Page 9

"Have another scone, dear." Mrs. Potter slid the plate of delicious biscuit-like pastries toward Callista, her grandmotherly smile promising no judgment.

"You haven't tried my strawberry preserves yet, either.

" She scooted a small jam jar equipped with a ready spoon across the tea table.

"Give yourself a good dollop and let me know if you like it better than the peach. "

Callista blushed, recognizing the ploy for what it was—thinly disguised kindness.

The moment the housekeeper had shown her into her personal quarters and insisted she share a spot of tea with her, Callista's stomach had growled with embarrassing ferocity.

She'd not eaten since breakfast, and the porridge she'd consumed had emptied from her belly hours ago.

A practical woman at heart, Callista set aside her pride and the societal definitions of ladylike behavior and cut open a second scone.

She'd need to keep up her strength if she wanted to maintain this position.

Not only physically but mentally as well.

Pitting herself against Mr. Griffin day after day would require a sharp wit and a firm constitution, both of which operated more efficiently on a full stomach.

Callista reached for the strawberry jam and dutifully slathered a layer onto her scone as Mrs. Potter refilled her teacup.

"Thank you." Callista looked into the older woman's sweetly round face and sensed a kinship weaving between the two of them. "Not just for the tea and treats, but for welcoming me into your domain."

She glanced around at the homey space. Tatted doilies draped each piece of furniture in the small sitting room. Red and gold roses bloomed on the papered walls, and lacy curtains framed the two windows. She couldn't imagine Mr. Griffin ever entering such a feminine space.

"Of course, my dear. As you might suppose, I get very little female companionship around here. Having you stay with us will be an absolute delight."

Curiosity burned in Callista's chest, but she swallowed her questions about Mr. Griffin's aversion to women along with a bite of jam-laden scone.

She was an employee, not a guest, no matter what Mr. Griffin's staff might say.

It wasn't her place to question the man's behavior or preferences.

He was the master of the manor and could do whatever he pleased.

Mrs. Potter poured herself a second cup of tea as well, then winked at Callista as she stirred in a heaping teaspoon of sugar.

"I'm proud of you for standing up to him the way you did.

Not many people, men included, can hold their own with Everett Griffin when he's in a temper.

I've got a good feeling about you, Miss Rosenfeld. "

"I wish your employer shared your optimism."

"Pish posh." Mrs. Potter dismissed Callista's concern with a wave of her hand.

"You're here, aren't you? Not bundled up with your trunks in Lightfoot's buggy on your way back to town.

You found a way to overcome the most formidable hurdle—getting the master to let you stay.

The rest should be easy. Just do what you came here to do. "

Callista sipped her tea, but it did little to settle the sudden eruption of doubt in her midsection.

How many clients had she served who believed her father had done all the bindery while she acted as a mere assistant?

And what about the time Papa had bragged on her work, giving her full credit when Mr. Weathers came to pick up his set of bound travel journals?

The customer had been waxing poetic on the fineness of the leather tooling when he'd thought Papa responsible for it.

Then upon discovering she had been the one to wield the tools, he picked it apart, pointing out the tiniest flaws.

He'd accepted the books but insisted that Papa handle his next project personally.

After that, Callista had persuaded Papa not to draw any special attention to her work.

Let people assume what they would. Better to satisfy the customers than drive them away by satisfying her pride.

Hiding behind Papa had never been an option with this job, so she'd convinced herself that it wouldn't matter. That her work would stand on its own merits. But that had been before she'd met Mr. Griffin and learned of the great prejudice he bore against her gender.

"You've gone awfully quiet." Mrs. Potter sought Callista's gaze. "What's troubling you?"

"I suppose I'm feeling the pressure to live up to my bold proclamations. I'm sure of my skills, but I can't control how they will be perceived."

"Especially by someone predisposed to find fault with the fairer sex.

" Mrs. Potter nodded as if satisfied with her deduction, then reached across the oval table to pat Callista's arm.

