Chapter 15
Mae’s first two priorities after arriving at the picnic were to thank Matthew Everly for still being willing to host the thing, with all the trouble about, and to try Rosalind Everly’s lemon curd pie, in that order.
Mercifully, she’d been able to do both at the same time, and could report back to Rosalind that her pie was perfectly delightful, even though Mae privately believed lemons should be confined to savory dishes as a matter of rule.
Matthew, as ever, refused to accept any particular accolade or thanks for his service and practically shooed her away, hugging his own slice of pie to his chest as though it were the most precious thing on this year’s shared table, which, by Mae’s estimation, was a sign that her gratitude had been heard and received, even if it was also summarily dismissed.
She’d done what she could.
The Holy Comfort churchyard had, at its center, a large fig tree with benches beneath it. That was where her friends had gathered, sitting in a circle on the grass with several babies between them, chattering away as the sun climbed to its zenith in the sky.
Mae found a spot on the blanket next to Vix and eased to her knees, smiling at the way little Annabelle Beck, a little over six months old now, reached for her as she did so. Vix’s own son, named Ambrose after her husband, did not acknowledge Mae at all.
She found that equally charming, truth be told.
“Here,” said Vix, turning and flinging a wrapped paper box from the ether into Mae’s lap with all the decorum of emptying a chamberpot. “A gift.”
“A gift?” Mae repeated, picking up the box and giving it a little shake. “What is it?”
Vix gave her a smirk. “A vote of confidence. I suggest you do not open it in mixed company unless you want to scandalize them.”
“Oh?” said Hannah. “Now I want to know what it is.”
“And me,” said Rosalind, pouting. “I like being scandalized too.”
Everyone looked at her with skepticism, including her sister-in-law, who also had a baby on her lap to Rosalind’s left.
“What!” she exclaimed. “I do! I’m a woman wed now! Oh, here comes my brother.”
“Ladies!” boomed Abraham Murphy, grinning as he circled their blanket and fell into a cross-legged pile of limbs between his wife and sister, still managing to balance two plates with pie in his hands without incident.
“I was hoping I’d get to speak with you all together! My investigation has borne fruit!”
“Ah, good,” said Vix, perking up immediately and looking around for someone to hand her baby to so she could listen properly.
Rosalind crawled forward with an arm out to take him.
Ambrose Aster the Second loved Rosalind Everly. He went to her with his arms out and his voice gurgling.
Mae was not offended. At all.
“So,” said Vix, dusting her hands off on her skirt to rid them of infant residue. “What have you found?”
“Should we wait for Mr. Reed?” Abe asked, looking around the lawn. “Is he here?”
“Who cares?” Vix snapped. “Of course not. The women handle business here. Go on, Mr. Murphy.”
His wife hid a smile in their baby’s hair.
“He’s just there, by the by,” Hannah whispered to Mae, gesturing to a hedge where it appeared Roland had just sprouted from the branches.
He looked to be berating Matthew.
For some reason, this made Mae’s heart give a little trill.
She watched him gesture angrily to the table, and then to Matthew’s plate, a flush of color in his cheeks, his pink-gold curls quivering.
She watched Thaddeus Beck approach the pair, think better of it upon drawing close enough to hear what they were saying, and change course, and bit down the urge to giggle at it.
“Isn’t that right, Mae?” Vix snapped, drawing her attention back.
“Oh,” she said, blinking.
Vix was glaring at her, but she was also wearing a very self-satisfied little smirk. “You’ve somewhere secure to put the records, don’t you? If not, Hannah can keep them at the Fox.”
“The records,” Mae repeated softly. “I could put them with the medicines.”
“I’ve got the names and particulars of every student your motley patrol was able to identify, thanks to Mr. Reed,” Abe Murphy said, stretching his arms over his head with pride at his work.
“One of them is the son of the surgical head at Guy’s.
No surprise there, but what was juicy was their connection to the inspector who keeps popping in to rummage through your supply closet.
Brother-in-law to the good doctor and uncle to the boy. How about that?”
