Chapter 11
Balancing the tray on one hip, Phoebe rapped on the study door.
“Come,” came the muffled response from within.
On a deep breath, she entered, the door creaking.
Late afternoon sunlight glazed the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room and gilding piles of papers, scattered books, and a creased letter she recognized as the one Mr. Willet had delivered earlier. A candle stub, half melted, leaned precariously towards the desk’s disarray.
Mr. Ellison looked up with surprise. His gaze flicked to the closed door behind her, likely noting the absence of her maid, then to the tea tray, then finally to her.
“I bring an end to your dreadful solitude,” she said, setting the tray down and brandishing the small leather journal she had tucked beneath her arm.
“And tea. Mostly tea.” With a blush, she added, “You may consider this bribery to spare us tomorrow’s session of ledger-induced ennui, for once you see what I’ve found, you’ll surely wish to devote our morning to examining it further. ”
She expected a wry quip in response, perhaps even a smile. Instead, he simply rose and bowed, slow and polite.
“You look as though Mr. Willet delivered a thundercloud. Have I come at an inopportune time?”
For a moment, his expression opened with a flash of something weary, unsettled. But it shuttered again, as he gestured for her to sit with a civil, practiced smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Just one of life’s little surprises,” he said.
Phoebe sat, heart ticking faster than she would like to admit. After the walk in the gardens… after his warm regard and gentle touch… this chill in him felt wrong. She glanced askance at the letter on the desk…
Pouring tea into his cup, she held her silence. Across from her, Mr. Ellison watched. After all her fretting over the breach in decorum, of him thinking her too forward, this was his reaction to her surprise visit. Had she misread him, and thus miscalculated her decision?
“I’ve been thinking, Miss Whittington, about something you said earlier.” He paused to clear his throat of its scratchiness. “How well do you know the Marquess of Pickering and his wife?”
Her hand froze, the teapot mid-tilt over her cup.
She had not given him the name of the marquess and marchioness of her acquaintance. Her memory would not fail her on this point.
She eyed the desk again, her gaze catching the folded edge of the letter’s parchment.
Ah. Yes, well, it had only been a matter of time before he heard of the scandal.
Inevitable, really. Had the new earl written to him, then?
Or someone else? How much of the scandal he knew was the more important question.
She set the teapot down carefully. “Should I assume this inquiry is connected to whatever it is Mr. Willet delivered?”
He said nothing, neither in denial nor admittance.
She angled her chin. “I’d wager that crumpled letter holds at least one version of my life. Might I know which one it is?”
His eyes widened. Mr. Ellison leaned back as though she had knocked the breath from him. Then, haltingly, he exhaled and cleared his throat. “That is… bold of you, Miss Whittington.”
“A specialty of mine, I assure you. You’re welcome to read the letter aloud, if you prefer. I would rather we not pretend a casual conversation between acquaintances if there are accusations to which I must apply. Have out with it.”
Rather than reply, he studied her, but then, to her astonishment, he rose to retrieve the letter before handing it to her.
She unfolded it with steady fingers, every instinct coiled against the expected blow.
The more she read, however, the words revealing nothing more scandalous than proposals made, declined, and redirected, the more an incredulous laugh bubbled up in her chest, until a soft laugh escaped her parted lips.
“This is the source of your brooding?” she asked, both amused and relieved as she handed the letter back. “A rumor of a wedding that never was?”
“You did decline a proposal,” he pointed out.
“And accepted another,” she agreed with a nod. “I imagine half the eligible ladies in London could be convicted of the same crime.”
Although he watched her closely, there was no hardness in his eyes, only something almost sheepish.
“In my defense,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “the wording suggests you are already a marchioness.”
“Ah. But sadly, no. I would make a terrible marchioness. Everyone knows they are required to look regal in velvet at least once a week. A burden too great, even for me.”
“I confess, I believed the worst. That is, if Miss Whittington were in Yorkshire now, then…”
“Thank you for the admission.” She settled comfortably with her teacup, taking her time with a sip.
“Last year, my father offered a handsome dowry to see me settled, to his advantage, of course. The two proposals he favored were from the Earl of Collumby and the Marquess of Pickering, as you’ve surmised.
I declined the earl in favor of the marquess…
but it was not what I wanted, not truly.
In the end, the marquess married someone else, someone not named Phoebe Whittington, I might add.
His wife and I remain friends, of a sort. ”
Maintaining composure, she looked past him at the fading light; the garden basked in a golden glow. No reason to mention Freddy. Yet. No reason to mention who the marquess married. Yet. She drank her tea in silence.
At length, she clarified, “I am not hiding a secret marriage in Yorkshire, Mr. Ellison, nor am I someone other than who I claim to be.”
She set her saucer on the tray, wondering whether to take the journal and leave. While nothing about the scandal had been said, at least not yet, she had lost the spark that had driven her to share the mischievous treasure. Now all she wanted was the privacy of the bedchamber.
Phoebe watched him, trying to read his expression.