"Don't you worry, dear. Griffin will give you a fair shake.

I've known him since he was a boy, and he's always had an appreciation for artistry, no matter the gender or ethnicity of the artist. Probably because his mama is a painter and was his first teacher. "

The housekeeper's voice took on a nostalgic tone. "He hasn't always been like this, you know. He used to be full of light and mischief, charming everyone he met with witty anecdotes and a ready smile."

Charming? Mr. Griffin? The roaring, inhospitable man with beastly manners and a permanent snarl? Callista prided herself on possessing a rich imagination, but she struggled to conceive such a possibility.

"He was especially popular with the ladies.

Oh, how they vied for his attention! And he loved every minute of it, handsome young rogue that he was.

" Her expression sobered. "Until one of them turned on him.

" Mrs. Potter met Callista's gaze. "It was a young lady who slashed his face and damaged his eye. "

Callista's chest ached as if the weight of one of her heavy trunks had just dropped upon it. Someone had done that to him . . . deliberately ?

"Her family put it about that he had attacked her, and she had merely defended herself, but no one who actually knew the Griffins believed the story.

Everett Griffin is a gentleman to his core.

He might have been a bit of a rascal and a flirt, but he'd never harm a lady.

You must have sensed that truth yourself, otherwise you would have fled this place moments after your arrival. "

She had sensed it. First, when he'd called off his dog in the yard. Then again in the parlor. Even when he loomed above her, doing everything in his power to scare her witless, he'd never touched her or threatened her with anything more violent than insufferable manners and a wicked-looking scowl.

"I suppose he must have some redeeming qualities for his staff to defend him so staunchly." Callista smiled. "You and Mr. Lightfoot are both such kind souls. I can't imagine either of you remaining in the employ of someone you didn't respect."

"Timens is the same, though he hides his soft heart beneath his regimented exterior." The housekeeper chuckled softly as she leaned back in her chair. "That man does love his rules."

A sharp trio of knocks echoed against the wooden door.

Mrs. Potter's grin widened. "Speaking of Mr. Timens .

. ." She rose from her chair but waved Callista back into her seat when she tried to rise as well.

"Finish your scone, dear. I'll distract him for a few minutes by suggesting we rearrange the linen closet.

That's sure to get him in a dither." Her eyes danced with merriment as she reached for the doorknob.

"I'm here to fetch Miss Rosenfeld," Timens declared in a somber tone. "Mr. Griffin awaits her in the library."

Callista finished off her scone in a single, far-too-large-to-be-ladylike bite, then washed it down with the last of her tea, determined not to keep her employer waiting despite Mrs. Potter's well-meaning schemes.

"She'll be ready in a moment. In the meantime, I had an idea about the downstairs linen closet. Don't you think it would be more efficient to move all the table linens to the left and leave the right side open for bedding?"

"No, I most certainly do not. Keeping the tablecloths and napkins on the middle shelves of both sides is quite essential, madam. Those are the items used most frequently and therefore should be most readily at hand. Furthermore . . ."

Callista nearly choked on her tea as she listened to Timens pontificate on proper linen organization. Goodness. How did Mrs. Potter manage to keep a straight face?

Taking a moment to rid her own expression of visible amusement, Callista brushed her hands over the waist of her dress to divest it of any crumbs that might have missed her napkin, then inhaled a deep breath and fortified herself for the meeting to come.

Be strong and of good courage . You can do this. The Lord is with you wherever you go.

Steadied and determined, Callista strode forward and smiled at Mr. Timens who faltered in his diatribe regarding the proper folding method of circular tablecloths when he caught sight of her.

"Yes, well . . . We'll continue this discussion later, Mrs. Potter. It appears Miss Rosenfeld is ready."

"I am, sir. Thank you for waiting."

"I . . . er . . . of course. This way, if you will." He pivoted and started off toward the main part of the house, his posture and stride the definition of stately.

