Chapter Twelve #2
His head shot up as if she’d accused him of a crime. “I beg your pardon?” he said sharply.
“Most men go at it as if they’ve been handed a sack of potatoes,” Mrs. Peck explained, sending warning glances at the other
fellows in the room, who apparently were going to be given a chance to hold the baby, too.
“I find the ‘try not to drop them’ approach works best.” Marchand’s voice had gone abstracted again. “It only makes sense
to support the wobbliest parts of them.”
“His name is Roger,” Mrs. Peck told him.
Roger the baby made more adorable snuffling sounds.
Ginny’s heart suddenly felt too big for her chest.
Marchand finally gently handed the baby back to the nurse.
“Thank you for sharing him with me, Daniel,” he said politely.
Daniel toed the carpet shyly by way of reply.
Roger was then passed about the room by all the adults as if he were a sort of benediction. He didn’t cry or fuss at all.
It was as though he understood his job was to transform all the adults in the room into mush.
And then the tiny human was placed into Ginny’s arms. He flapped his little starfish hands as she gazed at him, transfixed.
She was suddenly certain she would kill for Roger, if necessary.
A shocking gust of emotion nearly swayed her: a fierce yearning bound up in painful hope and an amorphous but exhilarating fear.
As if she stood on a high peak and could see in every direction.
She wanted her future to feature lots of Rogers.
She pulled in a steadying breath.
Her heart skipped when she glanced up to find Marchand’s eyes fixed on her.
But she was stunned to see he’d gone pale.
He looked away from her with some effort and aimed his eyes unseeingly at the far wall.
His stillness alarmed her.
She gave Roger back to his nurse, who passed him to Delilah, who cuddled him a bit before she passed him to Captain Hardy.
And as Delilah admired and was amused by the way her darling husband held the baby—as carefully as he would hold a loaded
musket—she noticed an ever-so-slightly mutinous look move across Daniel Peck’s face like incoming inclement weather.
Because it was one thing to proudly show off a newly beloved baby brother. It was quite another to feel invisible when your newly beloved baby brother was in the room. Daniel clearly had not anticipated this.
Delilah hadn’t yet told a soul about the afternoon’s pinching and swearing interlude. Not even her husband. She hadn’t had
a chance.
Foreboding encroached. Because she had a sense of Daniel now, and she knew he was mulling the perfect way to direct everyone’s attention back to him. She knew what conclusion he was bound to draw.
As if he could read her mind, Daniel glanced at Delilah and smiled impishly.
“Quickly. Say ‘blancmange,’ ” Delilah murmured to her husband. “Do it. Hurry. Loudly. It’s urgent.”
Captain Hardy stared at her in amazement. He’d just handed the baby to Mrs. Pariseau. “What on . . . why on earth would I . . .”
But he was helpless against her pleading expression.
“Blancmange,” Captain Hardy dutifully said. His voice raised.
Lucien shot him an astounded, wounded look.
Captain Hardy shrugged.
“Blahhhmajjjj,” Daniel crowed, and laughed merrily. Everyone winced. “Blahhhmajjjj!”
Then he slapped his stomach and puffed up his cheeks. “I’m Mr. Dewwacorte!” He strutted over to where Mr. Delacorte and Dot
sat at the chessboard.
Mr. Delacorte dropped his head into his hands.
“I’ll tell you why later,” Delilah promised Tristan on a whisper.
Everyone gave a start at an abrupt rustling sound.
Mr. Marchand was swiftly, clumsily, gathering his papers and inkwell.
Then he stood.
“I’ll just bid everyone good evening, shall I?” he said.
To Ginny’s astonishment, he bowed to the company at large and strode out of the room he’d been in for all of fifteen minutes.
He didn’t look back at her.
One of Dot’s secrets—and she had many little ones—was that every sunny, clear day, she made a point of crossing the foyer for the pleasure of being sprinkled with the little rainbows thrown down by the crystals of their beloved chandelier.
This usually happened in the morning, after breakfast, and that time was nigh.
She clutched in her fist a bundle of violets. Yesterday, she’d forgotten to replace the fading flowers on the mantel in the
reception room, which she was supposed to do the day before, because she had forgotten to do it the day before that. Now they
were drooping over the lip of the vase like swooning maidens.
This morning, Delilah had asked her to do it again, somewhat reproachfully. Dot’s cheeks had gone hot with remorse.
