Mine Till Midnight (14 page)

Leo had not moved. He waited, his gaze unfocused, as if he were intent on absorbing the chill. As if he welcomed it, wanted it. His averted face was harsh and shadow-crossed.

Something divided the space between them, her and Leo. She felt the resonance of movement, softer than a breeze, more delicate than eiderdown …

“Leo?” Amelia murmured uncertainly.

The sound of her voice seemed to bring him back to himself. He blinked and stared at her with near-colorless eyes. “Show Rohan out,” he said curtly. “That is, if you’ve been sufficiently compromised for one day.” He walked away rapidly. Reaching his room, he closed the door with a clumsy swipe of his arm.

Amelia was slow to move, bewildered by her brother’s behavior, and even more so by the splintering coldness in the hallway. She turned to face Rohan, who was staring after Leo with a level gaze.

He glanced down at her, keeping his expression carefully impassive. “I hate to leave you.” There was a gently mocking edge to his tone. “You need someone to follow you around and keep you safe from mishaps. On the other hand, you also need someone to find a beekeeper.”

Realizing he was not going to talk about Leo, Amelia followed his lead. “Will you do that for us? I would consider it a great favor.”

“Of course. Although…” His eyes held a wicked glitter. “As I mentioned before, I can’t keep doing favors for you with no reward. A man needs incentive.”

“If … if you want money, I’ll be glad to—”

“God, no.” Rohan was laughing now. “I don’t want money.” Reaching out, he smoothed back her hair, letting the heel of his hand graze the edge of her cheekbone. The brush of his skin was light and erotic, causing her to swallow hard. “Goodbye, Miss Hathaway. I’ll see myself out.” He flashed a smile at her and advised, “Stay away from the windows.”

On the way down the stairs, Rohan passed Merripen, who was ascending at a measured pace.

Merripen’s face darkened at the sight of the visitor. “What are you doing here?”

“It seems I’m helping with pest eradication.”

“Then you can begin by leaving,” Merripen growled.

Rohan only grinned nonchalantly, and continued on his way.

*   *   *

After informing the rest of the family about the perils of the upstairs parlor, which was promptly dubbed “the bee room,” Amelia investigated the rest of the upstairs with extreme caution. There were no more hazards to be found, only dust and decay and silence.

But it was not an unwelcoming house. When the windows were opened and light spilled across floors that had been untouched for years, it seemed the place was eager to open and breathe and be restored. Ramsay House was a charming place, really, with eccentricities, secret corners, and unique features that only needed some polish and attention. Not unlike the Hathaway family itself.

*   *   *

In the afternoon Amelia collapsed in a chair downstairs, while Poppy made tea in the kitchen. “Where is Win?”

“Napping in her room,” Poppy replied. “She was exhausted after the busy morning. She wouldn’t admit it, of course, but you can always tell when she gets all pale and drawn.”

“Was she content?”

“She certainly seemed to be.” Pouring hot water into a chipped pot filled with tea leaves, Poppy chattered about some of her discoveries. She had found a lovely rug in one of the bedrooms, and after she had beaten it for an hour, it had turned out to be richly colored and in good condition.

“I think most of the dust was transferred from the carpet to you,” Amelia said. Since Poppy had covered the lower half of her face with a handkerchief during the carpet-beating, the dust had settled on her forehead, eyes, and the bridge of her nose. When the handkerchief was removed, it had left Poppy’s face oddly two-toned, the top half gray, the lower half white.

“I enjoyed it immensely,” Poppy replied with a grin. “There’s nothing like whacking a carpet with a rug-beater to vent one’s frustrations.”

Amelia was about to ask what Poppy’s frustrations were, when Beatrix entered the kitchen.

The girl, usually so lively, was quiet and downcast.

“Tea will be ready soon,” Poppy said, busy slicing bread at the kitchen table. “Will you have some toast, too, Bea?”

“No, thank you. Not hungry.” Beatrix sat in a chair beside Amelia’s, staring at the floor.

“You’re always hungry,” Amelia said. “What’s the matter, dear? Aren’t you feeling well? Are you tired?”

Silence. A violent shake of her head. Beatrix was definitely upset about something.

Amelia settled a gentle hand on her youngest sister’s narrow back, and leaned over her. “Beatrix, what is it? Tell me. Are you missing your friends? Or Spot? Are you—”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” Beatrix ducked her head until only the reddened arc of her cheek was visible.

