Chapter Seven
“Beatrice, how lovely to see you.”
Verity rose and held out her hands to the woman walking towards her. Short and round, with a smile that could light candles, Lady Lockwood was always a welcome addition to any ball, soirée, or social gathering.
“Darling Verity, I just had to stop by and thank you for last night’s wonderful event...” Her gaze fell on the table and the mess of papers. “And I’m interrupting you, aren’t I...”
“No, no, not at all. You picked the perfect time in fact, since I have reached the point where my eyes are starting to cross, and the numbers refuse to add up. And that’s when I know it’s time to take a breather. Come, let me put all this behind me for a little while. I desperately need the break.”
“I’m always happy to offer anyone a chance to stop working,” laughed Beatrice, “although I’m quite cross when that’s done to me.”
“I will make a mental note of that.” Verity led the other woman to her parlour, trusting that Sprocket would take care of the practicalities.
Settling herself comfortably in a large armchair, Beatrice raised her eyebrows at Verity. “Come on then, don’t keep me in suspense...was it a profitable night? The Yardley Memorial evening...everyone had such a lovely time, didn’t they?”
“I think so, yes,” agreed Verity. “And although I’ve not completed my mathematics, thus far I’d say we’ve done better than I expected. Much better.”
“That is wonderful news indeed.” Beatrice clapped her hands, her delight infectious. “So the work on the roof can proceed as planned?”
“Yes. I’ll have to double check the estimates, of course, and work the financial side of things, but I’m relatively confident that I can come to a satisfactory agreement with the roofers.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Verity, I honestly don’t.”
“Do what?”
“Handle all this work yourself. The mathematics. The funding. The management of the Turner-Yardley charity accounts. Well that must be a full-time job in and of itself, for goodness sake. Don’t you find it a burden now and again?”
Verity chuckled. “Such matters are never a burden, Beatrice. Not to someone like me. I developed my affinity for mathematics at an early age—to the utter horror of my Mama, of course—and it’s stayed with me. Now, working on all the charities and the associated businesses? Sheer joy.”
Sprocket tapped on the half open door and eased her way in, holding a tray with a tall and shining coffee pot next to two elegant cups and saucers, plates, and a cake salver. The vapour emerging from the spout spread a delicate aromatic blend of
“Oh lovely, Sprocket. I am absolutely ready for coffee.” Verity smiled. “Beatrice?”
“I’ll never turn down a nice cup of steamspiced coffee. Ever. And...” she leaned over and sniffed, “those look very much like clock-rolls...?”
“Yes, my Lady,” replied Sprocket. “One of Lady Verity’s favourites.”
“Mine too.” Beatrice grinned. “This is luxury indeed.” She took two. “Of course, Henry would scold me for indulging, but since he’s not here...”
Verity couldn’t help laughing as she poured the coffee, breathing in the scent of cinnamon, cloves, with a dash of nutmeg and cardamom. But it was so delicious, and she’d worked hard this morning, so that merited a treat.
“Orange peel,” muttered Beatrice. “You know, I can definitely taste orange peel.”
“I love all the spices,” agreed Verity. “And in this combination, the flavour blend is unsurpassed.”
For a few moments the two women relished their aromatic delicacies, happily content in each other’s company. Then Verity recalled something.
“Beatrice, I completely forgot to mention that the winner of the de Montclair painting was Archibald Finn. I expect he will be dropping by soon to collect it.”
“Ahhh, good. Thank you for telling me. That question was one of the reasons that brought me here this morning. I will see that he receives it as soon as he arrives.”
Verity finished a clock-roll. “Honestly, Beatrice. Why all the fuss about de Montclair? I like art well enough, but I simply can’t see anything out of the ordinary in his work. You’re far more familiar with it than I am...so tell me?”
Beatrice pondered the question. “Well, you know what they say about the eye of the beholder? I believe this is a perfect example. Some see magical fluidity in his brushwork. Others see daubs.” She paused, thinking.
“I suppose you could parallel that with your financial skills, for example. You see sense in things like compounding interest rates, and so forth, where others just see a frightening mass of numbers. And to top it off, you understand the PBIC system.”
“That makes sense,” nodded Verity. “I’ve always enjoyed numbers, and financial matters, I suppose.
There’s a fluidity there that I don’t find in Montclair’s paintings.
” She paused. “Although recently...I have noticed one or two...” She stopped herself and shook her head.
“No. I’m not boring you with all that.” She grinned.
“I’m having another clock-cake. You’d better have one as well, to assuage my guilt. ”
“Well, I’m sure your ‘one or two’ whatevers will turn out to be a hiccup in someone’s abacus...”
“Not mine,” replied Verity, thinking of the elegant brass and wood device hidden within the confines of a large ledger.
“It doesn’t make mistakes. Or hiccup, for that matter.
” Her fingers tingled as she spoke, some residual memory of the hours spent with her fingers moving calmly over beads worn smooth by years of use.
“Don’t frown, so, dear girl,” chuckled Beatrice. “You’ll get wrinkles. And that won’t do, since I’m expecting you to make a magnificent match. Can’t trap a man like that with frown lines, now, can you?”
Verity laughed, as she was meant to. But she did stop frowning.
“Speaking of magnificent matches, who was that deliciously tall, dark, and handsome man I saw last night?” Beatrice cocked an eyebrow at her.
“My dear lady, there must have been at least a dozen of them, surely.”
