“We’ll go in and get comfortable,” he says as he sets me down. “If August is getting ready, we’ll be here a while. Even with a valet, the man cannot ready himself for anything in a hurry.”
“If he takes extra care tonight,” I say, “perhaps it means he’s ready to look for a new wife.”
William’s snort says what I already know. August is light years away from that. William is about to comment when we step through the doorway, and a reedy voice shouts, “Uncle William! Aunt Bronwyn!”
We turn as a fair-haired preschooler tears along the corridor. William catches Edmund up, making the boy squeal.
August appears around a corner. William might gripe about how long August spends getting dressed, but the result is exquisite as always. When August does decide to re-enter the world of courtship, scores of eligible young women will be summoning their dressmakers for a new wardrobe, in hopes of catching his eye. He might be the youngest son of an earl, with no title of his own, but he’s well-off in his own right, with a face that belongs on a Greek sculpture.
“Bronwyn,” he says with a half bow. “You look incredible. I see you brought your stable boy. How thoughtful.”
William rolls his eyes. I will point out that William’s suit is both fashionable and well-fitting, tailored to his large body. It is not, of course, as fashionable or as well-fitting as August’s. If the man has a streak of vanity, it’s best seen here, in his impeccable attire.
We embrace, and August waves us into a room. A small sitting room of some kind. In a house this big, there are probably a half-dozen of them. I take a seat, and Edmund launches himself onto me, his squeal drowning out his father’s gasp of horror.
“Careful, Edmund,” August says. “Aunt Bronwyn is with child, remember?”
I laugh and arrange the boy on my knee. “My lap isn’t quite as spacious as it once was, but we’ll manage. I want to hear everything I’ve missed since I’ve seen you. First, though . . .”
William passes me a wrapped cloth from his pocket.
“Cookies!” Edmund shrieks.
August mock winces. “Biscuits, Edmund. They are called biscuits here.”
“But these are cookies,” I say. “Because they come from America.” From my favorite bakery in Toronto, actually, though I can hardly tell Edmund that. “Chocolate-chip cookies.”
This is how I won the heart of August’s shy toddler. A very special cookie known only in the Americas. Now, let’s just hope he never actually travels to the Americas and discovers no one’s heard of a “chocolate-chip cookie” yet.
Aren’t you worried about that? my little inner voice whispers. Rosalind was a baker. Maybe Edmund will grow up to “invent” chocolate-chip cookies decades before their time, and the universe will implode.
That is, of course, ridiculous.
Less ridiculous than thinking terrible things will happen if you hire a sixteen-year-old girl who is in desperate need of a job?
I brush off the voice and turn my attention to helping Edmund unwrap the cookies as William and August get caught up in some shipping matter or another.
“So,” I say when we’ve freed the treats. “How is Surrey?”
Surrey is Enigma’s sister, and another of Pandora’s kittens. August gifted her to Edmund after William claimed he’d found homes for all four kittens. She’d been a surprise, and so that’s what Edmund named her, Surrey for short.
This is all the prompting Edmund needs. Mouth stuffed with cookie, he launches into a story about his beloved kitten, and I settle in to listen.
By the time the ball begins, I’ve almost forgotten what we’re actually here for. My mind is still buzzing from a private tour of Courtenay Hall, and it’s calmed only a little by helping put Edmund to bed and reading him a story.
When William suggests we may want to “freshen up,” I spent thirty seconds wondering why, before I hear music and chatter from the rooms below. Then I look out the window to see a queue of horse-drawn carriages inching down the lane.
William and I stand on a balcony to watch the guests arrive. I lean back against him, his warm arms around me, and we chatter like red-carpet reporters. I ooh and ahh over the fashions, as couples ascend the wide stairs. William does the same for the horses and carriages. He tells me the names and titles of everyone he recognizes, along with whatever gossip he can dredge up from memory. We spend a perfect half-hour hidden in the shadows, watching the procession.