7. Chapter 7
Simon
He finds the underbutler, Mr. Harrow, brushing the guests’ coats in the grand entryway and holds out the borrowed cape. “Thank you for the use of it.”
The older man smiles from the shadows. “Weren’t no trouble to dig it out of the attic. ’Twas a delight to see it put to use again. The house hasn’t been cheery in many a year. The master isn’t the sort, you know.”
Simon considers the man. “You’ve lived here for some time. Seen plenty of change about Dunn House.”
“Indeed, sir. I’ve served this family for over three decades.”
“You’ll recall Mr. Snow, then.”
His smile falls. “Who, sir?”
“Mr. Snow.” Simon frowns, searching the man’s countenance. “Miss Snow’s father—Silas Snow.”
The man’s eyes blink rapidly and shift to the left. “I’m afraid I don’t know the details of Miss Snow’s parentage, Mr. Balfour.”
“I’m merely wondering what became of him.”
He sniffs.
“Surely you’ve—”
“The master's sister, sir, was the girl’s mother. He loved her very much.”
“I see.” Simon flexes his fingers. “And did they have a falling out, Silas and his wife? Did he hurt her?”
Harrow stares at the floor. “You’d best not speak that man’s name in this house, Mr. Balfour.”
“Did he hurt her?”
His lips press into a firm line. Then he licks them. “No.”
Sweat glistens along the man’s hairline and above the collar of his livery. Another quick nod. Then a salute. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.” He turns and beats a hasty retreat.
Desperate, Simon reaches for the man’s arm. “Please help her.”
He turns, stunned. “Who?”
“Help her. Ros—Miss Snow.”
“What concern is she of yours?”
“Please. If you have a heart at all, tell me what you know of her father’s whereabouts.”
His mustache twitches. His voice lowers. “Do not ask me to break a solemn vow, Mr. Balfour. I will not betray my master.”
Simon works his jaw. Family members are never secrets to keep, broken old furniture to be shoved into the shadows. “I will have to find him myself, then. He needs his family’s help.”
The servant shifts his weight. “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple, Mr. Balfour. He isn’t some lost pup in need of rescue.”
“When I find him,” Simon flexes his fingers, considering his words, “are you telling me he would not find an open door at Dunn House? Even a quiet side door?”
The underbutler cringes, drawing his lips into an odd frown.
A banging at the front door interrupts them. Then, almost immediately, the bellpull is activated with great force, and Harrow hastens away to admit whoever is demanding to be let in.
A cold blast whips through the corridor and Simon backs further inside, observing this servant who holds the answers to so much.
“I’m sorry, madam, but the master is occupied. He won’t be receiving visitors until after the holidays.”
Simon strains to see the new guest, instinctively keeping to the shadows.
“I’m certain there was some mistake,” says the finely dressed newcomer as she pushes her way inside.
She drags tall luggage in behind her and shoves the door closed against the wind, leaning against it.
“I received word there was to be a gathering for the holidays at Dunn House, but my invitation must have been misplaced in the post.” She pulls off her snow-white muff and tugs her luggage around in front of her—but it isn’t luggage at all.
“So my daughter and I have come along anyway.”
It’s a young girl. Simon hasn’t any idea of these things, but she looks to be about nine or ten years of age, quite well dressed…
and aglow with holiday anticipation. “We’ve come for Christmas,” she says, clasping her gloved hands together.
“And we’re family,” she adds, as if tasting this delightful truth on her tongue.
After a glance toward the girl, the underbutler turns his attention to the tall, sleek woman with golden-blonde hair neatly arranged close to her head. “I’m afraid the numbers are set. It would make uneven pairings to add you at the last moment, which would be rather inconvenient.”
That’s the word for disgraced relatives, is it? Inconvenient. Simon fumes in the shadows.
“But there are two of us. The number shall remain perfectly even.”
“There’s an imbalance of men and women, my lady. Should you have come with a husband, ma’am…”
The elegant woman stiffens. “I’ve come with my daughter, who deserves to have family at Christmas, no matter her circumstances.”
The girl’s face crumples, but she holds her impeccable posture. “We’ll just be off then, Mum. No need to make a fuss. We’ll make the two o’clock train if we hurry.”
“No, child. I demand an audience with Mr. Dunn first. I shall let him be the one to expel me, if he truly would.”
Simon felt fairly certain he would. The question was, where did he tuck away family members he found distasteful?
“I’m sorry, that isn’t—”
“Harrow, I know you don’t intend to be rude.
” A rich mahogany voice smooths over the exchange from down the hall.
There’s a flutter of burgundy chiffon and Rosalyn Snow emerges from the dim stairwell.
Simon ducks deeper into the shadows around the corner, and he cannot take his eyes off her straight back, the warm tilt of her head.
“Do come in, Lucy, and take off your wrap.” She removes the woman’s cloak herself and hands it to the underbutler, then turns to the girl, who nearly reaches her mother’s shoulder.
“You must be Anwen. You’re the very picture of the Dunn family. ”
Her face creases into smiles. “That is lovely. I’ve heard so much about them.”
The mother’s taut face floods with warmth. “She’s looked forward to making the acquaintance of all the Dunn relations.”
“And she shall. Come, join the guests. We’re gathering for games in the parlor.”
“But the master, ma’am,” Harrow whispers. “I must tell him—”
“That his cousin and her child are here. Yes, of course, hurry along and inform him.”
“But he’ll—”
“I’ll manage him, Harrow.” There’s a finality to her words. “See to it Cook knows to set two more places.”
Simon has seen men assert authority before. Even a few women, should they raise their voices loud enough. What astounds him is how easily the house obeys her soft command.
Rosalyn turns to the girl. “Now, Miss Anwen Dunn, I’ve heard that you sing.
I wonder if I might ask you to assist me in selecting Christmas hymns for the night?
” Rosalyn smiles at the child with easy confidence, as though the world is something this girl would one day be capable of managing for herself.
“Indeed, I would.”
“Lovely. I’m afraid I’m woefully ignorant on the subject, and I haven’t any idea which ones would suit.” With an affirming squeeze of the youngest visitor’s hand, Rosalyn draws them both into the house and into the accepted circle of Dunn family—with or without permission.
“I love to sing,” the girl says, ducking her head with a shy smile. “I’ve even sung on the stage a few—”
“Hush, now. No need to go on so, darling. It isn’t seemly.”
“Perhaps you might tell me all about the stage when we have a moment to ourselves?”
Mother and daughter pass out of the doorway, and the elder woman grasps Rosalyn’s wrist as she passes. “Thank you, Miss Snow.” A knowing look passes between them.
Rosalyn takes her guest’s hand with a reassuring smile. “We’re honored to have you, Lucy. We shall endeavor to be the family Anwen’s hoping for. Goodness knows the Dunns aren’t always known for warm welcomes.”
The new arrival pauses, and a smile flickers. “It would seem that some are.”
He compares their faces side by side, shadowed in the gentle gaslight—Lucy’s lovely porcelain one chiseled by difficulty and determination, and Rosalyn’s warm features that could soften a stone… yet possessing the power of a thunderstorm.
“You’ve your mother’s beauty, Rosalyn Snow,” says this Lucy. “Down to the very last exquisite detail. Her beauty… and your father’s merry heart, bless you. You’re so like him.”
Miss Snow’s control falters. She dips her gaze and blinks rapidly. “You’re a dear, Lucy. I’m so glad you’ve come back to Dunn House.”
As they pass his hiding place, Miss Snow catches his gaze and halts. His wide smile of approval comes quickly, and she smiles in return. And suddenly he’s weak with longing to see the man and his daughter, so similar in spirit, reunited.