Chapter 7
Christopher insisted on helping pack for London. He knew his wardrobe better than anyone else, he pointed out to Har-ding, and would remember to include things like his summer stockings and dancing slippers in the heavy baggage. Unfortunately, Christopher was also a creature who loved to be distracted, and when Har-ding unearthed a trove of snuffboxes from a dusty drawer, the Right Honorable Earl of Eden became preoccupied with examining each piece in the little collection.
He sat atop a tower of three trunks that had already been packed to the gills with shirts and stocks. His feet dangled several inches from the ground as he laid out each snuffbox beside him on the trunk lid. Har-ding had had the foresight to ask Cook for a pot of strong tea to brace them throughout their task, and this sat within easy reach on the vanity. Christopher held his teacup and prodded at one of the snuffboxes, a pretty little thing done up in green and pink enamels.
“None of them have been used, -really. I’ve never acquired a nose for snuff myself,” Christopher said. “They just keep popping up. Christmas gifts, most of them. Ah, this one I received upon completing my studies at Cambridge.” He held up a tiny bronze box that had a few scenes from the Iliad painstakingly painted on its faces as if it were a piece of ancient pottery. “My Greek professor was so glad to be rid of me, the occasion warranted it.”
Har-ding stared at it. “A fine box indeed, my lord,” he mumbled before turning back to his work.
Christopher set it back down among its brothers. “I don’t suppose we need to take any of these to London with us, do we? Or should I carry some snuff just in case others may wish to partake? I’m afraid I don’t know the etiquette.”
Har-ding was hard at work over at the dressing table, pawing through the various drawers and decorative boxes the thing held. He did not answer, nor did he even appear to have heard. He seemed to grow more agitated as Christopher watched, the tense line of his shoulders rising to meet his ears.
“Har-ding,” Christopher said once he’d swallowed another mouthful of tea, “is something the matter?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” said Har-ding. His quick hands kept up their task of opening every possible lid of every decorative box to examine its contents. “I saw them here last night,” he murmured to himself. “I could swear I did.”
“Saw what?” Christopher asked idly. He poured himself yet another cup of tea and blew on the surface, sending steam flying.
“Your sleeve buttons, sir.”
“My sleeve buttons?” Christopher frowned. “You mean my cuff links?” He’d thought only Plinkton and other men of advanced age still called them sleeve buttons.
“Yes, those.” Har-ding flung open another box. “I placed them both right here last night.” He pointed to the single cuff link—-a curled shape of silver scrollwork with a lapis inset—-sitting all alone on a tray. “I wanted to make sure you had something suitable to wear on our journey, and I didn’t want them packed away by accident.”
Christopher refrained from reminding Har-ding that he needn’t choose anything for Christopher to wear, but if the man wanted to be included in the selection of accessories, he supposed that was harmless enough. “And now one is gone?” Christopher guessed, calm as anything.
“I can’t find it anywhere.” Har-ding turned to him. His fine, elegant hands were wringing before him. “I assure you, my lord, I will find it if I have to turn all of Eden upside down and inside out.”
“It’s fine.” Christopher began stacking the snuffboxes into a little pyramid. “The ghost probably took it, is all.”
There was a long beat of silence that enveloped the bedroom, into which Christopher took a loud slurp from his teacup. The brew was -really quite good.
“A ghost, sir?” Har-ding finally asked. His tone seemed to indicate disappointment, though it wasn’t clear whether that disappointment was in his master’s mental state or in the possibility that this was merely a jest.
“Mm.” Christopher searched for Har-ding’s teacup and found it abandoned on a shelf behind him. He retrieved it and set about refilling it from the pot. “It takes things from time to time.”
“I was not aware there was a ghost in residence at Eden Abbey,” Har-ding said.
Christopher swallowed. This was not a topic one wished to broach if one wanted to keep a good, decent man in his employ, but he supposed the conversation needed to be had at some point. He only hoped Har-ding was not overly frightened by the occult. “Oh, yes. We’re well and truly haunted here,” he said with false cheer. “Rather famously. I’m surprised Cook or Plinkton haven’t mentioned it.” He handed the refreshed teacup out to Har-ding by the lip of its saucer.
Har-ding took the tea from him instinctively. “Perhaps it slipped their mind,” he suggested in a cool way.
“Then let me be the one to inform you,” Christopher said, turning back to his own teacup. “This is not the first time some little bauble of mine has gone missing, and I doubt it will be the last. Last year the ghost claimed my watch fob right off its chain. That one stung, I admit, but I’ve gotten used to losing a trifle here and there, just as Cook has made peace with hunks of butter and leftover pies going missing from the larder. It’s all a part of life here at Eden, so please don’t be too concerned about it. I promise I won’t suspect you of filching treasures from my bureau.” He frowned. “Although now that I’ve explained the situation to you, I suppose you could start filching and I would be none the wiser.”
“I have no plans to filch, sir,” Har-ding said with the appropriate amount of gravity.
Christopher eyed him. “I pay you enough to keep the temptation at bay, then?”
“More than enough,” Har-ding assured him. “And anyway, I’m no thief. It would never occur to me to take a sleeve button. Especially if it meant separating the set.” He shivered, holding up the lone silver button so that it glinted in the morning light. “It breaks one’s heart to see it come to this.”
Christopher felt a wave of fondness wash over him. His valet certainly was something else. “Try to soldier on, Har-ding. It wasn’t even my tenth--favorite pair.”
“If you say so, my lord.” Har-ding turned to the dressing table and hummed in thought. “I must confess, I don’t personally believe in ghosts, and I’m a bit shocked you do.”
“It’s not so surprising, I should think,” Christopher said, “especially when you consider that I spent my most tender years treading these halls.” He set his teacup in its saucer with a merry rattle. The ghost was best left ignored, in his experience, and he had a lot of experience in ignoring it. “Now, let’s see what else there is to pack.” Christopher pushed himself off the trunk lid, but the drop was farther than he’d realized. He gave a manly yelp as he slipped down the trunks -toward the unforgiving floor. It seemed inevitable that he would crash in an ungainly heap.
Just as Christopher had made peace with that, he felt strong hands clutch at his hips, disrupting the fall of his cutaway coat but, more importantly, saving him from an ignoble tumble. His breath caught, and his pulse thundered in his throat.
Christopher blinked up at Har-ding, his savior, just as the tips of his shoes touched the ground. “Ah,” he said. Like a complete bacon brain.
In his defense, Har-ding was staring at his lips the same way he stared at particularly modish cravats in Christopher’s trunks: like he was about to caress them to ensure they were properly cared for.
“Are you all right, my lord?” Har-ding asked. He smelled of tea and the crisp scent of bootblack. This close, the little mark on his cheekbone seemed positively indecent. He must have realized his hands were still attached to Christopher’s person, for he removed them at once, letting him drop lightly onto his feet.
Christopher cleared his throat and tugged his coat back into place. “Yes, of course. Excellent catch, Har-ding. Your reflexes are fairly feline.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“That was the second time you’ve managed to save my neck from a tumble. I’m beginning to think it’s a habit with you.” He chanced a laugh, hoping that it would cut through the awkward air that had overtaken the room.
Har-ding, instead, looked quite stricken. His hands, the ones that had so recently clutched Christopher by the waist, balled into fists at his side. He looked down and to the left, where the teapot still sat atop a trunk.
Har-ding grabbed at it like a lifeline. “I will fetch a fresh pot. Excuse me, sir,” he said, and disappeared like the very ghost Christopher had warned him about.