Page 15 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Considering it had been dark for several hours, it seemed unlikely, even for the garden-obsessed ankou, to be out. When he’d told Silas he was off to Jane’s for the dressing, the oaf had waved him off with an absent farewell and wished him a successful evening before picking up his book and burying his nose in the pages. When Pitch had pointed out the fact that Silas could not read, he’d blustered about there only being one way to learn and that was by doing. Pitch was not sure that was how learning to read worked. But he’d been gifted with the aptitude for it when he’d created his human form, so who was he to say?

Jane glanced up at him as she tidied up her dresser. ‘I believe he went to the Lodge with Phillipa to see what the ghost thought of his ideas to refit Lady Howard’s carriage. He’s quite keen to use it, I understand.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Pitch interlaced his satin-covered fingers. It hardly mattered that the ankou wasn’t going to see him off. But really, could he not have spared a minute for a goodbye? Offered up a good luck kiss or something menial like that?

‘We are done here, are we not?’ Pitch pressed his palms into the severe curve of his waist. The room was overly warm. The least the air elemental could have done was stir a cool breeze.

‘You’re ready, yes.’

Pitch followed after the elemental as she breezed, quite actually, from the room. Her azure gown showed off the stunning contrast of her warm brown skin against a white lace trim.

Pitch’s shoes were sensible. Jane had given him a pair of lace-up boots in soft black leather, but even wearing those, it was a task to move down the stairs after her, his hip stiff and unhelpful.

They were almost at the foyer when the door swung open. The one dismal candle that Jane had lit – the elemental refused gaslight, gods knew why – fluttered and barely managed to stay alive.

‘’E gone yet?’ Tyvain caught sight of Pitch and gaped like she’d just seen one of Silas’s lost souls. ‘Jesus feckin’ wept. You look…you look…’ The soothsayer, for once in her life, was lost for words.

‘Stunning, beautiful, gorgeous,’ Pitch added helpfully.

‘All of ’em, but ya know it. Get on, will ya? We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Isaac is across the street waitin’ for ya.’

Tyvain led the way, out through the main gate to where a purebred driver waited with a dark bay and black brougham. The fellow would remember nothing of where he had picked up his passenger nor where he delivered them at the end of the evening. He didn’t even look at the vision of loveliness alighting his carriage now. Pitch squeezed himself through the narrow doorway, muttering about the rudeness.

Isaac was seated with his back to the driver, in all his surly glory, more so because he’d been made to wear a suit of charcoal grey rather than his layers of nondescript black. The whites of his eyes seemed to blaze against the darkness of his skin in the dimness of the cabin. His aura, usually a trim of clementine, was gone. He ran his gaze up and down Pitch’s made-up length and, without a word of greeting, turned to stare out the window.

‘Hello to you too, Isaac,’ Pitch said, sweet as can be. He was fairly certain he heard the unhappy elemental growl.

‘Carry on, driver,’ Isaac called, and they were underway.

CHAPTER FIVE

JUST ONtwenty minutes later, Pitch walked up the front steps of the Charters’ residence, a grand and well-situated house just off Berkeley Square in Mayfair. All the gaslights were blazing. Mrs Charters had been most proud, according to Edward, at having them installed and was likely to be the reason why British Gas would run dry before the end of the decade. A piano was being played somewhere indoors, and the heat from the interior ran up against the evening chill like a bull squaring off against a matador.

There, just inside the foyer, stiff and proper and with a portlier belly than Pitch recalled, stood the butler, Thomas.

Pitch smiled his most alluring smile, the one that teased just a glimpse of teeth between blossom-pink lips. The butler regarded the new arrival, his gaze delivered down the length of his rather bulbous nose. Pitch could see no hint of recognition.

‘Hello, dear Thomas. It has been some time.’ Pitch’s voice was soft and feminine, edged with an American twang. He added some breathlessness to the mix. ‘You may not remember me.’

He saw the moment recognition dawned, a subtle tug at the butler’s eyelids, the merest hint of a twitch of his lip that might be a smile.

‘Miss Cargill. How wonderful to see you again.’ Thomas stood aside to allow him entry. ‘Have you been long back in London?’

‘Not at all. We came off the boat only a few days ago. I was so excited to learn that these wonderful evenings were still occurring. I simply had to fit it into my schedule.’

‘Mrs Charters will be very pleased to see you,’ Thomas said. ‘You are here alone?’

There was a whisper of disapproval there, whether due to the lack of chaperone or husband, Pitch was unsure, but he was no virginal young thing that required escorting. No doubt there would be much gossip about the American’s unmarried state, at such a ripe old age. Pitch didn’t look a day over twenty-five, but he’d be marked for spinsterhood.

‘I wonder, Miss Cargill, are you aware that Lieutenant Charters shall not be in attendance this evening?’

Pitch pouted his disappointment. ‘Tell me that isn’t so, Thomas. It has been so long since I’ve seen him, though we do write on occasion. I hope he is not unwell again? I do know he struggles with his health.’ It took focus to keep his words smooth.

Thomas cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid, ma’am, that the colder weather does not agree with him. He decided a sojourn to the Continent was in order.’ The butler was many things, but a decent liar was not one of them. He shifted back and forth on feet normally stuck fast to the tiles.

Pitch fluttered his fingers against his chest, where bandages and folded rags beneath the taffeta gave the impression of breasts. ‘How wonderful for him. Spain? Italy perhaps? What wonders the waters of the Mediterranean can do.’

‘I’m not sure it is for me to say. Perhaps Mrs Charters will see fit to tell you where he is convalescing.’