Chapter Eighteen
Despite all the recent distractions—the banking problems, the upcoming art show, and a certain gentleman—Verity’s schedule remained in place.
There were obligations she had to fulfill, letters that needed answering, and one or two guests who had asked for some of her time.
The letters she received on a daily basis took up at least an hour of her mornings, so she made a deliberate effort to get back into her routine.
It was the day of the Art Show, so she’d lose an afternoon. Once it got underway, Heaven only knew how long she’d have to stay.
And Lucas...? He occupied her thoughts quite a bit, especially since they’d not met yesterday at all. Had she been concerned? Of course not.
Well—she amended that thought—maybe just a little. But the bank situation was deepening, growing into something that filled her with concern. If she had visited him yesterday, which she almost did, it went without saying that the rest of her day would have been spent in...other pursuits.
The mere thought of that made the colour rise in her cheeks, and she indulged in a few minutes of delightful memories. Had he missed her, she wondered? Or was he too digging into his PBIC system, endeavouring to find more clues?
Her musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.
It would be Tabby, since they’d made arrangements to meet after Verity had received the roof estimate. All that had to be discussed and evaluated with regard to the current budget.
And there she was, right on time. Verity stood as she heard Sprocket opening the door and greeting her guest.
“Mrs Monroe, m’Lady.”
“Thank you, Sprocket. Tea in an hour, if you would.” She held out her hand in welcome. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Tabby looked at the paperwork on her desk and grinned. “I can see why.”
They sat, each accustomed to the other’s way of handling matters, Verity very much a bottom-line economist, while Tabby was excellent with the details.
“I think this is a very fair offer for the roof work,” Tabby looked through the paperwork provided by the well-regarded firm of James, James, James, & Son. “I must confess I wonder if the son is named James too.”
Verity chuckled. “I do as well, but I’ve never mustered up the nerve to ask, since if the answer is ‘yes’ I would probably collapse with laughter, and that would be quite rude.”
They shared a companionable laugh, then returned to the business at hand, Verity making notes, Tabby reviewing the overall situation.
“Your charities have been astoundingly helpful,” she said, glancing at Verity. “So many children, and adults too, have safe and warm places to sleep thanks to you.”
“I had the ideas,” she shrugged. “But the good folks of Arcvale brought it to life. As did you, my dear Tabby.”
The other woman smiled. “It’s been an extraordinary chance for me, Verity.
I’ll be forever grateful. I know all too well how my life would have been without you.
And my children...I shudder to think of what might have happened.
But here we are, sitting together, organising vast sums of money and directing them where they are most needed.
It makes me feel good at the end of a long day. ”
Smiling, Verity nodded. “I know what you mean.” She sighed. “If only I could figure out this one little thing that is annoying me...”
“What’s that?”
“The deposit you made the other day. The one that was recorded as pending.”
Tabby straightened in her chair. “It did go through, didn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just one of those annoying things that lurks in the back of my mind.”
“I can understand that. Your charities have a considerable number of accounts. I wonder sometimes how you keep track of them all.”
“Good bookkeeping, an eye for numbers, and you,” answered Verity. “Mostly, anyway.”
“I don’t envy you that. I am so glad to be able to help where I can, but the fortune you have to administer?
Not me. I just couldn’t do it. I make the deposits, keep the donation records, that’s simple stuff.
All I need to do is make sure the money ends up where it’s supposed to.
” She sighed. “As far as that strange hiccup goes? Well, the system always fixes itself in the end, doesn’t it? ”
Silent for a few moments, Verity thought about that. “You know, I never really paid a lot of attention to that. One assumes that everything runs along smoothly—like a well-oiled trammelbuggy.”
“Until it doesn’t,” remarked Tabby wryly.
Verity nodded. “Until it doesn’t.”
Silence fell for a while as both ladies worked on their various chores, and if it hadn’t been for Sprocket bearing a tray, they probably would have continued doing just that.
“Tea, m’Lady,” announced the tickerkin.
“Oh thank God. Just what I need.” Tabby chuckled. “I am firmly of the opinion that there is no better restorative than a nice cup of tea.”
“I agree wholeheartedly.” Verity leaned back and stretched her arms above her head. “Oh coggleblast.”
“What?” Two heads swivelled at the identical moment, both voices saying the same thing.
“I just remembered that this afternoon is the day of the Art Show. It completely slipped my mind, which must be on too many things at once.” Verity frowned. “Sprocket...”
