3
And these are the most important places on the property, the glasshouses.”
Mr. Oliver Beckett followed his new employer, Lord Durand, into one of the monstrously big buildings of iron and glass that ran along the west side of the property.
Humid air bathed his skin in a faint sheen as the rich, earthy scent of soil filled his lungs, and he glanced about, taking in the carefully tended plants—plants that were better taken care of than much of the populace of London.
All the while Lord Durand watched him with his unnerving pale blue eyes, eyes that seemed to be calculating and haughty and distrustful all at once, even as he smiled as if Oliver were his best friend.
Oliver had known plenty of people like him during his years as a Bow Street Runner, those who were more than happy to stab even their own mother in the back, their perceptions of the world making them suspicious of everyone.
But no matter his unease with the man, that did not mean he could afford to give up this position.
He had learned over the past year, after all, that letting his intuition rule and rigidly abiding by strict morals would not feed his family.
His stomach seized as he recalled the worry and desperation haunting his mother’s eyes, the way she and his sister, Verity, had begun to appear thinner, their skin more sallow as each day had passed.
This post, the sole job offer after a year of searching, was their salvation—no matter that salvation came not from an angel, but quite possibly a demon in human clothing.
But he would do anything, even sell his soul to the devil, to keep a roof over his mother’s and sister’s heads.
And perhaps he had sold his soul. Creeping fingers walked up his spine as Lord Durand moved down the path, his long, pale hands trailing over the leaves of the plants he passed as if he were caressing a lover.
But no matter his personal feelings about the man, the fact of the matter was Oliver had no other options.
For a year now every attempt at finding a job had been blocked, every inquiry turned aside, every bit of hope dashed to pieces.
He did not miss the irony of the situation.
He had joined the Runners to stamp out crime and corruption, those same beasts that had used and destroyed his kind and generous stepfather.
Yet when he’d unearthed the corruption that had been rotting the Runners themselves from the inside, he had been ostracized, vilified.
And chased out of every possible alternative employment.
No, morality did not put food on the table. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He and the earl came upon two men bent industriously over a large bin, elbows deep in dirt.
Lord Durand approached them with that unnerving smile of his, carefully sidestepping the bits of dirt that littered the brick floor.
“Ah, Dawson, Wren,” he said. “I trust the newest batch of specimens is settling in nicely?”
The taller of the two men cast Oliver a quick, cautious glance as he straightened and dusted his hands off.
Again his intuition whispered that something was amiss.
But no, he reminded himself sharply, he was not here to dissect the actions of the people here.
There would be no searching for wrongdoings, no looking for corruption.
He was here to guard the earl’s precious possessions and keep his mouth shut, nothing more and nothing less.
That knowledge, however, did nothing to lessen the disquiet that had taken up residence in his gut.
“Everything is going well, my lord,” the man said. “Not a one was lost in the transport.”
“Good, good,” Lord Durand said, with such pleasure that Oliver was surprised he did not rub his hands together in glee.
“But let me introduce my new guard. Dawson, Wren, this is Mr. Oliver Beckett, who shall be keeping an eye on my collection for the foreseeable future. He and his family have taken up residence in the old gamekeeper’s cottage.
Beckett, allow me to introduce Mr. Henry Dawson and Mr. George Wren.
They are gardeners, my resident botanists if you will, specifically hired to care for my rare plant collection. You shall see each other often.”
Oliver nodded at the two men, all the while trying not to notice the suspicion in their gazes as they returned the nod. He was a newcomer here; of course there would be suspicion.
“But we have much to see,” Lord Durand continued. “Come along then, Beckett. These glasshouses, more than anything else on the property, are what you shall be protecting, and I wish you to familiarize yourself with them.” He smiled. “You and my dear collection shall be fast friends in no time.”
Why, Oliver wondered, did that sound so ominous?
But he had no pride left, not any longer.
If the man wished him to guard a bunch of leaves and sticks, who was he to quibble?