Mae’s vision sharpened, a little cord of fury tightening around her throat. “Yes,” she said with distaste. “How about that?”
“I still say we put Mr. Barnett on the matter,” Hannah said. “I know your grandfather doesn’t want us using print to retaliate, but it seems a rebuttal is our best option, as far as I am concerned.”
“He didn’t say not to use print at all,” Rosalind cut in, seemingly talking to the baby in her lap rather than to the adults as he grasped at her nose.
“He said not to tell the world about teaching cases, because it would make matters worse. Isn’t that right, little Ambrose? Sweet bairn? Aye, it is!”
“That is true,” Mae said, tilting her head to the side.
“We should ask Ezra what he thinks about it. He might not want to put his name on the line to defend us in this matter, and we should respect that. He still buys his bread with his pay from the Chronicle. His time with us is freely given, and we’d do well to remember that. ”
“Bah,” said Vix. “He still owes us for the Miss Manners debacle.”
“Can you say penance?” Rosalind asked little Ambrose. “Penance!”
“You will notice,” Hannah said happily, “that there are no statues to unveil at this year’s picnic, but the donations haven’t reduced at all.”
“Yes, yes, good job,” said Vix with a flipping hand of annoyance. “Where is my husband? I hunger.” She pushed herself up without further ado to prowl off in search of the elder Ambrose, leaving the younger with Rosalind and the Murphys.
Mae stood as well, stretching her legs one at a time, and took up the little gift box to tuck under her arm as she looked around the grounds to see if there was anyone she ought to thank directly for their generosity.
She walked past the refreshment table and greeted the rabbi and several of the Quaker matrons from the breakfast shift.
She shook hands with a donor from Matthew’s church and tried a bit of the roasted pork from the newest platter.
She took it under an oak tree near the fence and leaned against the bark, propping the gift by her feet to eat the pork.
Roland appeared shortly thereafter.
“Mae,” he said, strolling up to her as though he had not been ranting at another man not a quarter hour ago. “Good afternoon.”
“Roland,” she replied, waving a bit of pork on the end of a fork at him. “You were late.”
He gave her half a grin, coming to lean next to her against the trunk of the tree, his shoulder brushing hers. “I had an errand to run first,” he said easily. “I’d been coveting something from a shop window and decided that I ought to go purchase it before someone else beat me to it.”
“A shop window?” she said, turning her head in surprise. “How fanciful. Whatever was it that caught your eye?”
“Nothing grand,” he said with a shrug. “A little paperweight. Just a trinket.”
She popped another bite of pork into her mouth and chewed as he fished around in his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a little red sachet, which he took his time unfastening and reaching into.
He withdrew a little golden figurine, perching it on his palm and holding it up to the sun, where the rays of light glinted off the carefully shaped back of a duck wrought in weighted pewter and plated with gold.
Mae swallowed with a bit of effort, her eyes narrowing as she beheld the little golden duckling.
“Isn’t it fine?” he said, turning to regard her reaction. “Authentic Ashanti goldcraft, you know.”
“Asante,” she corrected, narrowing her eyes. “You think you’re very clever.”
“Do I?” he asked, chuckling in earnest. “I thought a nice little counterweight was in order, and look how symbolically convenient this little fellow is. Now I’ve met your father too. And your brother besides, which I figure is only fair, as you have Sybil to compensate.”
She was at a loss for words for a moment, still staring at the little duckling. “It is a goldweight,” she said, absurdly. “Not a paperweight.”
“I suspect it is a versatile duck,” he said, smugness soaking each word.
She sighed. “Did you introduce yourself?” she asked. “Tell them who you were?”
“Of course,” he answered, closing his hand around the duckling and turning to face her, with only his shoulder now resting against the tree as his shadow fell over her body.
“I repeated their surname back to them with wonder, and asked if they were any relation, and then we shared a few anecdotes and niceties. Dinner was mentioned.”
“Dinner,” she repeated, raising her brows. “Careful, Roland, you are going to tip the scales and collect more than you were owed.”
“Oh, I think not,” he replied, his voice gone soft and dark as he tilted his face down to watch hers. “You are the one with that blasted thimble, after all.”