“I would have reminded you before it was too late. Your green silk gown is laid out, m’Lady. I wondered if the smaller bonnet with the silk flowers might be nice with that dress.” She paused. “The one with the lilies of the valley.”
Verity stared at her tickerkin, eyes narrowing. “What an excellent choice, Sprocket. Thank you. Mrs Monroe and I have about an hour or hour and a half or so left. We’ll be done in plenty of time.”
Tabby glanced at her. “I remember now, you’re sponsoring this with Lady Beatrice, aren’t you?”
“I’m not quite sure how that happened, but yes.” She turned to her friend. “I’m really hoping you can be there? To lend me moral support?”
“I’d like to attend, very much. If only to see if de Montclair’s art is as bad as everyone is saying.” Tabby grinned. “So I’ll make sure to be there.”
“Excellent.” Verity nodded. “Well, let’s crack on with this, otherwise I might miss the extraordinary pleasure of meeting Albermarle de Montclair.”
Both ladies rolled their eyes.
Sprocket cleaned up the teacups and left them to it.
*~~*~~*
Meanwhile, at Ashcombe Cottage, a solitary gentleman was having a polite but intense argument with his tickerkin.
“Black is too sombre, sir.” Edgar stared down his beak at the clothing Lucas had grabbed for the afternoon’s event.
“Nonsense. Black is formal, proper, expected even. I am known to always wear black. Besides, I don’t have anything else.”
“If you’ll forgive me sir, that is utter rubbish.” Edgar gestured at the wardrobe. “Since your arrival, I took the liberty of ordering several garments, since I believe your size has changed over the years.”
“Hmm.” Lucas considered that. “But colours? How long have things like this been popular?”
“Since humans discovered that men could look elegant in something other than black clothing. Since various sorts of cleaning methods were invented, which opened the door to garments made from different colours. And since now, here in Arcvale, quite a few excellent emporiums have been created with the sole aim of getting gentlemen such as yourself into clothing that doesn’t make you look like you’re going to a funeral. ”
Lucas stared at Edgar. “Loquacious today, aren’t we.”
“Your papa would be proud that his vocabulary lessons have borne fruit.”
Undeterred, Edgar vanished into the wardrobe and reappeared seconds later with different clothes draped over his wings. “Now try these, Sir Lucas. I’ll wager you’ll find them both comfortable and attractive.”
Blinking at the soft camel-coloured jacket, and breeches in a shade lighter, Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yes, sir. With this waistcoat, I believe.” He produced a magnificently embroidered silk waistcoat in a deep rich brown. “There’s a cravat in matching tones.”
“You think I should wear this...” He waved his hand over the assorted items.
“Yes sir. With your tall brown leather boots.”
“And this is now the fashion in Arcvale?”
“Sir Lucas.” Edgar’s eyes widened in horror as the plates on his wings rattled. “Ashcombes do not follow Arcvale fashion. They define it.”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “All right. I’ll try it. Just try it, mind you. If I end up looking like an escapee from a circus, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Trust me, sir.” Edgar’s beak rose as he trundled from the room.
Oddly enough, Lucas did. But it was strange not reaching for one of his customary black jackets. He liked them, for Heaven’s sake. In Sectorvale, he had a tailor who had reserved a bolt of the finest black wool expressly for him.
But he knew he should at least try this lot on. Edgar might not be au courant with Lucas’s preference, but he’d never given anyone reason to doubt his pride in the Ashcombe name, and its reputation for sartorial excellence.
Ten minutes later, Lucas had to shake his head and blink at his own image.
Damned tickerkin was absolutely right.
The fact that he completely failed to mention a single word to his master was yet another point in his favour. “I know you’re chortling beneath that avian exterior of yours, Edgar...”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Well, thanks where thanks are due. Yes, this is damned stylish.” He shot Edgar a glance.
“But is it correct for a late afternoon at an art show, which is likely to be filled with those who have more money than sense and are willing to part with some of it for an abysmal painting that a three-year-old could improve on?”
“Great coggles, Sir Lucas. One might think you’re not particularly keen on attending this event?”
“One would hit it right on the nose with that opinion, Edgar.”
“So, if one may inquire, why on earth are you attending?”
Lucas stared at his image in the mirror but saw only a pair of wonderful grey eyes. “I want to make sure I support the good works of the Aetherlight Gallery, since a portion of the proceeds will go to charity.”
With that rather pompous retort, Lucas left his bedroom, and Edgar began to tidy it. “Support good works?” he mumbled under his breath. “My left wingnut.”