An Hour Unspent, page 11
Strange to think of the enigma that was his employer having a family. Someone to welcome him home. Someone who must wonder where he went when he showed up at Pauly’s in Poplar of a random evening, long after darkness had fallen, or met one of Barclay’s family in a random park halfway across the city.
Well. No point in lurking here all evening long. Careful to remain out of view of that window, Barclay made his way back out of Fulham, past Whitehall and Charing Cross, toward Hammersmith Bridge.
When he turned onto his own street, he spotted the Fenleys loading into their automobile, and Mrs. Markham from two doors down was fussing, as usual, with the climbing roses that grew along her bit of wrought-iron fencing. Barclay lifted a hand in greeting but didn’t pause for conversation. He instead withdrew his own key and let himself into his own house and paused to glance over his shoulder to be sure no one was watching him from the cover of an across-the-street garden.
Satisfied, he stepped in and closed the evening out. And smiled when he heard the voice from the drawing room saying something about sines and cosines.
A peek showed him Evelina was on the couch they’d saved from a rubbish heap, Olivia looking snug and half asleep in her lap. Poor thing was no doubt wearing herself out trying to get used to the leg braces. Fergus had unearthed a scarred, rickety-looking wooden chair from somewhere and positioned it at ninety degrees to the couch. His books rested on the sofa cushion between them.
They obviously had things well in hand, so Barclay tossed his hat onto the rack—it landed perfectly on the closest hook and swung in a few tight circles before rocking to a halt—and continued down the hall toward the kitchen.
Lucy stood at the stove in what she called her shabby clothes. Evidence that she had been out supposedly searching for work as a domestic on Evelina’s street, as he’d asked her to do. He could always count on Lucy. “Find a position? I hear Mrs. Manning is a delight.”
She shot him a grin and kept stirring the pot of fragrant something-or-another. “Do you now? I rather heard that she’s run off every lady’s maid and domestic she’s ever hired within a half year. And that the old butler stays on because he answers to the mister of the Mannings, who is as pleasant and easy as his wife is difficult.”
He pulled out a chair at the table and made himself comfortable. “And you heard that from . . . ?”
“The cook at the house across the street, who warned me against even knocking on their door.” Lucy laughed and reached for a little dish of some red powder. A pinch of it went into the pot. He couldn’t have said what it was, but since they’d been able to afford some spices, Lucy’d developed quite a hand with them.
“What of our anonymous bloke? Anyone else see him?”
“A few.” With a tap of her spoon against the side of the pot, Lucy set her face into an expression of bemusement. “There was a footman who had to run him off from a garden—but that was a week ago.”
A couple days before the attempted mugging. “And others?”
“Just a few who had spotted him. Doesn’t exactly blend in, to hear them tell it—someone was afraid he was a German informant and reported it to the authorities, but of course there was neither hide nor hair of him to be found when the bobbies arrived.”
“Hmm.” He wasn’t German, that Barclay could tell—but that didn’t mean, he supposed, that he wasn’t working for them or their allies. “Anyone have any theories as to why he’s haunting that particular street?”
“Scads of them. There’s a chauffeur at the end of the street with a gambling problem—the housekeeper at Number 12 thinks he owes the bloke money. The maid at 17 is all but certain that he’s the husband of a girl with whom her employer had been dallying. And the footman who ran him off would swear on his mother’s grave, God rest her soul, that it was Prince Adalbert himself, spying for the kaiser.”
Because emperors were always sending their sons off to spy on Englishmen in Hammersmith. “Well, that isn’t farfetched at all.”
“The only bit that might actually be helpful is that the chauffeur who likes the tables thinks he saw him going toward Chiswick. That at least gives you a direction.”
“You’re the best, Luce.”
“Oh—and we had a wire from Rosie while you were out. They’ll be back in Town tomorrow. And there’s another letter from Georgie, just arrived. You can read it to us all after dinner.”
