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CHAPTER TWO

‘Hello, Elliot.’ The words squawked out as Ava tucked the cloak around herself, her voice still breathless from the fright. ‘How was your journey?’

‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ Viola sniped from her seat by the window, cool and collected as always. She hadn’t even flinched when Elliot bounded into the room, just continued stitching the beads onto her mask. But then, that was Viola. ‘You can’t see our costumes before the ball.’

‘It’s a coming out, not a wedding,’ Elliot drawled. He crossed the room, bent to kiss his sister on the top of her head, then ruffled her hair. Viola swatted his hand away and smoothed her fair hair back into place.

‘It may as well be for Ava,’ Viola said. ‘Mr Webb is such a bore. He isn’t even letting her have her own wedding, just a few words in church after mass. This may be the last grand party she attends.’

‘I don’t need big parties,’ Ava said, forcing her voice louder. ‘I’d be happier with no fuss at all.’

Elliot leant into the other side of the window beside Viola and pushed the casement open.

He settled into the seat. Their mother must have been stunning, as the pair of them could have been cut from crystal.

Perfect cheeks, sharp lines, and eyes like blue fire.

Elliot reached into his pocket, pulled out his silver cigarette case, and flipped it open.

As he pulled one out, he frowned. ‘I didn’t know you were engaged. ’

‘It’s not announced. We have only met a few times.

But he has made his intentions clear to my uncle and I…

’ Ava raised her chin. She would not cower, even though her heart hammered under Elliot’s scrutiny.

‘I delayed my coming out to mourn my parents. I cannot be a burden forever. I see no benefit in waiting.’

Stability, security, and perhaps a measure of independence…

Country squire Mr Webb offered her a steady future.

He made his income from farming his own land, with a little extra from old tenant leases.

She hadn’t been able to ask him if he enjoyed being out of doors, but if he lived in the country, surely there was a chance he did?

Regardless, if she resided in the countryside, she could still walk and spot her birds.

She could make friends with the northern wind, and she could talk to ducklings, and…

And she might not see Elliot. Not ever again.

What a blessing that would be. With her husband’s permission, she could invite Viola for visits, and they could carry on as they had since they’d met—the best of friends.

But in her own home, she wouldn’t have to suffer Elliot’s taunts when he overheard her and Viola in conversation.

She wouldn’t have to listen to the rumours about him.

She wouldn’t have to see him come down to breakfast with dishevelled hair.

Wouldn’t torture herself wondering who had caught his eye this time because so many women seemed to catch his eye.

But never her.

Never his little sister’s gawky friend.

Elliot tapped the end of the cigarette against the case, then set it against his lips. He struck a match and raised it to the tip. The light flared as he inhaled, and a small wisp of smoke flittered across his face, hiding his expression momentarily.

‘Mr Webb lives near the border, up north.’ Elliot exhaled a stream of smoke out of the window.

Ava nodded, then looked down at Mary, who had taken up her skirt hem again. ‘He has acres of woodland. There are geese and shrikes and many other small birds that criss-cross the fields.’

‘Little robin is taking flight,’ he quipped.

‘She’s not a robin, she’s a swan.’ Viola hit Elliot’s leg with the back of her hand. ‘Mr Webb will adore you.’

Beyond the room, a voice beckoned. Viola slid off the window seat and leant into the hallway, one hand on the doorframe. She called something Ava couldn’t quite make out, then turned back towards the room. ‘Mrs Turner has some issue. Mary, how is Ava’s skirt? We may need your skills.’

Mary shook out Ava’s dress, nodded, and pushed herself up to standing.

‘And you?’ Viola addressed her brother.

Elliot flicked his cigarette out of the window. ‘Our wicked stepmother will complain if I spread ash in the hall.’

Ava stiffened. She cast a look at Viola. She wouldn’t leave her alone with Elliot, would she? She couldn’t…

The call from the other room came again.

‘I will return in precisely seven minutes,’ Viola snapped at her brother.

‘But my dress?—’

Ava’s plea was wasted, as in a beat, Viola was gone.

The noise of busy preparations tapped in through the open door, a tangle of busy footfalls, clinking glass and cutlery, and the scrape of chairs on hardwood floors.

Their echoes filled the aching silence, occasionally loud enough to smother the thumping in her ears.

She teetered on the stool where she’d been abandoned, then steadied.

Elliot, completely nonplussed, relaxed against the window frame.

He stretched his legs across the length of the seat and crossed them at the ankles.

When he unfastened his button, his coat fell open to reveal his waistcoat.

Long and lean, Elliot fit into the seat as if it had been made for him.

Why could he not have gone soft in the city?

