Page 32 of Undercover with the Heiress
The door swung open. The smile on his lips died. Instead of being greeted by the theatrical jubilance of Mason, the Abberton’s butler, they were faced with the grey shadow of Albert, Iris’s father.
He wore a dressing gown over trousers and a white shirt with braces and was wrapping a bright blue scarf about his neck with great concentration. ‘Are you joining us for the opera?’ he asked. ‘I never miss opening night.’
‘Sir!’ Mason clattered into the entrance at a slight jog before skidding to a halt. ‘Iris will take you for a walk after the meeting. Come rest in your sitting room. I’ll help you.’ Mason wrapped an arm around Albert’s shoulders, then directed him to the stairs behind the entrance hall. ‘They’re in the front room. Can you two find your way?’
Proper manners dictated they turn away, move out of sight, or at least stop staring. Yet Phineas found himself unable to lift the weight in his heart that anchored him in place. The pair of them stayed outside the door, watching as Mason led his employer away.
‘It’s so unfair.’ Rosanna’s voice cracked. ‘He was such a good man.’
‘He still is a good man,’ Phineas said. ‘Just because he’s forgotten, doesn’t mean we do. Goodness like his doesn’t end.’
Rosanna pulled at the ribbon beneath her chin. ‘Have you seen that before? A man forgetting himself?’
‘In the army. I saw men who became lost in their memories. To the fighting and such.’
‘Did any of them get better?’
Phineas closed his eyes against the silent agony of all those faces, the lost stares, the mouths that could not form words. He shook his head. ‘I don’t remember anyone ever recovering.’
Grief, shared and palpable, hung between them. Rosanna wrapped her hand around his arm again and leant in, forging a half embrace, whether for her own comfort or for his, he wasn’t sure. He absorbed her affection and squeezed her fingers in return. Mason and Albert disappeared around a corner at the top of the landing.
‘Enough of that, you two!’ Hamish caught the side of the doorframe and leant into the entry. ‘We’re all in here, waiting. You pair have made the meeting start late.’
Phineas coughed into his hand. Rosanna set her bonnet onto the side table. Hamish winked, then withdrew from sight again.
‘We should…’ Phineas gestured down the hall. ‘After you, Mrs Babbage.’
Iris, at least, seemed a little brighter than she had at their last meeting. She sat at the head of the table with a low stack of folders and papers before her. Hamish took the seat beside her as Phineas settled in his usual space. Rosanna paused. Her eyes flicked between her regular place opposite him and the vacant seat at his side.
He couldn’t say why his breath corkscrewed in his chest—she must be missing her family and her friend, and it was natural she’d long for the familiarity of the seat between Elise and her father. They were the stalwarts of her life, both past and future. And they weren’t married. Not really.
‘Miss Delaney is an apology.’ Iris gestured at the vacant seat normally occupied by the soprano. ‘She wouldn’t mind.’
Rosanna scooped her dress beneath her bottom and took her place beside him.
‘Before we start, we really need to speak about the unexpected events that have occurred since last meeting,’ Iris continued in her warm, yet business-like tone.
Hamish coughed and spluttered into his tea. ‘Unexpected? All the ways you could describe these two getting married, and you’re going with unexpect—’
‘All this time,’ Iris raised her voice to smother her husband’s, ‘we had no idea that the two of you were…’ She flicked a look at Lawrence, who crossed his arms and leant back in his chair with a scowl. Iris bent her head and tapped at the papers before her. ‘Possibly best not to dwell on the details. But sometimes, that’s how it goes.’ She flashed a conspiratorial look and a sly smile at Hamish, then slid a manilla folder tied with a bright red ribbon across the table. ‘A belated wedding gift. From all of us.’
Rosanna pulled the bow apart, flipped the folder open, and gasped. Phineas leant across. His fingers brushed her dress beneath the table, resting against the strength of her thigh. Listening. When she didn’t flinch, he let his hand settle.
Rosanna held up a folded map of the world. On a white card, pinned to the front and written in Iris’s smooth hand, was a simple message.
Together, a new dream.
‘You two haven’t had a proper honeymoon. Nor have Hamish and I, but that doesn’t mean you can’t go abroad. Anywhere in the world you’d like to visit, just name it. Elise will arrange everything.’
The world… What a lacklustre impression it had made on him. Scurvy and seasickness, iron bars and gallows. Daily life dictated by incompetent, pompous, pen-wielding administrators, by spare heirs too stupid for government and too cowardly for command who settled into bureaucracy with all the enthusiasm of a prison guard.
‘I cannot imagine where we might go.’ Rosanna spoke before his cynicism found form, her voice thick with the wonder of possibility. She twirled the ribbon around her finger, then uncurled it. ‘I’ve always dreamt of seeing Italy or Egypt or even beyond. Thank you. We are so excited by the prospect.’
‘We’d best get started.’ Iris flipped open the top folder. ‘Item Number 1. Profit and loss for the quarter…’
Rosanna rested her hand over his. And there he was, sandwiched between the small parts of her, the loving parts, the desirable parts. He flexed his fingers, considered withdrawing his hand, then didn’t. She tucked her fingertips into a gap and inched into his palm.
She isn’t yours. You can’t stay. She’ll do better when you cut her free.