Unlike Mr. Pike, who had been hired after a long, largely fruitless, often undignified search for a footman who could write
and spell, thump an intruder on the jaw if necessary, lift heavy things, and more, all while working for a modest salary at
a boardinghouse near the unglamorous docks, and was therefore rightfully prized, she had merely come along with Mrs. Hardy,
the former Lady Derring, like baggage. She understood she was prized, too, but mainly because Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand were
kind and very patient.
So lately she had taken to answering the door—her very favorite thing to do, because it was like opening a gift every time—with “Welcome to the Grand Palace on the Thames, the most exclusive boardinghouse in London!” in an effort to be admired for her bold initiative.
The bit about it being exclusive was the new part. But no one had yet remarked upon it.
Would Mr. Pike ever have thought to add the bit about “the most exclusive boardinghouse”? Of course not! He had no imagination.
But Mr. Pike remained her competition. Because he had gotten a delicious taste of answering the door, decided he liked it,
and he wanted to keep doing it.
Dot had at last agreed to allow him to answer it only on Wednesdays that fell on a full moon. He maddeningly persisted in
behaving as though she hadn’t been very, very serious about this.
It was grossly unfair that her nemesis should possess shoulders that went on for ells, and make her heart stutter when he
looked directly into her eyes. He was also stubbornly kind.
A few weeks ago, when they had all gone to a donkey race, Mr. Delacorte had intimated that Mr. Pike had a sweetheart. This
news had unexpectedly landed like an anvil on Dot’s heart.
It had been quite a revelation for her, in more ways than one.
She had not quite regained her footing around Mr. Pike in the aftermath. She felt, oddly, as though he had gotten the better
of her. She had not expected to feel like poor Apollo, heartsore over Daphne, a tree.
Violets firmly clutched, she took a long gliding step in the little shower of rainbows, closed her eyes, and rotated, imagining
she was Daphne. “Now I’m a tree,” she whispered.
She opened her eyes to discover Mr. Pike frozen on the stairs, wearing an expression of utter bemusement.
Her face was instantly scorching.
They stared at each other.
“Good morning, Mr. Pike.”
“Good morning, Dot. What are you doing?”
The trouble with Mr. Pike was that he was not shy about asking awkward questions. Such as when he’d discovered her rubbing
lamps in the sitting room, and she’d been forced to tell him it was because she wanted to ascertain whether they might be
harboring any genies. One never knew, after all.
“I was just about to replace the flowers in the vase in the reception room,” she said with dignity. She gestured with the
violets.v
“I see. Does this require turning about three times with your eyes closed?”
She paused. “Sometimes,” she decided to say, cagily.
He bit back a smile. “I thought I heard you say something about a ‘tree,’ ” he persisted.
Finally she sighed. “In the sitting room at night we’ve been reading Greek myths. Peneus turns Daphne into a tree to save
her from Apollo’s, ah, attentions.” Her blush renewed itself. She said all these things as if Peneus and Daphne and Apollo
were people with whom Pike might be acquainted.
He took this in.
“Shame on that Apollo,” Mr. Pike finally said. “He sounds like a brute.”
“He was heartsore,” Dot explained.
“Oh.” Pike was confused. “I was just on my way down from having a look for drafts on the third floor,” he volunteered.
One candle in a specific sconce on the third floor persisted in mysteriously snuffing out, and it was particularly maddening to Mrs. Hardy. Dot could have told them the search for the cause was futile; obviously it was ghosts.
“Mr. Pike . . . do you think you’ll always be a footman?” she asked suddenly. “Or will you ever transform into something else?”
He blinked. “That eager to be rid of me, are you?” he said dryly. He hesitated. “Mr. Hawkes did mention to me once that he
thought I would do well working for the Alien Office.” He’d lowered his voice. “In intelligence.”
Dot was surprised. Mr. Christian Hawkes—now styled Viscount Redvers—was a former renowned spymaster who had come to stay at
the Grand Palace on the Thames. Pike had once worked for a very wicked earl, and Hawkes was able to send the earl to prison
for a terrible crime in part because of Pike’s help.
Suddenly she was sorry she’d asked. The possibility of Mr. Pike leaving to become something else seemed as awful as the possibility
of him having a sweetheart. Inconveniently, she did not want to imagine either thing. But imagining was what she did best.
She couldn’t seem to help it.
“I think that would be a very fine thing,” she said bravely. Because it was the kind thing to say, and she thought it would
be true. No one had better shoulders for a career involving catching enemy spies.
She was glad she’d said it, because he looked very flattered.
“What about you, Dot? Do you think you’ll always be a . . .” He trailed off, as if he could not quite find the right word
for whatever Dot was.
She hesitated.
“I might want to be a story writer.” She almost whispered it.