His brow twitched. “Pardon?” He’d been a student of this atheneum since his childhood.
Master Phillips sighed very much like a parent tired of scolding his child. “Although none can dispute your talent, you are not truly of this atheneum, Mr. Kelsey. You are not one of us. Your request is denied. However, were you to make a substantial donation to the atheneum, we could work out another master-level spell for your repertoire and provide the necessary witness.”
Bacchus’s muscles tightened to steel. He understood every unspoken word. “My father was just as English as you, Master Phillips. And as stated by the assembly, my aspector lineage is pure.” Though they likely knew he was a bastard, and he did not doubt they’d gossiped about it prior to his visit. “The London Physical Atheneum administered all my prior testing.”
Master Phillips picked up a gavel and struck it against the edge of the wall. “Thank you, Mr. Kelsey. You are dismissed.”
His steel muscles instantly turned to pudding. That was it? He could not defend himself? Yet every defense surfacing in his tumbling mind would not win the favor of this court. No, the words piling upon his tongue were laced with anger; if he spoke any of them, he’d likely lose the chance of promotion entirely. So he kept silent as the assembly members rose from their seats and began filing out through a back door. The only person to give him a second glance was Master Ruth Hill. The pity in her eyes left a sour taste in his mouth.
The door behind him opened, his guards expectant. They forced his retreat, but this battle wasn’t over. One way or another, Bacchus would get his spell, the atheneum be damned.
He’d have to tell the duke he was extending his stay.
CHAPTER 5
Mr. Ogden had forgotten his trowels.
Emmeline discovered the error not thirty minutes after Ogden departed for another day of work at Squire Douglas Hughes’s estate. He’d left the plaster-stained bag by the front door—and then exited out the back. Elsie wasn’t sure he was plastering today, but if the man had taken the effort to stick the bag where he’d thought he wouldn’t forget it, then he must need it for something. And though Elsie was loath to get any closer to the squire than was absolutely necessary, she would be more loath if Ogden lost the job and could no longer fund her own. So she took the bag, holding it away from her so as not to get bits of dried plaster on her dress, and crossed Brookley to the squire’s home.
Squire Hughes’s home was very much like himself. Distant from the riffraff, gaudy in appearance, and generally pointless. Elsie’s sides were stitching by the time she arrived. Unwilling to wait in the line of servants at the back door, she decided a direct approach would be best. Striding up to the front door, she slammed the iron knocker against it.
It took a minute, but the butler answered the door, and Mr. Parker, the squire’s steward, approached as it was being opened, dismissing the butler with a nod of his head. Mr. Parker was an older man, with white hair and a well-fed belly. He dressed primly, if a little out of fashion, and had a receding hairline that was quite symmetrical. He was one of the few tolerable people in the squire’s employ, though during her time as a scullery maid here, Elsie hadn’t interacted with him often.
He blinked in surprise. “Miss Camden! How may I help you?”
She was surprised he remembered her. She looked different now than she had as a dirty eleven-year-old scrubbing dishes, and she very rarely saw the steward in town. Hefting the bag, she said, “I’m afraid Mr. Ogden forgot his trowels.”
She needn’t explain further—the steward nodded sagely and invited her in. “He’s just this way.” Once they reached a well-polished set of stairs, he added, “Would you like me to carry this?”
She would indeed, but it struck her that she’d have little reason to stay if she handed over the bag. If she’d walked all the way here, she might as well get a good look at the squire’s accommodations. See if he’d changed anything. Hidden anything. To sate her curiosity.
“I’m fond of the exercise, Mr. Parker.” She smiled. He looked only a little perplexed as he offered her a gracious nod and led the way through the house.
It was a far larger house than a simple squire should have, in Elsie’s opinion—more suitable to a baron. The sparse yet costly décor had not changed, nor did it seem to have aged, although her perspective was slightly different since she’d grown several inches in the interim. It struck her that perhaps the squire had kept things the same because he had not yet managed to convince a woman to marry him and refresh the place. All wood was polished, all windows were free of smudges. Every light fixture seemed dotted with crystal. Something with thyme in it was being baked in the kitchen, but Mr. Parker led her into the courtyard before she could determine what.
The courtyard was completely engulfed by the house, about twice the size of Ogden’s studio. A stone path looped through gardens lush with greens and spindly trees. A bench sat in the shade on the far side. Brick lined the walls of the house where the garden met them, and atop it was a border of plaster. Or rather, the start of one. Elsie imagined that Ogden’s artwork would be carved into that plaster, providing visitors with something to admire as they walked the stone loop. Elsie had tried to walk that loop once, but the housekeeper had caught and scolded her. She’d had her hand switched for “going where she didn’t belong,” which had made scrubbing pots the next day miserable.
Ogden crouched at the northeast corner, barely visible behind some well-trimmed dogwood.
“Mr. Ogden, you’ve a guest.” Mr. Parker spoke with the slightest hint of cheer. How anyone could be cheery in Squire Hughes’s employ, Elsie didn’t know.
“Not so much a guest as a deliverer,” Elsie said as Ogden turned around. His eyes immediately went to the trowel bag, and relief lit his face.
He crossed the path—“You’re an angel”—and took the bag.
“More so Emmeline. She’s the one who noticed it.”
Ogden gave her a look that said, I know you and your desire to ogle, which she steadfastly ignored.
Brushing off her skirt and checking for remnants of plaster dust, Elsie said, “Well, that will be that. I’m afraid I’ll get lost in this enormous house, Mr. Parker.” It had been ten years, after all, and her station had been so low she’d rarely seen the main floor. “Would you see me to the door?”
The steward smiled. “It would be my pleasure. Good day, Mr. Ogden.”
Ogden nodded and returned to his work.
Once inside, Elsie said, “Is it a lot of trouble, keeping on top of all the workings of such a large household?”
Mr. Parker shook his head. He moved at a leisurely pace, which allowed for good conversation. “Not at all. I keep all the books in order, and the squire isn’t a frivolous man. Makes things simple.”
Feeling daring, Elsie remarked, “I’m not sure anything would be simple, with the squire.”
To her relief, Mr. Parker merely chuckled. “I understand your point, Miss Camden. He has been out of sorts lately, what with the passing of the viscount.”
The viscount?
She’d hoped for some talk of the baron, who’d stayed with the squire two summers past if the Wright sisters were to be believed, but who was this viscount?
Elsie’s stomach did a little flip at the promise of gossip. Yet Mr. Parker had said it with the assumption that she would know to whom he referred. He was not baiting her. Thinking quickly, Elsie asked, “Is he distraught?”
“Of course.” They entered a long hallway. “There was only an empty bedroom between them. Right under his nose, yet no one heard a thing. He hasn’t been himself since returning from London. They were not terribly close, but it is a reminder of our own mortality.”