He straightened his back, bid the two gardeners farewell, and followed the earl, the foliage closing about them as they departed.
The sun was still high in the sky when Oliver left Durand Manor and all its eccentricities and trudged up the path to his new dwelling.
A former gamekeeper’s cottage, the brick house was small and plain but well-kept, with freshly painted trim and neat box hedges bordering the tidy garden.
It had been a bonus he had not expected, a safe place where he could house his family, away from London’s dirty and often dangerous streets.
It had meant he would not be forced to leave his family behind, that they could remain together.
But no matter how lovely the view, no matter the clean air and quiet surroundings, he could not ignore the glaring fact that it was more a chain than a lifeline, anchoring him even more firmly to a place that made him feel strangely uneasy.
His dark thoughts scattered like rats in the face of sudden lamplight as the front door was thrown wide and his sister beamed at him from the doorway.
At the sight of Verity, smile wide and dark eyes holding more excitement than they had in a long while, the tight band about his chest loosened some.
This was why he was here. He would do anything to keep that smile on her face.
“Oliver!” she cried, launching herself into his arms. He chuckled as she squeezed tight to his neck, fairly trembling in her excitement.
“We have had the most glorious morning,” she babbled into his ear.
“I didn’t know such a place existed. We saw more birds than I could count.
There’s a lovely little stream not far from here, and the water is as fresh and cold as anything.
Do say you shall go exploring with us tomorrow. ”
“I wish I could, poppet,” he said, putting her away from him. “But I’ve work to do. I’ll try to join you someday soon.”
The small moue of disappointment that had begun to turn her lips down disappeared in an instant. “You promise?”
“I do.”
“I shall hold you to it, then.” She laughed, the sound like bells, before she slipped her arm through his and led him inside the cottage.
Miss Verity Archer, born late in life to their mother upon her second marriage, had always been like bottled sunshine.
Bright and energetic and strong-willed, with bouncing glossy black curls and bright eyes that fairly glowed with enthusiasm, she’d changed much in the last year, her joy dimming considerably.
Though he had tried to keep the severity of their situation from her, the seventeen-year-old girl was smart, much smarter than he was, and had quickly caught on to the dire straits they had been in.
Now, however, that joy was back in spades. Something their mother saw as well, if the misty-eyed look she gave to her youngest as they entered the cottage was any indication.
“Verity, do give your brother room to breathe,” she scolded affectionately as she came forward to receive a kiss from her son. Despite Oliver’s protest, she took his outerwear from him with her gnarled hands, hanging it up on the peg beside the door before ushering him into the small sitting room.
The house had come furnished with the bare minimum, and they had not brought much with them from London.
Even so, in the hours since his departure that morning his mother had managed to make the cottage into a home.
A chipped vase overflowing with bright wildflowers sat on the mantel, a colorful quilt was draped over the back of the couch, and a small stack of books and a framed watercolor Verity had painted of her father adorned a small side table.
Oliver’s mother moved close to his side. “It’s not much, I know,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “But I think it adds just the perfect touch of warmth, don’t you?”
Oliver’s chest filled, his throat thickening.
The house was smaller than the one they’d leased in London before his expulsion from the Runners, and much smaller than the grand house she had grown up in, before her marriage to his father had led her to be cut off by her affluent parents.
Yet not once had his mother voiced her displeasure at the size of their latest accommodations.
No, there was nothing but satisfaction in their new home.
“I do,” he replied softly. He watched Verity move to the small desk in the corner, where she had laid out a small scattering of flowers and an open sketchbook.
“And I’ve no doubt you will soon have many more beautiful things to brighten the place with,” he said louder, “if our resident artist has any hand in it.”
Verity grinned at him over her shoulder. “With such a wonderful collection of beautiful things at my fingertips, I shall endeavor to make that prediction come true,” she pronounced before turning her back and bending industriously over her drawing.