Mrs. Potter clasped Callista's hand briefly as she passed, her eyes dancing with humor and comradery. "You'll do fine, dear," she whispered. "Just be yourself and all will be well."

Buoyed by the support of a new friend, Callista hurried her step to catch up to the butler then fell in behind him.

"Thank you for giving me a moment to finish my tea," she said, hoping to warm the butler's icy demeanor.

"Yes, well . . . should you desire tea in future, you'll need to make arrangements with Mrs. Potter to utilize her sitting room. Tea is not permitted anywhere else in the house."

"Not even the dining room?" What a strange rule. Did Mr. Griffin fear stains on his carpets or upholstery?

"Nowhere. Should you wish coffee, lemonade, or water, I'll gladly provide you with refreshment, but tea is off the menu. Master's orders. He cannot tolerate the smell of the brew."

And she'd just downed two cups of the stuff. Good heavens. What if he smelled it on her breath? She didn't need to give him another reason to dislike her.

"Mr. Timens?"

He must have heard the distress in her voice for he halted and turned to face her. "Yes?"

"Do you happen to have a tin of cachous I might chew? I do not wish to cause Mr. Griffin any discomfort."

The butler's stoic expression softened just a touch. "The master has never had trouble conversing with Mrs. Potter after one of her tea breaks, so I do not believe you need worry, Miss Rosenfeld. His sensitivity is not that acute."

"Oh, good." She smiled and did her best to regain her confidence, but all she could picture in her mind was greeting her employer and having him stumble back in horror as her tea-flavored breath wafted about the room like toxic gas.

A moment later, they paused outside a room in the heart of the house. The door stood ajar. "Here we are." The austere butler inspected her from head to toe, then tapped the underside of his chin with the back of his hand and straightened his shoulders.

Taking his cue, Callista adjusted her posture and raised her chin. It didn't eliminate the flutters from her stomach, but when her escort nodded in approval, a much-needed infusion of reassurance saturated her spirit.

He lifted one brow, silently asking if she was ready. Callista nodded. She knew what to expect from Mr. Griffin. He'd not catch her off-guard this time.

Timens pushed the door inward with controlled authority then stepped aside. "The library, miss. You'll find your supplies installed at the center of the room. If I can provide anything to expedite your work, you have only to ask. Mr. Griffin awaits you inside to discuss his expectations."

Feeling the oddest urge to curtsy, Callista offered a small bob of her head as she stepped past him into the room.

She spotted her trunks right away but caught no glimpse of her employer at either of the tables to her left nor by the globe positioned between a pair of tall windows straight ahead.

Swinging her attention to her right, her gaze stuttered to a halt as she sucked in an awe-filled breath.

Dark walnut cabinetry glistened in the dim lamplight, carved in simple elegance and stretching from floor to ceiling.

Cabinet doors hid contents from waist-level to the floor, but above that stretched shelves upon shelves of glorious books.

Never had she seen so extensive a personal collection.

The volumes called to her like a siren, erasing all from her mind save the treasure waiting between their pages.

Her hand lifted. Her feet moved. Her eyes misted.

Heaven. Surely this must be what heaven looked like. An array of never-ending books that stretched for all eternity, filled with stories, knowledge, and experiences waiting to be shared.

Reaching the shelves, she ran a finger along the first row of spines, music erupting in her soul as surely as if she'd stroked a piano's keys.

A set of library stairs in matching dark wood beckoned.

She climbed one step, then another, and another, all the way to the top—craving the books on the highest shelf, the ones just out of reach.

A matching set of biblical commentaries covered in rich, burgundy leather begged for her touch.

She raised up onto her toes and stretched her hand above her head. Just a little farther . . .

"Those aren't the ones I've commissioned you for."

Callista recoiled at the frustrated growl and lost her footing.

A yelp tore from her throat as she made a desperate grab for the top stair situated near her shins.

Yet the jerking movement only worsened her balance.

The tall stepladder wobbled, and in the next heartbeat, Callista plummeted toward the hardwood floor.