“Excellent.” He stood, moved to drop a kiss onto the top of her head, and snatched a steaming roll from the sheet of them by the stove. “You’re learning to bake too?”
“I found a book.”
“That’s my girl.” With a chuckle, he tore off a bite of the bread and tasted it. “Good as any from a bakery.”
She gave him an exaggerated curtsy.
“Anything else of interest?”
“Well, as a matter of fact.” She leaned close, eyes sparkling. “I also heard that Miss Manning’s fiancé ran off and joined up—probably to escape having to claim a relationship to her mother—and that she’s already been seen out strolling with some sandy-haired fellow.”
“Any mention of how handsome this sandy-haired fellow was?”
She laughed and straightened again. “For a man who’s always taken such care not to draw undue attention . . .”
“Some occasions call for it.” He took another bite of the roll and wondered how hard it would be to get his hands on some butter these days.
No more difficult, surely, than tracking down Prince Adalbert’s double.
Ten
Evelina repositioned the fob in the display case, considered for a moment, then moved it again. There, better. It would catch the afternoon sunlight now and draw the eye from the street.
“Are you finished fussing, Lina?”
She turned with a smile for Papa, who had put his topcoat and hat back on and had his satchel in hand. “No, I think I’ve another hour or two of fussing in me yet.”
He chuckled and motioned her toward the door. “Come, my sweet. You cannot avoid your mother forever.”
“I can try, can’t I?” Mother seemed to get more tightly wound each and every day she was home. Her face blanker and blanker. Her posture ever more perfect. No doubt as a direct result of the ever-spreading gossip about how Basil had fled to the front rather than marry Evelina. And the fact that Barclay had dropped by four evenings out of five. “Perhaps if I could hide in your workshop with you . . .”
“I am not hiding. I am working.” But the corner of his lips twitched up a bit. He opened the door, setting the bell above it to tinkling, and popped open the large umbrella they’d share on the walk back.
Sometimes she very nearly asked what had ever possessed him to marry Mother. But there were lines even she wouldn’t cross. And she almost remembered a softer mother, from before polio had struck their house. Perhaps she had been different as a young woman. Perhaps they had fallen in love.
Or perhaps Mother had simply said the words when they were demanded.
Though why she would have lied, when Papa wasn’t exactly the catch that Uncle Wycombe had been in the eyes of society, she didn’t know.
But he was the best at what he did. He’d achieved the highest hallmarks of his chosen field. And he was him. Perhaps even Mother had once understood the allure of that.
“Lina . . .” Papa pulled the door of his shop firmly closed behind them so none of the rain-bejeweled wind would find its way inside. “Young Mr. Pearce mentioned that the chap who tried to mug you is still lurking about. Have you seen him again?”
Her muscles all went stiff at the mention of him. She looped her arm through her father’s and shoved her free hand into the protective pocket of her jacket. “Not since last Monday, no.” Which had been nearly a week ago. “Surely he’s long gone by now.”
“The neighbors have seen him, apparently. It makes me uneasy—he has already attacked you once. I don’t understand why the authorities cannot find these people and lock them up.”
“Good question.”
“I would feel infinitely more at ease if you refrained from venturing out alone.”
“But Papa—”
“Now, listen.” His hand covered hers, tamping down that burst of frustration that bordered on panic.
He couldn’t take away what morsel of independence she had. He couldn’t. It would mean all day, every day with Mother and Aunt Beatrice, doing nothing but embroidering linens for a home she’d never have.
“I know you value your freedom. But you cannot value it more than your life, Evelina. And if anything were to happen to you, I’d never forgive myself. Not when it’s my job to protect you.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re the most important person in the world to me. You know that. You know how it frightened me when you took part in those marches.”
“Oh, Papa.” He sounded so sorrowful that an empathetic pang of it filled her chest too. “I don’t invite harm, you know that.”
“And it was a risk you took for a cause in which you firmly believe. I know that, which is why I never forbade you from doing it, nor from visiting all those factories. But, my sweet, there is someone out there who has tried once already to harm you. And so I beg you—do not go out alone.”
