Reggie laughed. “Could say I used to be, but nah, I repair letterpresses. Sell the parts, too. Just up in London.” He pointed north as though they didn’t know where the sprawling city was located.
“Sounds like good work,” Ogden chimed in.
Reggie nodded. “I like it well enough. Don’t own my own shop like you do, but the bloke I work with is a good man and fair.”
Wondering if there was more family she had yet to meet, Elsie asked, “Are you married?”
To her surprise, Reggie colored slightly and glanced to Emmeline. “Ah, no. Not yet. Can’t say I haven’t worked on it.”
Emmeline blurted, “Elsie is a spellbreaker!”
It was still strange to her, having that information public.
Her brother—her brother!—looked at her with wide eyes. “Are you really?”
“In training,” she said, and Bacchus squeezed her knee. It would have been utterly inappropriate were they not engaged, and Elsie had to continually remind herself she was engaged.
For what had to be the thousandth time, she found herself thinking of what Bacchus had said in the carriage before kissing her. They merely sped up the process. Had he planned to court her in earnest, then, and not sail for Barbados right away? Elsie wasn’t sure how else to interpret such a confession, so she clung to the hopeful answer.
First Bacchus, and now Reggie . . . maybe she had been wrong. Maybe it was simply misfortune—and imbeciles—that had carved her life into what it was today. Perhaps she wasn’t as terrible as she thought.
Perhaps.
Reggie whistled again, and it made Elsie smile. “Ain’t that something, Elsie. You can do a lot being a spellbreaker. They make good coin. And yer a spellmaker.” He looked to Bacchus as he said it. Then, sheepish again, followed up with, “After I saw Elsie’s name in the paper, I looked you up, too. Master physical aspector. Bang up the elephant, you two have it made.”
Elsie flushed. “I suppose we do. And you’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?”
Her brother grinned. “Took the whole day off, and I’m not one to say no to a free meal.” He glanced at Emmeline again. “If you don’t mind me sticking around.”
“Of course not!” Remembering herself, Elsie waited for Ogden’s nod of approval and exhaled when she got it. This was his house, after all. “And, Bacchus, you’ll stay as well.” She bravely set her hand atop his.
Bacchus nodded. “After, I would like to return to London to see after Master Hill.”
“Of course.” Reality, nearly forgotten, crashed down on her. They still had to find Merton, to stop her from whatever she was attempting to do.
But for now, she could ignore those pressing matters and focus on her brother, if only for one day. She had a brother! She still couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “Now, tell me about where you grew up. About this couple who took you in.”
Reggie leaned back in the chair, getting comfortable. “Well, we lived right by a stream that had the name of St. Patrick, but we all called it Pattie’s Water, which maybe was a bit sacrilegious . . .”
Elsie and Reggie got on so swimmingly, like true siblings, she didn’t want him to leave. Ever. But they were adults, and they both had jobs and lives, and so leave he did, with the promise they’d see each other again soon. All in all, it was one of the most pleasant days of Elsie’s life.
The following day, however, was far less cheery.
A clash of thunder echoed within the dressmaker’s shop, reverberating through the walls as it clamored its way into the earth. Elsie flinched at the sound, and the seamstress nearly stuck her with a pin.
Emmeline stood at the window, admiring a white dove pin, occasionally peering into the murky gray beyond the fat and fast raindrops pelting the glass. It had been raining all day, since before Elsie woke. Raining with a vengeance. But it did provide her with rare privacy for her pursuit of bridal necessities. Brookley was quiet all around, and therefore there was no one at the dressmaker’s to witness her being measured, or to ask her questions about Bacchus, or to gossip about her personal life.
She had intended to get married in one of the dresses she already owned, just as any frugal woman would. Perhaps splurge on some extra lace and ribbon to elevate her church gown. Bacchus had inquired about it yesterday after lunch, and she’d told him as much.
While I think that’s perfectly suitable, he’d said carefully, if we’d been engaged as long as the magistrate thinks, there would be plenty of time to order a dress. It might be better to have one.
He’d then handed Elsie a banknote. It was now in the dressmaker’s possession, but the guilt of it weighed on her, nonetheless.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The seamstress had her measurements on file and was fitting some muslin around her waist. A wedding gown. A simple wedding gown, given the time constraints. Elsie truly had thought she’d never wear one, after Alfred. She’d had everything planned with him. The gown, the flowers, the guest list, the honeymoon. She’d thought it all out, giggled about the details with Emmeline late at night. Sketched an assortment of hats in one of Ogden’s books. So when Alfred had cast her aside like an old flour sack, she’d felt completely and resolutely foolish. She’d hated everything about weddings. Everything white. Everything romantic.
She brushed her thumb over the ring on her finger and sighed.
It can’t happen twice, Elsie, she chided herself.
Yet part of her was sure this unexpected betrothal with Bacchus still wouldn’t pan out. That the church would burn down, or Merton would interfere, or he’d simply change his mind.
If that happened . . . She touched her bodice, reassuring herself the paper was still tucked within it.
Think about happy things. Her brother would be at her wedding. Her brother! And despite her worries, she smiled at her reflection.
Returning from the window, Emmeline practically sang, “You’ll need some white shoes and ribbon, kid gloves, and silk stockings. Oh! And a silk handkerchief.”
“It’s just a small ceremony,” Elsie insisted, and the dressmaker waved to indicate she was done. Elsie carefully stepped out of the muslin and off the stool she’d been perched on.
“I’ll start on this right away.” The dressmaker set the skirt on a chair. “Without the embellishments, I should be able to get it ready in time.”
Feeling childish, Elsie said, “I suppose we could do some embroidery . . . or lace on the sleeves.” She peered toward the dove pin in the window.
The woman smiled. “I thought so. Come back in a few days and we’ll see where we are.”
Emmeline clapped. “So good, Elsie! You’ll make such a lovely bride.”
She’d said so before, back when she’d thought Elsie would marry Alfred, but it wouldn’t do to point it out. Instead, Elsie grabbed their umbrella. “Shall we brave the winds and spare our shoes, or make a run for it and suffer the mud?”
Thunder groaned again.
Emmeline swallowed. “I say we run like we’re mad.”
They gripped the umbrella together and pushed open the door. The wind nearly wrenched the umbrella from their hands as they made a half-blind dash for the stonemasonry, soaking their stockings with mud. Emmeline squealed, which made Elsie laugh, and they were barely capable of breathing by the time they reached home. At least the empty streets meant no witnesses to their tomfoolery.
Elsie wiped rain from her eyes, pulled off her gloves, and unpinned her hat, which was wet despite the umbrella. “At least we got some good exercise.”
“I expect so.”
Both Elsie and Emmeline jumped at the new voice. None other than Miss Irene Prescott stood in the door leading to the kitchen.