This was the first he’d spoken of it. Had the old fellow been silently harbouring angst and fears about the situation?
Unwilling to see the pain or confusion that would surely be in the man’s eyes, he snagged a blanket off the floor and draped it over his uncle’s feet. “We all grow absent-minded as we age. There is no shame in it.”
“No, no. That’s not at all what I’m talking about. This discussion focuses solely on you and Miss Inman.” With a small groan, he stayed Bram’s hand from fussing with the blanket. “What are your intentions toward the woman?”
Bram pulled away, regretting that he’d caused his uncle pain and bemoaning even more the turn of this conversation. “I intend to perform the most professionally successful dig for Miss Inman that I can.”
“I meant personally.” Uncle’s dark eyes drilled into him, seeking depths Bram wasn’t about to allow him to descend.
“We have been friends since childhood, and I see no reason why we should not always be.”
“And yet you wish it was more than that, don’t you?”
Bah! How could the man possibly know that? Then again, Uncle Pendleton had always seen past any facade he constructed. Bram folded his arms over the back of the chair, a weak shield but the only one he had at the moment. “Is it so obvious?”
“Perhaps not to everyone, but I’ve become adept at deciphering you like an ancient codex.” A merry twinkle gleamed in his uncle’s eyes. “Do you love her?”
Did he love her? What a question. His uncle may as well have asked the moon if it adored the night sky, or the wind if it fancied caressing tree branches. Those things just went together—and always would. Bram rubbed the toe of his boot over the rag rug. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what love was, but he did know he had a driving need to be in Eva’s presence.
Though he’d never speak a word of that aloud.
He grabbed the chair to drag it back to the door. “My feelings for Miss Inman are irrelevant. Now, I should get those students off to work.”
Uncle Pendleton grabbed his hand, the man’s fingers hot against Bram’s. “Matters of the heart are never irrelevant, my boy, a lesson I learned the hard way. Believe it or not, I was young once, determined to make a name for myself. There was a woman—brilliant of mind, gentle of spirit—whom I loved with all my heart. But I was too slow to let her know my feelings, too entangled with my career, and she found someone else. I never got over Catherine, and I never will. Do not make the same mistake.”
Bram’s jaw dropped. “I had no idea. Why did you never tell me this?”
“It was long ago, years before you came to live with me. The only reason I’m telling you now is so you don’t go to the grave with the same regrets as I. Love is a gift, worth risking everything for, and if Eva is the one you love, then go after her—and let nothing stand in your way.”
A hammer to the skull would have been a kinder blow. His love for Eva did run deep, but he was trapped in a tangled web of duty and practicality. As much as he longed for a future with her at his side, that reality was as distant and improbable as the curator position he’d turned down at the new museum. His immediate priority was keeping a sharp eye on Uncle Pendleton until the end of next spring. Without securing his pension, the older man would die with more than regrets. He’d die a pauper.
Bram gave his uncle’s fingers a squeeze, then pulled away with a dip of his head. Even if Uncle Pendleton’s welfare were not a concern, Bram couldn’t ignore the harsh realities facing Eva. She bore the heavy burden of caring for her blind sister and maintaining a dilapidated home that threatened to collapse under the weight of neglect and mounting taxes. Love alone wouldn’t meet those needs, nor would a lowly professor’s salary ... though the sale of the relics would surely turn around Inman Manor to a respectable state and provide a suitable yearly income for Eva and Penny.
But he couldn’t very well live off her earnings, not with any self-respect intact.
He lugged the chair across the floor. As much as he’d like to take his uncle’s advice and pursue Eva, how could he possibly overcome the very real obstacles standing in his way?