“Then what?”

“Something’s wrong with me.” Her voice roughened with misery. “It’s happened again, Amelia. I couldn’t help myself. I barely remember doing it. I—”

“Oh, no,” came Poppy’s whisper.

Amelia kept her hand on Beatrix’s back. “Is it the same problem as before?”

Beatrix nodded. “I’m going to kill myself,” she said vehemently. “I’m going to lock myself in the bee room. I’m going to—”

“Hush. You’ll do no such thing.” Amelia rubbed her rigid back. “Quiet, dear, and let me think for a moment.” Her worried gaze met Poppy’s over Beatrix’s downbent head.

“The problem” had occurred on and off for the past four years, ever since the Hathaways’ mother had died. Every now and then Beatrix suffered an irresistible impulse to steal something, either from a shop or someone’s home. Usually the objects were insignificant … a tiny pair of sewing scissors, hairpins, a pen nib, a cube of sealing wax. But every so often she took something of value, like a snuff box or an earring. As far as Amelia could tell, Beatrix never planned these small crimes—in fact, the girl often wasn’t even aware of what she had done until later. And then she suffered an agony of remorse, and no small amount of fear. It was alarming to discover one wasn’t always in control of one’s actions.

The Hathaways kept Beatrix’s problem a secret, of course, all of them conspiring to return the stolen objects discreetly and protect her from the consequences. Since it hadn’t happened for nearly a year, they had all assumed Beatrix was cured of her inexplicable compulsion.

“I assume you took something from Stony Cross Manor,” Amelia said with forced calm. “That’s the only place you’ve visited.”

Beatrix nodded miserably. “It was after I let Spot go. I went to the library, and looked in a few rooms on the way, and … I didn’t mean to, Amelia! I didn’t want to!”

“I know.” Amelia wrapped her arms around her in a consoling hug. She was filled with a maternal instinct to protect, soothe, ease. “We’ll fix it, Bea. We’ll put everything back and no one will know. Just tell me what you took, and try to remember which rooms the things came from.”

“Here … this is everything.” Reaching into the pockets of her pinafore, Beatrix dumped a small collection of objects in her lap.

Amelia held up the first item. It was a carved wooden horse, no bigger than her fist, with a silk mane and a delicately painted face. The object was worn from much handling, and there were teeth marks along the horse’s body. “The Westcliffs have a daughter, still quite small,” she murmured. “This must belong to her.”

“I took a toy from a baby,” Beatrix moaned. “It’s the lowest thing I’ve ever done. I should be in prison.”

Amelia picked up another object, a card with two similar images printed side by side. She guessed it was meant to be inserted into a stereoscope, a device that would merge the two images into a dimensional picture.

The next stolen item was a household key, and the last … oh, dear. It was a sterling silver seal, with an engraved family crest on one end. One would use it to stamp a blob of melted wax and close an envelope. The object was heavy and quite costly, the kind of thing that was passed down from generation to generation.

“From Lord Westcliff’s private study,” Beatrix muttered. “It was on his desk. He probably uses it for his official correspondence. I’ll go hang myself now.”

“We must return this immediately,” Amelia said, passing a hand over her dampening brow. “When they realize it’s missing, a servant may be blamed.”

The three women were silent with horror at the thought.

“We’ll pay a morning call to Lady Westcliff,” Poppy said, sounding a bit breathless from anxiety. “Is tomorrow one of her receiving days?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Amelia said, striving to sound calm. “There’s no time to wait. You and I are calling tomorrow, whether or not it’s a proper day.”

“Shall I go too?” Beatrix asked.

“No,”
Amelia and Poppy answered simultaneously. They were both thinking the same thing—that Beatrix might not be able to control herself during another visit.

“Thank you.” Beatrix seemed relieved. “Although I’m sorry you have to undo my wrongs. I should be punished somehow. Perhaps I should confess and apologize—”

“We’ll resort to that if we’re caught,” Amelia said. “First let’s try covering it up.”

“Do we have to tell Leo or Win or Merripen?” Beatrix asked sheepishly.

“No,” Amelia murmured, gathering her close and pressing her lips to her sister’s unruly dark curls. “We’ll keep this between the three of us. Poppy and I will take care of everything, dear.”

“All right. Thank you.” Beatrix relaxed and nestled against her with a sigh. “I only hope you can do it without getting caught.”

