Sari Robins (2 page)

“A
ndersen Hall would never sell these books!” Fiona Reed sputtered, indignant. “They are a memorial of all that Headmaster Dunn cherished!”

Even though only six years separated them, Tess felt ages older than her eighteen-year-old assistant. Part of it was Fiona’s naiveté, the rest was the fact that Tess had lived in a darker world since her husband’s death three years before.

Scanning the magnificent collection of books lining the shelves, Tess sighed. “Headmaster Dunn cherished swathing a child’s cold bare feet in winter and filling hollow bellies in need of sustenance. There are more important things than written pages, Fiona.”

“Your callousness appalls me.” After selecting another book, Fiona turned, sending her raven curls bouncing with her indignation. “I can’t believe you intend to sell even one of these wonderful volumes.” If it was up to Fiona, Tess wouldn’t make a farthing in her business, for each book was a precious favorite, never to be parted with.

It was likely her mother’s influence as a teacher that guided Fiona’s outlook. It had certainly swayed Tess’s decision to hire the young woman, who had been barely sixteen but sorely in need of funds since her mother had fallen ill. It had been a good choice; Fiona took great care of the volumes, maintaining their value in a way a less scrupulous assistant might not. Moreover, she was not particularly shrewd when it came to people’s behavior, and had no notion of Tess’s other vocation.

Tess opened a volume from the pile on the desk. “Look at this. A collection about the bats of warmer climates. One of three such sets.” Closing the book, she jested, “Andersen Hall has enough pests catching the children’s hair not to need five treatises on them.”

At the look on Fiona’s face, Tess groaned, “I was joking, Fiona. Mrs. Nagel keeps the children cleaner than most, God bless her. And yes, I know it’s only a myth about bats being drawn to hair.” She pursed her lips. “Yet, somehow I still duck whenever I encounter one…Human nature, I suppose.”

Fiona’s russet eyes were troubled. “Upon my honor, I still cannot tell when you’re joking. In fact, I don’t understand you at all. You engage in the book trade, so you must love literature, yet often you treat the books like a butcher selling swine at market.”

“It’s called the book
trade
, Fiona, because it’s about doing business so we have funds to live on. And I do enjoy it.” It wasn’t completely untrue. The business that had been foisted upon her had turned out to be surprisingly rewarding.

Scratching her chin, Fiona scowled. “But you profit from people’s grim situations. Yes, you help people who are in dire straits procure funds, and when you are with the clients you are compassion personified. Yet there are times when you speak so coldly it gives me chills. It’s hard to tell if you’re a rescuing angel or a greedy bones.”

Inwardly Tess sighed. For all the pleasure of the nice camaraderie that had developed between them, it seemingly meant Fiona was comfortable asking a lot more questions. She’d certainly been more challenging of late, not a comfortable thing for Tess, who didn’t want anyone to know she gathered intelligence for the Foreign Office. Was it time for her and Fiona to part ways? Tess certainly hoped not. She liked the young woman and knew that Fiona didn’t have many prospects that would pay as well.

Mayhap Fiona was asking more questions because Tess was acting prickly of late. Even though Tess hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, this job was particularly difficult for her. Headmaster Dunn’s death had been so sudden and tragic, his loss painfully felt. Tess had met the man about two years ago at a lending library, and she’d come to admire him greatly. She enjoyed his gruff humor, his obvious devotion to his charges and to Andersen Hall Orphanage, and his delightful obsession with books. It was his passion for the written word that had helped Tess embrace her book business and really begin to take pleasure in it.

Dunn had been tenacious, sending her books every two weeks to ask for an opinion or make a recom
mendation. He was one of her best customers, but she never charged a fee. She could not take money from a man who rescued orphaned children for a living.

The funeral had been devastating…the faces of those grief-stricken children…the many diverse people who had loved Headmaster Dunn. She’d felt so sad, and so impotent. The world was a darker place for his loss.

When Headmaster Dunn’s daughter-in-law, Mrs. Marcus Dunn, had asked for Tess’s help in assessing Headmaster Dunn’s private collection, Tess had been all too willing to assist. Again, she’d refused to charge a fee, averse to take even a shilling from the institution. In some small way, she felt her efforts paid tribute to Headmaster Dunn.