The fact that his request was reasonable did nothing to make it settle peaceably in her chest. “I’ve an appointment later this week with Mr. Dramwell, though.” Another note had come round from Katy. The surly Mr. Clarke had gone straight back to his previous ways after a mere three days.
“Dram will be happy enough to come to you, as well you know.”
Her sigh no doubt sounded as testy to his ears as it did to her own. “To the Fenleys’ at least?”
“I would prefer you didn’t. But Mr. Pearce has offered to accompany you on whatever outings you desire until this fellow has been apprehended. You’ll simply have to restrict them to the afternoons, when he is available.”
Her lips curled up. “Mother will have a fit.”
“Will she?” Papa did an admirable job of keeping his own lips perfectly in line. “She’ll just have to adjust to the idea. For your safety.”
Evelina chuckled. She wasn’t sure why her father had taken so quickly to Barclay, but his esteem eased a few of her own concerns over the shadows in his story. Papa was an excellent judge of character.
They turned the corner, their shoes splashing through the puddle that always formed where the pavement dipped.
“I cannot decipher this fellow.” Papa’s voice sounded far away. And worried. “Lurking around for weeks on end, but never doing anything. Except that night when he apprehended you. It is alarming. Why did he target you specifically?”
A question she’d lain awake contemplating on more than one night. “Perhaps it had something to do with Basil.”
“With Basil?”
“He had political enemies, didn’t he? Those none too happy at the support he’d been gaining. What if someone thought to use me against him? But then after he broke things off, this chap wouldn’t know whether it would still work. It would render him immobile, so to speak, but might not make him change his mind entirely about his plan.”
A thoughtful hum filled Papa’s throat. “It is as reasonable a theory as any I have developed.”
And meant that she ought to be safe now, more or less. Soon that fellow would realize that Basil had rejected her, and obviously he didn’t care enough about her to rush home for her sake.
For that matter, he’d removed himself from the world of politics, at least for the duration of the war. So whatever enemies he had in parliamentary circles ought to be appeased for now.
If they wanted to be angry with him again later, they could take it out on whatever pretty debutante he found to look at him with adoration and turn to mush in his arms.
“You like Mr. Pearce well enough, don’t you?”
“Hmm?” Jerking herself out of her future jealousy, she angled a look up at Papa again. “Why?”
“Well, I don’t want to confine you to an escort you don’t like. If he doesn’t suit, I could hire someone.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that. I like Barclay quite well.” And, she had to admit, enjoyed calling him by his given name when Mother was around to overhear it. That tic in Mother’s cheek never failed to make an appearance when she did.
“He’s a bright young man. I never need to show him more than once how to perform a task. If he weren’t already employed, I would seriously consider hiring him on as an apprentice.” He moved the umbrella a bit, to better cover her right shoulder. “The other night I was telling him about the Great Clock—he never fails to ask the most insightful questions. Not to mention his interest in my . . . dabblings.”
His “dabblings” had taken various forms over the years. She couldn’t pretend to keep up with them all. “I’m glad he’s proving a good companion, Papa.”
“Mmm. Though if we want to truly test his mettle, we ought to see if he can handle your Aunt Beatrice. What say you? Shall we have him over to dine one evening soon?”
A laugh filled her throat. “That would be cruel.”
“I think he might enjoy it, actually. He certainly never balks at your mother.” He patted her hand again. “Let’s do. If he emerges unscathed, I’ll recommend him for knighthood.”
She laughed again, then let the rain fill the silence as they finished the walk home. And somehow, she wasn’t surprised when Williston greeted them upon their entrance with the announcement that Mr. Pearce was in the drawing room. Talk of the devil and he doth appear, as they said.
Mother occupied her usual chair, her hands folded in her lap and her smile practically painted upon her face. Evelina couldn’t see Barclay from where she stood shrugging out of her damp jacket, but she had a feeling he looked far more at ease. He usually did.