“Of course we can,” Poppy said brightly. “Don’t you worry for one moment.”

“Problem solved,” Amelia added.

And above Beatrix’s head, Amelia and Poppy looked at each other in shared panic.

Chapter Ten

“I don’t know why Beatrix does these things,” Poppy said the next morning, as Amelia held the ribbons of the barouche. They were on their way to Stony Cross Manor, with the stolen objects secreted in the pockets of their best day gowns.

“I’m certain she doesn’t mean to,” Amelia replied, her forehead furrowed with worry. “If it was intentional, Beatrix would steal things she truly wanted, like hair ribbons or gloves or candy, and she wouldn’t confess afterward.” She sighed. “It seems to happen when there’s been a significant change in her life. When Mother and Father died, and when Leo and Win fell ill … and now, when we’ve uprooted ourselves and moved to Hampshire. We’ll just smooth this over as best we can, and try to ensure that Beatrix is in a calm and serene atmosphere.”

“There is no such thing as ‘calm and serene’ in our household,” Poppy said glumly. “Oh, Amelia, why must our family be so odd?”

“We’re not odd.”

Poppy batted her hands in a dismissive gesture. “Odd people never think they’re odd.”

“I’m perfectly ordinary,” Amelia protested.

“Ha.”

Amelia glanced at her in surprise. “Why in heaven’s name would you say ‘ha’ to that?”

“You try to manage everything and everyone. And you don’t trust anyone outside the family. You’re like a porcupine. No one can get past the quills.”

“Well, I like that,” Amelia said indignantly. “Being compared to a large prickly rodent, when I’ve decided to spend the rest of my entire life looking after the family—”

“No one’s asked that of you.”

“Someone has to do it. And I’m the oldest Hathaway.”

“Leo’s the oldest.”

“I’m the oldest
sober
Hathaway.”

“That still doesn’t mean you have to martyr yourself.”

“I’m not a martyr, I’m merely being responsible. And you’re ungrateful!”

“Would you prefer gratitude or a husband? Personally, I’d take the husband.”

“I don’t want a husband.”

They bickered all the way to Stony Cross Manor. By the time they arrived, they were both cross and surly. However, as a footman came to assist them out, they pasted false smiles on their faces and linked tense arms as they walked to the front door.

They waited in the entrance hall as the butler went to announce their arrival. To Amelia’s vast relief, he showed them to the parlor and informed them that Lady Westcliff would be with them directly.

Venturing farther into the airy parlor, with its vases of fresh flowers, and satinwood furniture and light blue silk upholstery, and the cheerful blaze in the white marble fireplace, Poppy exclaimed, “Oh, it’s so pretty in here, and it smells so lovely, and look how the windows sparkle!”

Amelia was silent, but she couldn’t help agreeing. Seeing this immaculate parlor, so far removed from the dust and squalor of Ramsay House, made her feel guilty and sullen.

“Don’t take off your bonnet,” she said as Poppy untied her ribbons. “You’re supposed to leave it on during a formal call.”

“Only in town,” Poppy argued. “In the country, etiquette is more relaxed. And I hardly think Lady Westcliff would mind.”

A woman’s voice came from the doorway. “Mind what?” It was Lady Westcliff, her slender form clad in a pink gown, her dark hair gathered at the back of her head in shining curls. Her smile was wrought of mischief and easy charm. She held hands with a dark-haired toddler in a blue dress, a miniature version of herself with big round eyes the color of gingerbread.

“My lady…” Amelia and Poppy both bowed. Deciding to be frank, Amelia said, “Lady Westcliff, we were just debating whether or not we should remove our bonnets.”

“Good God, don’t bother with formality,” Lady Westcliff exclaimed, coming in with the child. “Off with the bonnets, by all means. And do call me Lillian. This is my daughter, Merritt. She and I are having a bit of playtime before her morning nap.”

“I hope we’re not interrupting—” Poppy began apologetically.

“Not at all. If you can tolerate our romping during your visit, we’re more than happy to have you. I’ve sent for tea.”

Before long they were all chatting easily. Merritt quickly lost all vestige of shyness and showed them her favorite doll named Annie, and a collection of pebbles and leaves from her pocket. Lady Westcliff—Lillian—was an openly affectionate and playful mother, showing no compunction about kneeling on the floor to look for fallen pebbles beneath the table.