8. Chapter 8
Ihold my breath as the final round of our parlor game thrusts Simon rather suddenly into the spotlight. We’ve been playing The Game of Things and it is now Simon’s turn to accurately identify the owner of each personal item on the table.
His expression is a scheming one, though.
I clutch the skirt of my gown, overly aware of how insignificant rules are to him—the game’s rules or society’s.
When the chatter fades, he lifts the gold watch, delivering it to Lord Gwythwyn—the correct owner.
To Lady Windmyr he brings a handkerchief, and to the noble Colonel Fitzgibbons he hands a broken compass.
Felix accepts his empty money clip with raised eyebrows, since none have yet guessed it correctly, and Jane gasps beside me when he brings her an old, worn copy of a Gaskill novel.
“He’s positively brilliant. How could he have known? ”
He delivers each item without a word, then he crosses the room to Uncle Elias.
Yet instead of handing him the ace of spades Uncle always places as his item in this game, Simon hands him a small comb.
A rose-colored one that looks shockingly familiar, yet out of place in this stranger’s hand.
A vague pain lances through me at the sight of it.
Uncle always gloats when he bests someone.
But now his face… the color drains so suddenly it startles me.
His fingers close too tightly around the comb, concealing it.
“That is—yes, correct.” He crams it into his suit jacket.
An odd smile forces Uncle’s mouth up at the corners as he claps Simon on the shoulder and announces him the winner.
“Heartiest congratulations, young man,” he says too loudly.
I frown, questioning Uncle Elias with my eyes, but he does not glance my way.
The guests applaud and erupt in polite chatter, attention fragmenting as the game neatly concludes.
But Uncle’s hand remains upon Simon’s shoulder. With the guests no longer focused upon them, he turns Simon toward him with a steely look. “Who gave you that?”
Simon’s back is to me. I sit on the very edge of my settee, straining to hear his response. What is it? What is he saying?
I close my eyes and picture that comb again. Jeweled, feminine, and…
My mother’s.
Papa carried it everywhere. He always took it out when he told me stories of Mother, long and romantic stories that made his face shine.
And he would never be parted from it. Not willingly.
I stare at Simon’s back, trying to recall the details of how he came by Papa’s coat.
I jump at a tap on my shoulder. “It would seem the dark horse has won,” Felix says.
I suck in a breath, hand to my throat. “It would seem.” I exhale, heart pounding. Then Jane is there, grasping my hand, which I force to remain steady.
“Is he the man, then?” Felix whispers. His voice feels intrusive.
“Who?”
“The suitor you were going on to Jane about the other night, when you had us watching the doors with bated breath, only to have that entertainer dressed as Saint Nicholas waltz in. I dare say, this man is far more suitable.”
Jane laughs, glancing my way. “Shall you tell him or shall I?”
“What?” Felix lifts one dark eyebrow.
We merely exchange looks and Jane laughs. I have always valued my friend’s shrewd nosiness, for she sees between the lines every time. Now when the world feels a little off-kilter, I appreciate her even more.
“You are a buffoon, Felix,” she says. “And I mean that in the kindest way possible.”
Moments later the double doors swing open. Uncle Elias lifts his hands and waits until he’s captured all the attention in the room. “Friends, I’m pleased to announce the highlight of our evening—the exchanging of gifts.”
Exclamations and giggles punctuate the air as the servants file in, arms loaded with trays of small wrapped packages. I distribute them as the hostess and watch the guests unwrap small white boxes with glittering trinkets inside.
“Your uncle is truly a gem of a man,” Jane gushes. “Would you look at this?”
A soft-blue pendant lies on white satin in her box, and the others are similar. Watches, jewels, twists of gold set with sparkle. Baubles he collects throughout the year for precisely this day—anything that will stun and gratify.
I glance at Simon’s grim expression as he absorbs the lavish display.
He steals glances at the host, assessing Uncle Elias silently, and I cannot help but agree with the judgment I see in his expression.
What is a man worth if his generosity is merely transactional?
If he honors strangers but disowns family?
Indeed, a gem of a man.
I turn to Jane, but her maid is whispering urgently, pulling her away. Absently, I make a note to check on her later to ensure all is well.
While the guests are distracted, I slip through the gentle clamor and find Simon Balfour. “That comb. Where did you get it?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, indicating he’d found it in the pockets of Papa’s coat. That’s where it always lived.
Until now, apparently.
“What did you say to him just now? To Uncle?”
“Did you come to interrogate me?”
I sigh. “Actually, I came bearing a gift.” I extend a small package to Simon Balfour, which he frowns at.
“What use do I have for baubles?”
“Go on, then. Open it.”
He does, and his face clouds. He tugs at his cravat. “Jewelry?”
“Cuff links.”
“To do what with?”