“If there were, I knew eleven of them. I didn’t know this one.”
Verity had to laugh. “Well, that is a definite lapse in Arcvale society, then. He should have been immediately introduced to you.”
“I’m almost certain I saw you speak with him, though, Verity. And my goodness, he certainly was good looking. In that brooding sort of way, you know the type.”
“Ah,” said Verity calmly. “I believe you’re speaking of Sir Lucas Ashcombe.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows flew up. “The Lucas Ashcombe?”
“There’s more than one?”
“No, silly girl. The Lucas Ashcombe of the Ashcombe banking systems. You know the one. His brother is Lord Silas Ashcombe, the Forge Master.”
Verity nodded, keeping her voice level. “Yes. That Ashcombe. He lives in Sectorvale. One would assume he’s here to visit his brother.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “Quite possible. Also quite possible he’s come to find himself a wife.”
*~~*~~*
Beatrice’s observation about Lucas’s plans couldn’t have been further from the truth.
He’d risen that morning, enjoyed the omelette he’d guilted Edgar into making, and prepared himself for the day. Physically, anyway.
Mentally, he was as unprepared as a person could be.
Meeting his brother again after nearly a decade of silence?
Dear God, could there be anything more difficult?
He stared at himself in the mirror as he carefully folded his cravat, a modest green with the tiniest of black checks woven through it.
All his clothes were dark, so it wasn’t a chore to grab a length of silk, and with a few quick twists, be done with it.
Today, however, was different.
The green was wrong.
He cursed under his breath and tossed it onto the bed where it joined the three others already resting in a bit of a tangled heap.
Edgar appeared in the doorway. “May I be of assistance?”
“No.” The exasperated grunt told its own story.
“Mr Lucas. You don’t have to do this, you know.”
He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I do have to do this, Edgar. It’s important. It’s the main reason I’m even here.”
“All right then. So approach it in that way. A mandatory meeting. A necessary meeting. This is not a party, a ball, a formal dinner, or a night of cards with the lads. Push all that away, and focus. You’re very good at focussing.”
“I used to be,” sighed Lucas.
Edgar closed his eyes and murmured quietly to himself.
“What are you doing?” Lucas glanced at him.
“Praying for strength, sir.”
Lucas shook his head and grinned. “All right, damn you.” He took the maroon cravat, twisted it, and nodded. “Will this do?”
“Extremely well, sir. Most flattering.”
“You’d say that if it made me look like a—a white haired midget forge worker with a head full of iron filings.”
Edgar remained silent for a moment or two, observing his master. “I doubt I would use those terms, Mr Lucas, but the essence is not far off. However, in all seriousness, I believe your appearance at this point is without fault.”
Wisely, Edgar did not pursue the matter. “Will you be requiring an aethercoach this morning?”
“I will, yes. But most of the way down will be via trammelbuggy.”
If Edgar had had a nose instead of a beak, it would have turned up at that announcement. “Is there no other way?”
“I’m going to the Forge, Edgar. No, there is no other way.
” He turned back to the mirror for a brief moment.
“Right then. I have some papers in that small black leather portmanteau. If you could put it out on the table in the hall, I’ll collect the ones I must take with me, while you call me some transportation. ”
“Very good, sir.”
Dismayed to find his palms were damp, Lucas straightened his spine and told himself not to be an idiot. Certainly it had been many years since he and his brother had parted, and that had been painful in many ways.
But they had grown since then, their lives had changed. Lucas felt he could look his brother in the eye now, in the hope that what he would see there wasn’t the agony and despair of ten years ago.
He would find out soon enough, that was for sure. The papers he carried were of particular interest to the Forge Master and would have been making this visit necessary regardless of who held that position. It was simply inevitable, given the circumstances.
Edgar saw him off, polite, inscrutable, but with some encouraging words. They helped.
The aethercoach took him down two levels, but from then on it was trammelbuggy all the way.
Not that he minded, since the amazing assortment of people sharing his journey fascinated him, as did his surroundings.
Less and less grandeur and more and more reality.
This, he realised, was the heart of Arcvale.
The people who lived, worked, loved, raised their families, and finally passed on—they were Arcvale.
And it grew warmer. He’d forgotten the heat, the way the air held a mixture of odours, a dash of oil mixed with grease and a definite touch of iron.
It was oddly familiar now, a scent he’d associated with his brother.
Silas had been a Forge man for as long as Lucas could remember.
He wondered if that was still true, or if—in his position as Forge Master—he’d succumbed to the more formal atmosphere that probably went along with the title.
The last trammelbuggy screeched to a halt, and Lucas joined the people descending onto the platform. He paused a moment, letting his eyes and his lungs acclimate to the hot, harsh air, while his ears did their best to deal with the incredible cacophony around him.
He patted his pocket, ensuring that the papers were safe, and then set off toward where he knew the Forge Master’s office was. At least it had been years ago, so he crossed his fingers that it hadn’t moved.
And there...there it was. Doors wide open, someone working inside, and a figure standing out front, lit by the light of the massive, brilliant forge. A tall man wearing a leather apron.
As if he sensed something, he turned.
Lucas’s breath seized in his lungs—but not from the heat. In that very instant, he realised that he’d never stopped loving his brother.
Silas stood stock still, eyes wide in disbelief.
Then he began to move forward, as did Lucas. Slow steps turned faster, two hearts thundered as they ran...and then two brothers held each other, hugged each other, and closed their eyes as their family reunited at last.