He sat back, tea cooling in his hands, his gaze fixed on her in return, only it was not sharp with accusation as she had feared, rather thoughtful, almost soft. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but meaningful. “I’m a fool to have thought otherwise, even for a second.”
A simple admission. But something in the way he said it, and that he said it, loosened the knot that had tightened beneath her ribs.
With deliberate calm, he set down his teacup.
“I appreciate your honesty, Miss Whittington. I deserve to be chided for believing such an outlandish claim. Curiosity was poor practice on my part. You’ll be calling me Mr. Nose now.
” A faint, smile ghosted across his lips, one that spoke to her of self-mockery.
“I should have trusted what I already knew: that you’ve never been anything less than forthright with me. ”
Phoebe blinked. Warmth crept up the back of her neck. “I… I… thank you,” she managed. Relief, surprising in its intensity, softened her shoulders. “Thank you for saying so, Mr. Nose.”
A huff of genuine amusement escaped him.
The air between them eased, not back to the intimacy shared in the garden, but no longer sharp-edged. She smiled the kind of smile that bridged silences.
He nodded towards the journal. “And this… this is the reason I’m to be bribed out of tomorrow’s ledgers?”
She nudged the volume closer. “Of this, I am entirely guilty. I found it, nestled between enough dust to bury a regiment, while nosing about upstairs. I couldn’t resist. Can you guess what it is?
” Before he could reply, she answered, “The late earl’s personal journal.
It turns out the late earl had a habit of writing meticulous notes of all manner of opinions, blunt ones at that, about everyone from tenants to parsons.
He rarely bothered with names, however, offering us decoding-over-tea mysteries to solve.
Does this opening entry entice you? ‘Servants who steal the sugar.’”
At that, Mr. Ellison’s lips curved upward. “Scandal and sugar?” He drew the book nearer, eyes gleaming. “By all means, let us have a look at once. Does he share his impressions of his great-nephew, I wonder? Or perhaps the parish vicar? Where shall we begin?”
“Oh, clergy,” she said with a laugh, sliding her chair closer, their knees brushing without apology. “Always clergy.”
The shadow between them had not vanished entirely, but in that moment, with the shared journal open, it had not won, either. They bent over the ancient little volume with its mousy leather and frayed spine, each laugh lightening the weight of the letter.
She was still laughing when she caught her breath enough to read aloud: “‘Mr. Penny Pincher. Loud of voice. Thin of Soul.’”
She nearly toppled from her chair with the force of delight.
Graeme should not be watching her. He should not be aware of the way her eyes sparkled in the waning sun, the way a ribbon had loosened in her curls, or the way her sleeve grazed his shoulder because she had leaned just a fraction too close.
But he was.
He was utterly undone by the simplest of things: her laughter, her ease, her trust.
All that lingered of the letter was his own chagrin. How fortunate she was so forgiving.
She flipped a page. “And here… oh, no, this is truly wicked!” Voice choking, she read the line, “‘Mrs. Smelling Salt is tragic of bonnet and overfond of the vicar.’”
He snorted. “Keep reading.”
“‘Lady L. dined today. Laughed like a duck. Is this a known and documented affliction?’”
That did it. She dropped her forehead to his shoulder, her own shaking with mirth.
Chuckling, he said, “If this is the earl’s opinion of polite society, I begin to admire the man’s notions.
” Reading further down the page, he said, “‘Lord T. smells like an alehouse. T’s sin is but little compared to Mrs. F., who stole my salt in belief I would not notice.’ Let us hope, Miss Whittington, he has spared those of our own acquaintance. ”
Lifting her head, she tugged free her handkerchief to blot her eyes. “As curious as I am, I hope he never bothered. How dreadful to read the bare truth of the steward or poor Mrs. Redshaw! Do we really wish to know she pilfers the wine—”
“Or is overfond of chastisement,” he finished for her.
“Oh, Mr. Ellison. This is a dangerous journal. And the worst of it? There are at least five more upstairs!”
As she dissolved into more laughter at the gossip five more must hold, he startled himself with the desire to clasp her hand, to press his lips against her knuckles. Instead, he stared, caught between awareness and longing.
More soberly than he had intended, he asked, “Is life so diverting, or is it only so when you’re beside me?”
Her smile dipped as a pucker wrinkled her brow. She searched his face, although he did not know what she sought.
Her gaze lingered seconds too long, long enough for her cheeks to flush red and the air between them to shift, not merely with amusement but with something more fragile, and infinitely more volatile.
Looking down, she fidgeted with her handkerchief, fluster replacing her usual confidence. Abruptly, she rose. “Perhaps tomorrow we will see if his lordship has kinder things to say about his neighbors.”
“Or we’ll learn they all quack like ducks.”
With a playful curtsy but hesitant smile, she left the study. Graeme watched her go, journal still in his hand, empty teapot on tray.
Alone again, Graeme let the journal fall shut.
Her laughter echoed in his thoughts, light as a bell, warm as sunlight.
He had waded into forbidden waters. Somewhere along the way, he had begun to long for her trust more than he feared her betrayal.
And that, he suspected, made him the most vulnerable man in Lobelia Hall.