Stepping forward, Tess held open her hands. “I apologize if I seem unfeeling, Fiona. This is hard for me. I loved Headmaster Dunn well. It is easier for me to pretend to be all business about this, than to bear the grief of his loss. Even though it’s been months since his passing, I miss him still. He was an extraordinary man.”

Fiona blinked. “Oh, I hadn’t realized…Forgive me.”

“It’s my own fault; I’m not one to wear my emotions on my sleeve. My mother says it’s a downfall of mine.”
Wheaton at the Foreign Office says it’s one of my best assets.
“So please try not to read too much from my conduct, Fiona.”

Tess gathered up the books she’d set aside the day before. “Regarding the rest of my clients, if it’s any
comfort, I only work with people who request my assistance with their collections and always try to engage in fair business dealings.”

A look of horror washed over the young woman’s face. “I did not mean to be impertinent, Lady Golding. Nor did I ever question your integrity!”

“Of course not.”

With her hands clasped together, Fiona stepped forward. “Please, Lady Golding. I want you to know how much I appreciate my job working for you. You always treat me fairly, pay me promptly, and even give me extra time off when my mum has one of her episodes. I don’t ever want you to think that I’m not grateful.”

“I do know that, Fiona. And I appreciate your hard work. It’s a nice arrangement for us both.”
For the moment.
“I’m going to take these volumes outside for a better look in the light. Some of the markings have faded.” A little separation from Fiona was not a bad idea, either. “Do you think you might be finished cataloging that first row of books today?”

“Yes, I do.” Turning so that her perfect black curls bounced, Fiona removed a book from the half-empty shelf. The young woman had the loveliest raven locks, unlike Tess’s which were so rusty she’d always suffered the hints and slights associated with “the devil’s” hair. Since her husband’s death, she’d been particularly sensitive about her provocative mane, always keeping it covered with a wide floppy bonnet, today in sea blue to match her serviceable blue gown.

Fiona turned. “I hope to complete two rows of books, at least.”

“Excellent. I’ll be on the porch if you need me.”

Carrying an armload of books, Tess headed down the musty hallway toward the exit, thinking about Fiona’s recent rash of inquisitiveness. Wheaton had told Tess to report if anyone began asking a lot of questions.

She bit her lip, wondering if it was even worth mentioning.

No. She shook her head. Fiona was merely enjoying the new rapport that had developed between them. It was a very natural thing for two women working together for so long.

Tess shook her head once more. She didn’t need her supervisor at the Foreign Office embroiling himself with Fiona. She shuddered just to think what he might do.

Tess suddenly realized that she’d been so lost in thought that she must have made a wrong turn. She was in a hallway that she didn’t recognize and stopped, trying to regain her bearings.

The cries and foot stomps of many children reverberated through the walls like the rumblings of thunder off in the distance. A door slammed somewhere nearby. At least it had sounded nearby. The faint scent of fuller’s earth, used to clean the floors, marked the air. Tess began walking, knowing at some point she would either find her way or encounter someone who could direct her.

As she turned a corner, two boys came racing toward her.

“Excuse me…” she began.

But the lads were in such a tear they charged right past her so that she had to spin to get out of their way. The top book in Tess’s arms went sliding and she careened forward, trying to keep the book from toppling. But her toe caught on her skirts, tripping her and sending her pitching forward with the prized books hurling airborne before her.

“Oh no!” she cried as the books tumbled in a series of thuds just as she landed hard on all fours, her palms and knees smarting.

“Are you all right?” a male voice inquired from down the hallway, accompanied by footsteps approaching fast. “Can I help you?”

“I’m fine,” Tess replied, not bothering to look up at the owner of the large black Hessians now standing before her. Her only thoughts were for the volumes splayed open and the fear of bent pages. Grabbing the closest books as quickly as possible, she checked and righted the wounded pages.

“Tess? Is that you?”

Tess’s head jerked up. She found herself staring into a face so achingly familiar, her stomach lurched. “Heath?”