She handed over her mackintosh, wiped her feet, and preceded Papa into the drawing room.
As expected, Barclay sat in the uncomfortable chair opposite Mother’s as though it were the most comfortable seat in the world. No strain evident upon his face, though if Mother had been treating him to her silent stare, she didn’t quite know how he’d managed it.
At least Aunt Beatrice wasn’t in attendance. She probably had some charity meeting or another to attend—the only respite they ever got from her, despite Papa’s shocking invitation for her to go torment her own household.
Evelina couldn’t remember the last time her aunt had even opened the house in Savoy that Uncle Wycombe had loved so well. Why, when she so obviously found their house lacking?
“Ah, there he is, right on time as always.” Mother stood, her spine remaining perfectly straight as she did so. “I’ll leave you to entertain your . . . friend, Cecil. I had better check on dinner preparations. I had tea sent down to your workshop just a moment ago.”
“Thank you, my dear, you are conscientious as always. Good day, Barclay.” Papa’s eyes gleamed as he took off his spectacles and wiped the speckles of rain from the lenses with his waistcoat.
Mother’s lips thinned.
“And speaking of dinner preparations, Lina and I were just discussing how we’ve been remiss—you ought to dine with us one evening, young man. Isn’t that right, my dear? As a thank-you—our Mr. Pearce has graciously offered to escort Evelina about town for the next little while.”
“Has he?” Mother’s fingers were still knotted together, fingertips pressing hard enough against her hands that they were red. “How kind.”
Evelina glanced over at Barclay in time to catch his wink. Which her mother no doubt caught as well.
He grinned. “I’d be delighted.”
“Saturday? And invite your sisters and their gentlemen as well. I know Mrs. Manning has been eager to make the acquaintance of the Holsteins and will no doubt crow to her friends at hosting Miss Forsythe and Mr. De Wilde.”
Barclay nodded. “Certainly. I know they’ll be pleased to join us.”
Mother wore her panic like glass—invisible but glinting. She would indeed crow to her friends about it, but the short notice would keep her frantic in the meantime. Of course, to Barclay she said, “I didn’t realize you had such esteemed family. I’ll just go and check with Mrs. Wright about menu possibilities now, if you’ll excuse me.” She bustled from the room.
Poor Mrs. Wright would likely quit before the week was out. Which was a shame, because she could do wonders with only a pinch of sugar. Ah well.
Papa smiled just a bit. “I think I’ll go and have that tea before I get back to work. Join me in the workshop at your leisure, Barclay—I’ve a bit of correspondence to attend to.” A letter had, as a matter of fact, arrived from his mentor in Bienne before they’d left for the shop. Evelina would have ripped open the envelope then and there—Uncle Herman always told the most amusing anecdotes about the Swiss—but this was Papa. He’d not had the five minutes it would take to read it scheduled into his morning. Correspondence was reserved for afternoons.
She rather expected Barclay to follow her father toward the basement. Instead, he said, “I won’t be long behind you.” Once Papa had gone, Barclay moved to the window and twitched a finger her way.
Evelina joined him, a knot of dread in her stomach. Was it that man out there again? She nearly refused to look out the window—but no, that was cowardly. If the fellow was there, she wanted to know it. She wanted to know where.
But her brows shot up when she saw what he was pointing out. “Lucy! What’s she doing out there?”
“She found a cook across the street who will buy her bread. Lets her stay tapped into the gossip.”
She watched as his sister sloshed her way through the rain, toward the back entrance of the row of houses opposite. “She didn’t mention that she baked.”
“Well, she only just learned how a few days ago.”
These people . . . Evelina sank to a seat on the arm of the chair. “And already she’s selling it?”
“Luce is a whiz in the kitchen.”
“And Willa on the violin and Rosemary with a needle and you with things mechanical—tell me, is there anything your family cannot accomplish, between you?”
