She tried to straighten her clothes despite the position. “My apologies, Mr. Fernsby.”
“Hardly your fault.”
“Technically, it is.”
“It’s a very nice dress,” he offered, and she rewarded him with more of that rosy glow. She smelled like rosewater and rosemary . . . and wore roses on her dress. He wondered if she realized what a lovely metaphor she presented.
The room creaked into place. Hulda was slow to pull away from him, and Merritt was slow to let her go. It was not until Beth burst through the door, asking after their welfare, and Fletcher inquired whether the shifting of rooms would be a common occurrence during his stay that Merritt recalled they were not alone in their space, although he wished it were so. His hands fell from Hulda’s person. She brushed off her skirt, her hazel eyes dragging slowly from his. What would he have seen in them had her gaze lingered?
She cleared her throat, breaking him from his reverie. “I will ensure it does not happen again, Mr. Portendorfer. Now, as to your room . . .”
Hulda spent the day finishing her report and assisting both Mr. Babineaux and Miss Taylor; Mr. Portendorfer’s second visit was going much more smoothly than his first. The scents of dinner were starting to waft through the rooms, the sun was bright, and Owein minded himself after the incident with the stairs, though his spells followed Mr. Portendorfer around like a second skin, as though the boy was trying his best to impress him.
She thought for the dozenth time of Mr. Fernsby’s arm snug around her waist, their bodies pressed close enough for her to smell the petitgrain and ink that seemed to emanate from his skin. And for the dozenth time, she pushed the fancy away, though this time it was with more of an internal, desperate pleading to her mind to let it go than a stiff refiling of her thoughts.
She was just finished setting the dining room table when a pecking sounded at the window. Glancing over, she spied a windsource pigeon and wondered if it had flown down here after trying and failing to get through her bedroom window. Hurrying over, Hulda opened the pane and let the weary bird in, took the missive from its foot, and offered it a bread crumb.
She opened the letter, which bore the seal of BIKER. It read, Hulda, I must insist—
“What’s that?”
Jumping, Hulda turned to see Merritt coming in, and instinctually hid the letter behind her person.
“Is that a windsource pigeon?” He crossed the room to eye the bird, who was unfazed by the closeness of another human. “It is! Look at the seals on its feathers. Been a long time since I saw one up close.” He eyed her elbow. “That isn’t a letter from your beau, is it?”
The insinuation jolted her. “It is not.” She pulled it back out, silently chiding herself for her strange behavior. “It’s only a missive from BIKER.”
“Oh.” His face fell. “I suppose now that you’ve figured out the tourmaline . . .” He didn’t finish the statement, but he didn’t need to. Now that you’ve found the second source of magic, there’s no reason for you to stay.
Except that there was, however much she fought it.
She shrugged and glanced over the letter—it wasn’t long. Couldn’t be, if a pigeon were to carry it. It essentially said what the last had, but with stronger verbs and darker punctuation, clear signs of Myra stabbing the paper with her pen. “The director has suggested I return to aid in administrative work, though it is not my forte.”
“Soon?”
She folded the paper. “‘Soon’ is relative. In truth, I’m not sure why she’s so adamant about it. I haven’t sent in my report yet.”
“Then”—his words were careful, and she wondered at them—“you might be able—or willing—to stay a little while longer.”
The way he’d spoken—the look in his eyes and his tilted posture—rang faint little bells in her head that she’d silenced so many times before. She pressed her shoulders back. Professional. “Perhaps. I am an excellent housekeeper.”
He smiled. “There is that, too.”
The bells clanked and sang. Ring! Ring! Ring!
He perked. “That’s right, I’m supposed to be borrowing Baptiste’s chess board. Do you know where it is?”
Hulda shook her head. “But he’s in the kitchen.”
Thanking her with a nod, Merritt circumambulated the table, passing back a compliment on how well it looked, and slipped into the breakfast room toward the kitchen.
Sinking against the window frame, Hulda let out a sigh. She hated to assume, but surely a man who cared only for maintaining the status quo wouldn’t say such things. Wouldn’t care so much about her staying, with her housekeeping as only the second reason! She’d heard him correctly, hadn’t she? She was formally educated. It wasn’t like she didn’t understand English.