Or better again, grown a paunch from taking cabs and carriages, from indulging in too much wine and food?

But no. Elliot had the same strong physique as when she’d first met him.

It had been during her first visit to the manor, only a few months after she’d met Viola at school.

Just a doe-eyed fourteen-year-old girl, Ava had told him she liked birds, and Elliot, three years older than herself but seeming as all-knowing as a sage, had led her to the rambling edge of the woods and pointed out a robin’s nest. That day, she’d tumbled into an infatuation with her friend’s older brother faster than a finch in flight.

No matter how many times she told herself she should forget him, she could never break the spell.

‘What’s wrong with your dress?’ he asked.

‘I cannot unbutton it myself.’ The delicate muslin filled the spaces between her fingers as she stroked its cool lengths until her heart slowed. ‘I need to change. I’d like to collect more feathers for my mask while the light is still good.’

‘Still with the feathers. I could have bought you some in London if you’d sent me a telegram.’ He leant out of the window and stubbed his cigarette against the stone wall, then flicked it away.

‘Do you know how they get the feathers for the market?’ Ava’s voice grew sharp. She tried to tamp it down, but, as always, failed. ‘They kill the birds just to pluck them. For their stupid hats and fans and ornaments?—’

Elliot laughed as he pushed himself off the seat and ambled across the room to stand before her. ‘There she is. For a moment I was worried you had turned into a demure coquette, just to please Mr Webb.’

A wave of heat rushed along her neck. Little splatters inched their way over her cheeks, and once again, she buried her hands in her skirts and bowed her head.

‘I cannot help my conviction, and I wish you would not make fun of me for it. Every time I see a bird on the wing, I am always reminded of those that are not so free. Others see fashion. All I see is their suffering.’

Raised on the stool, Ava stood almost eye to eye with Elliot.

Against the stagnant air of the sitting room, his aura prickled with a freshness.

The scent that wafted off his shoulders, every exhale of his breath…

it smelt of adventure. Woodsmoke and tobacco, sandalwood and worn wool, he bore his freedom with carelessness. ‘Turn around,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘I’ll help with your buttons. Turn around.’

Ava shot a look at the open door. Elliot sighed. ‘We can wait for Viola, but once Mrs Turner has finished baking her into a pie, I imagine the sun will have set. I doubt you’ll be able to see the pond, let alone find a feather in the reeds. I won’t crush your flounces. I can manage some buttons.’

Elliot offered his hand. Ava grasped it, and turned herself on her precarious perch in tiny steps.

She shrugged off the cloak; he caught it as it fell.

A tug and a pull. Another, and the bodice loosened.

She yearned for a breath of warmth or a brush of roughness from his fingers, but no. He moved with practised dexterity.

‘I don’t intend to make fun of you. I envy your conviction. I wish I had some of my own, but I don’t, so I carry yours with me. Turn around.’

Ava teetered as she spun. Once she faced him, Elliot reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He flipped it open and pulled out a feather. When he twisted the quill between his fingers, it shone iridescent teal and navy, its colours shifting in the light.

‘I spotted it in the park. I don’t know what it’s from, but it made me think of you.’

‘You didn’t buy it?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

Elliot held out the feather, and she took it. None of the barbs had separated or split, and the firm arch bowed under her touch. The fluffy down had flattened a little, so she blew on it until the little tufts fluttered and puffed into shape.

‘I think it’s from a mallard duck. The feathers beneath their wings are much prettier than you’d expect. I will… I’ll keep it for my collection.’

Treasure it. She would treasure it, always.

Curse him. Curse his smile, curse his eyes that creased at the corners, and curse him for bringing her a stupid feather with a story.

‘I should have known you would, but I cannot believe you are debuting. The girl who climbed trees to find nests and who sat in the cold to watch starlings is gone.’

‘I am a woman grown,’ she said.

‘You most definitely are.’ Each word rolled languidly off his tongue, like he was caressing each syllable before releasing it into the conversation.

Time froze as her heart raced. There was no mistaking his look, as unfamiliar as she was with receiving it from any man.

He took his time with it, as if unworried about being seen.

Or perhaps he wanted to be observed. She felt as exposed as if he was already touching her in the places where his gaze lingered.

On her looser bodice, around her waist, along her chest and neck.

When he met her eyes again, she flushed warm once more.

His look was dangerous—not because she did not want Elliot to look at her like that, but because she enjoyed it too much.

‘Do you know Mr Webb?’ Ava murmured the name of her almost-fiancé. ‘Is he kind? My uncle says he is pious and quiet. Do you think he will let me go walking on Sundays? Or will I have to stay in the house in contemplation?’

‘What would you contemplate?’ he asked, then wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue.

‘My sins. What else?’