His thick hair had grown longer since she’d last seen him, hanging just past his squared jaw and around his white collar like dark ribbons. He had whiskers now, thin though, almost as if someone had skillfully painted them on the underside of his pronounced cheekbones. His skin was a shade darker as well; lost was the sallowness that had haunted
his flesh when he’d fought whooping cough as a child.

As a lad, Heath’s features had been pleasant, with his attractively sloped nose, pink even lips, and steely dark eyes. In manhood, well, “a biscuit” was what Tess’s friend Bonnie would call Heath Bartlett if she met him today. “A biscuit” dressed as if he’d shopped on Bond Street his whole life, even though Tess knew better.

Lowering her head, Tess continued collecting the books, although now her mind wasn’t on the injured pages but on the wounded remains of her life.

“Uh, hello. Uh, what are you doing here?” She didn’t mean to sound so tetchy, but she hadn’t expected to see Heath. Hadn’t expected to face him for years, if ever. He was a part of her past better forgotten. Buried, only to be examined in her later years, when she would revisit her mistakes, and he would be but one of many. But to run into him now, when she was on her knees dressed like a scullery maid? Somewhere the gods were laughing, and inside Tess cursed their delight.

“It’s good to see you, too.” Heath crouched down and retrieved the books farthest from Tess’s reach.

She kept her eye averted from his handsome face and found her gaze drawn to his gloveless hands. His long, slender fingers gathered the old volumes with astonishing gentleness. Watching those cream-colored masculine hands somehow roused a warm, tickling sensation deep in her middle.

Tearing her gaze away, Tess swallowed. “Ah, sorry.
I just didn’t expect to see you. And especially not at the end of a graceless tumble.”

“You always did prefer four legs to two.”

Frowning, she straightened. “How dare—”

“Deiniol, wasn’t that your mount’s name?”

Tess blinked, tensing as her fingers curled around the hard-edged books. “I can’t believe you remembered. That must have been over…ten years ago.”

His burly shoulders shrugged. “He was a fine steed, and how can I forget when he dropped you in the pond? You were soaked from head to toe.”

Tess relaxed; Heath plainly was not referring to her article in the
Girard Street Crier
.

Heath smiled, exposing white, even teeth. “I’ll never forget how your skin stained to the same color as your raspberry riding dress.”

Talking about their childhood, before things had turned sour, eased something inside Tess. Still, she couldn’t meet his eye. “You look well…”
Handsome as sin, actually.

“I’d like to say the same for you.” He touched the tip of her bonnet. “But I can hardly see you beneath that balloon on your head.”

Shoving her floppy bonnet out of her eyes, she muttered, “You must charm all the ladies.”

“I’m certainly more of a gentleman with them, that’s true. But I’ll remedy that at once.” With one arm, Heath encircled Tess’s waist and lifted her off the floor and onto her feet.

Trying to recall the King’s English, she sputtered breathlessly, “Ah, I, ah…”

They stood side by side, like dancers preparing for a reel, yet so scandalously close, they’d be barred from any decent assembly. Tess was achingly aware of his earthy male scent, the breadth of his shoulders, and the heat of his skin. Her heart was racing, her face overwarm, and for once, she was bereft of words.

Awkwardly they parted, each stepping a few inches away, not enough to seem as if they were repulsed by the other, but enough to send the message that this was just
wrong
.

“If you would?” She motioned for him to give her the books.

“I’ll carry them for you.”

“That’s not necessary. Please just place yours on top of mine.”

“No, really, I would like to help—”

“Please do as I ask. I prefer it that way.”

“That I can see.” He set the books in her arms.

“So, ah…” Heath cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

“Me, too.” She looked away. “But thank you all the same.” The topic of her ne’er-do-well, cheating mate layered tension atop the already uncomfortable atmosphere. “How’s your father?”

“Very well, thank you. Still tutoring. With a family in Southampton, actually.”

“Oh. How nice. Please send him my regards…” Not that Mr. Bartlett would want them, but it was the proper thing to say. Biting her lower lip, she told herself that it was unimportant as she asked, “And you? Are you…ah, married?”

She held her breath.

“I hope to be shortly.”

Her stomach clenched. “So you’re engaged?”

His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as if ready for a fight. “I’m in discussions and am hopeful of a positive conclusion.”