“The thimble,” she said, giving a little laugh. “Objectively inferior to a golden calf.”
“Duck,” he said, grinning so wide, his canines flashed.
“Hm,” she replied. “And I believe, Mr. Reed—”
“Roland,” he said, reaching out to toy with the curl of hair that hung over her ear, making her tongue trip over the next word so that she was forced to start over.
She swatted at his hand, her mouth dry, and glared at him. “I believe, Roland,” she corrected, “that only one of us has followed the other home under cover of darkness. If anyone still owes a debt, it is you, not me.”
“Is that so?” he asked, laughing openly at her swat and holding his hand just above her head, planted on the tree, until she lowered her defending arm again, at which point he went right back to toying with the curl.
“Do you want to follow me home, Mae? Will you discover where my flat is hidden and report it back to everyone like you did about my father?”
“Perhaps I will,” she snapped, holding herself still as his finger traced the path of the curl. “Are you going to threaten to stop me again?”
“I might,” he said thoughtfully. “Do you want me to?”
She made a frustrated little sound in her throat, her eyes tilted up at him.
Honestly, she didn’t know what she wanted, except perhaps for him to kiss her again, the way he had in his father’s study. Again and again and again, if he would be so kind.
But she couldn’t say that.
“There is also the matter of your debt of distaste,” she said, lifting her chin. “Your resistance to my appeal based on principle, I suspect. I still take umbrage with that.”
He laughed, pausing mid-coil on a strand of her hair, those turquoise eyes glinting in the sunlight. “What the hell are you on about?” he said, so directly, she narrowed her eyes at him.
“You expected a white man that day in the brothel,” she said. “You didn’t like finding me.”
“No,” he agreed, smile still in place. “I did not. I don’t like being surprised, and you, Miss Casper, are nothing but surprises. I apologize that it wounded my pride.”
“It wounds your pride?” she returned, her heart thundering so fast, she thought it might clog or lodge between her ribs if she didn’t spit the rest of the words out immediately. “To be attracted to a healer? A Black healer?”
“It wounds my pride,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning a little closer to her, his fingers resuming their twisting motion, gathering up more of the little curling tresses that framed her face, “that you always seem to have the upper hand. I thought you knew that.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other, the sounds of summer insects and birds and squirrels shaking the leaves in the branches above puncturing the warm air.
Mae found that her skin had begun to tingle; that she, too, was leaning forward, closer to him, tempted to reach out. To touch.
She cleared her throat and swallowed the impulse, sucking in a deep breath of sanity that passed over the sour-sweet remnants of lemon curd on her tongue. She knew she ought to pull back, to smack his hand away and reclaim her hair, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“We have an audience,” she informed him instead, flicking her eyes just over his shoulder to their gathered friends at the fig tree.
Surely observation would deter him, she reasoned. It always had before.
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Always. There is always an audience, isn’t there?” he said, but did not move away from her, nor stop toying with the curl of her hair. “Maybe you’ll have to follow me home if we ever want a modicum of privacy.”
Her breath caught, her throat constricting around the suggestion. “Is that an invitation?” she managed, more rasp than whisper.
“Of course it is,” he answered, smooth and unruffled, his voice as silky as polished mahogany. “Or would you prefer I continue to pretend that I don’t want you?”
“No,” she breathed, a little stunned by his candor. “Not that. Not again.”
He bit his lip on another grin, his eyes scanning over her face. “So I was always transparent, then? To you and everyone else.”
She hesitated and then, very carefully, gave a little nod. “Yes.”
“Fine,” he said. “Then I will embrace transparency. Do not forget, though, that you asked for it.”
“I won’t forget,” she promised.
“Good.” His fingers dropped the curl, tracing down over the curve of her cheek. “But you aren’t coming home with me tonight either, are you?”
She blinked and shook her head. “No. Not yet.”
“Not yet,” he repeated. “But you will.”
She didn’t answer that because it was clear to both of them, even after he stepped away from her and walked away, whistling to himself, that it hadn’t been a question.