“Most people wear them.”
He studies them on his palm, and his eyes say, I am not most people. Yet his voice says, “Thank you.” His frown is subtle, but his discomfort apparent.
“Don’t thank me. This is one of Uncle’s gifts. All those present receive one.”
He stares at the little box on his palm. “I’m not one of his guests. And I doubt he wants to give me anything.”
“People are watching.” I raise my eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t he give you something?”
Dinner surprises me. I don’t know what I expected—perhaps to see Simon Balfour inhale his food—but he eats slowly, and with intention.
Using the incorrect fork and forgetting his napkin, he savors every morsel, from the oyster soup to the turbot with lobster sauce, smooth movements bringing flatware to mouth.
Then I catch sight of my friend beside me, her gaze fixed upon Simon. “Jane, you’re staring.”
“Has he been to the theater?”
“Ask him yourself.”
“The galleries, perhaps. Has he some connection to Father’s club in London?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“What do you know about this mystery man of yours, Rosalyn? I cannot place where I’ve seen him. In the tea shops, perhaps? No, I’m certain it was the theaters.”
“I know that he keeps to himself and that it’s unlikely you’d have a single connection in common.” I stare her down. Leave it alone. Please, Jane.
Lucy and her daughter are watching from further down the table as Jane grows excitable. The other guests sneak glances.
“Theaters, did you say?” Felix Mandeville catches my eye from across the table. “I’ve lately been to The Pirates of Penzance—dreadful thing, really. Did you enjoy it, Miss Snow?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen it.”
He blinks. “Haven’t you? It was everywhere.”
“She’s not come out to the theater this entire season,” Jane nips. “Not once.”
“Come to think of it, you’re never about when I call upon your uncle in London.” Felix’s tone is light, but his gaze is probing. “Where have you kept yourself?”
“I’m afraid my time has been otherwise occupied.” I chafe at the sudden rush of heat.
His eyebrows rise. “By what?”
Uncle Elias breaks in. “She’s been taken up with charitable pursuits. A trifle overzealous, perhaps, but commendable.”
“Yes, those parcels for the poor. What of the vagrancy ordinance?” Felix says. “That should settle matters neatly and free up your time. Clear the streets, as it were.”
I straighten. That ordinance—that insufferably banal ordinance—will end lives. But it hasn’t passed yet, and will not ever, while I have breath in my body. Not in St. Ives. “It is not—”
“This house is thoroughly opposed,” Uncle says, his deep voice rolling over my own. “Our parish deserves better than what those measures would bring.”
“I dare say your new friend disagrees,” whispers Jane with an elbow nudge.
I brave a glance at Simon Balfour as he sits frozen to his chair, staring down at his food. His face, should anyone bother to look at it, is strained to the point of cracking. Yet he keeps his silence.
Felix turns to Uncle Elias. “I, for one, support it. Poverty breeds trouble. Best to have them behind bars before it spreads.”
Uncle huffs out a humorless laugh. “Who wants our jails filled with rotting vagrants when they should, by rights, be shipped out to another parish entirely? Most of them come from cities, and they should be returned to them.”
“You speak as if they’re vermin.” I say.
“As if they’re a problem,” Felix corrects mildly. “Which they are, at this point.”
I clutch my knife and fork. I bite back my words, but a few terse ones squeeze out. “You cannot believe such a thing of them.” My look is squarely on Uncle’s face. “Not of all of them.”
A small silence falls.
Uncle sets down his glass. “As I’ve always said, my dear, all men fall where they belong.”
“Life deals harshly with some. Quite harshly.”
His gaze sharpens. “You grow fanciful.”
Felix grins good-naturedly. “Come now, Miss Snow, surely you don’t mean to invite them all in and set them at table with us.”
“I would do that very thing.” My pulse pounds. “Should the owner of this house ever allow for such charity.”
“Enough.” His tone hardens.
But I cannot seem to stop. “If the poor are a contagion, then every comfort in this house is tainted by them. Every stone, every plate—”
“Rosalyn.”
“—every gem you set, every coin filling your pockets—”
“Enough!” Uncle slams down his flatware.
“No, you’ve said enough. Do you not make your riches on the very backs of all those vermin, as you call them?”
“I won’t stand for—!”
“You have them to thank for everything. Turn the poor out, Uncle, and you’ll become one of them!”
Our words have sucked the air from the room. Every gaze is cast down… yet every ear rotated in our direction. The silence is thick and prickly, carrying on endlessly.
I look to Uncle.
His stare burns, his voice low. “Leave now. Before I do something I regret. And do not return.”
I rise, napkin slipping from my fingers, and force something like a smile. “Do excuse me.” I make for the exit, praying I do not trip on my shaking legs. The door swings shut behind me, leaving only his fury behind.