He blinked.Him?Head of an entire museum? What a dream job. His gaze drifted out the flap to his students, who were enthusiastically pointing at their latest excavations. Young men like them made teaching worthwhile, and he’d miss them sorely.
But he wouldn’t miss the politics of academia one whit.
He locked his gaze on Mr. Toffit. “I am honoured, sir. Most would seek out someone with years more experience, such as my uncle.”
“There is a certain wisdom that comes with age, no argument there. But in order for this museum to be a success, it must have a fresh vision from a younger mind. A visionary, if you will. I see that in you.”
His breath caught in his throat. As a lad, he’d longed for a father to recognize and encourage him just like this. But he’d had no father. He’d hardly had a mother to keep track of him.
“Thank you, Mr. Toffit.” He barely pushed the words past the lump in his throat.
“Excellent!” He clapped his hands together. “Think on it, then, and we’ll get back to you with a formal offer. Now, I am finally ready to see what your students have uncovered today.” He strode toward the open flap.
Yet he barely made it there before Bram called after him, “Oh, Mr. Toffit, when were you hoping to fill the position by?”
“End of the year,” he answered without missing a step.
Hefting a sigh, Bram plowed his fingers through his hair. So much for that grand career move. It didn’t matter what sort of offer the historical society returned. There was no way he could take on a curatorship and keep his uncle out of trouble until the end of the school year at the same time.
Assuming he could keep his uncle out of trouble, period.
11
There was always a bite in the air on Bonfire Night, almost as if the world demanded an extra measure of warmth every November fifth. It was such a peculiar holiday, celebrating the failure of a group of men—most notably Guy Fawkes—who attempted to blow up Parliament several hundred years ago. The hoots and hollers of merrymaking carried all the way from the fairgrounds out to the field, where at least a hundred carriages were already parked. Eva fumbled with the top button on her coat as Bram tethered the wagon horses to one of the many metal spikes driven into the ground. She’d missed this festivity last year, and she’d expected to miss it again this time, yet here she was. And with a man, no less. But not just one man. A whole crew of men—Professor Pendleton and all three of Bram’s students. Plus Penny and Dixon.
“Can I go?” Penny tugged at her sleeve, hardly taking a breath between words. “You must say yes. Professor Pendleton already gave me his permission. Oh, please, Eva!”
“Slow down, poppet.” Eva straightened the girl’s bonnet. “What are you talking about?”
“Everyone is going to the food tent, where there’s treacle toffee and candy apples and cider and chestnuts and—”
“Enough. You will ruin your appetite for dinner.”
Professor Pendleton appeared at her side. “That’s what fair food is all about. It’s only one night a year. Let the girl have some fun.”
Eva bit her lip. He did have a point.
Dixon looped her arm through Penny’s. “I’ll join them, miss. We can catch up with you and Professor Webb later.”
“Are you certain, Dixon?”
“It will be my pleasure. Truth be told, I fancy a bite of good treacle toffee.” She leaned close, lowering her voice. “Mrs. Pottinger scorches hers, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
Eva laughed. “Very well. But mind your manners, sister.”
“I will!”
“Come along, crew!” Professor Pendleton set off, waving for them to follow.
Bram held out his arm. “Ready for some fun?”
Caught up in his effervescent smile, she rested her fingers atop his sleeve. Even from this far away, music and laughter carried on the air. Bram whistled along, and it was surprising how endearing that simple habit of his had become. She peered up at him, the tip of his nose reddened by the brisk air, as was the scar at the top of his cheek. “Has it really only been three weeks since you have come to Royston? It seems so much longer. Almost like you are part of the manor now.”
He gazed down at her. My, how accustomed she’d become to his face. To hearing his jolly laugh with his students. To meeting with him each evening when he showed her the treasures of the day. How empty the house would seem when he and his team returned to Cambridge.
“Is that a good thing or bad?” he asked.
An impish grin spread across her face. “I have not yet decided.”
