“Well,” she said lightly, “I suppose for a first attempt, one cannot expect perfection.” She gathered herself, smoothing an invisible crease in her sleeve. “You will require more lessons, of course. Repetition. Reflection.”
Her lips curved into a polite smile, one she hoped appeared calm rather than hurried. “Still, I will concede this much: you did better than average.”
His expression shifted then, something keen and knowing flickering through it, like he sensed precisely what she was doing and why. Lucy refused to acknowledge it.
“But we are not there yet,” she added briskly. “Not even close. We shall revisit this again tomorrow.”
With that, she inclined her head, the gesture neat and impeccably proper, and before he could reply, or worse, step closer again, she turned and made her escape, her pace quickening the moment she was certain he would not call after her.
Only when she reached the far end of the hall did she allow herself a breath.
It was ridiculous, she told herself firmly. It had been nothing more than an exchange of ideas, spirited perhaps but hardly improper. Yet her pulse refused to settle, and her thoughts lingered unhelpfully on the way his voice had softened when he said her name and on the look he had worn when he smiled as though he enjoyed being contradicted by her.
Lucy pressed her lips together, resolute.
Next time, she would keep a safer distance.
She would have to.
CHAPTER NINE
“Are you all right, Miss Crampton?” the butler’s voice called out, though his words barely reached her over the pounding of her own heartbeat.
Lucy stood frozen, every nerve alight, as if the world had been overturned in an instant. The sun had been warm on her shoulders just moments ago, the estate’s gardens tranquil and orderly, their paths lined with neatly clipped hedges and swaying oaks. Now, everything felt suddenly wrong, as though the calm had fractured.
Her hands and arms were coated in a slick, staining substance that clung to her skin and fabric alike. It was everywhere, sticky and heavy, and the bright red gleam made the morning light feel harsher, exposing every soaked inch of her skirts and bodice.
Her breath came in short, uneven bursts. The sensation of the liquid, cold and clingy, seeping into every fold of her dress, made the world seem impossibly unstable. The polished stone beneathher feet felt slippery and alien, and even the faint rustle of the leaves outside sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else’s serene morning. Lucy’s vision blurred at the edges, every movement making her feel more encased in the dripping, sticky mess that now defined her.
Time seemed suspended. She could only stare in disbelief, feeling the material sticking to her skin, the sharp tang of the beet juice in the air, and the sudden, shocking heat that bloomed in her cheeks, unsure if it was from embarrassment, anger, or sheer surprise. She had been walking through the estate, noting the subtle arches of the corridors, admiring the play of sunlight on the marble, savoring the calm order of the house… and then suddenly, she was covered in beet juice, drenched from head to toe.
“I am afraid you have fallen victim to one of Master Brook’s little schemes,” the butler said gently. He stepped closer, offering a handkerchief, though Lucy barely noticed, so focused was she on the slick, staining mess coating her skirts and bodice.
“Brook?” Lucy’s voice trembled slightly, half disbelief, half indignation.
“Ah, he is clever beyond his years, Miss Crampton,” the butler, Higgins, replied, his voice tinged with resignation. “I assure you, you are far from the first. Many a poor soul has met his tricks. The gardeners, footmen, tutors, even I have been caught more than once, though I am careful these days.” He gestured vaguely to the corridor, as if warning her of unseen traps. “He relishes in the chaos he can create, and woe to any who cross him lightly.”
Lucy’s hands flexed in the sticky, red mess, and she pressed her palms against her skirts to steady herself.
A high, mischievous giggle drifted down the corridor, sharp and unmistakable. Lucy froze for a moment, her soaked skirts clinging to her legs, heart pounding as her eyes followed the sound. The laughter grew louder, echoing off the marble floors and high ceilings, teasing her like a whisper she could not ignore.
Her eyes darted toward a shadowed corner, and there he was, Brook, crouched low, barely able to contain his grin, eyes alight with triumph at the chaos he had wrought.
“Brook!” she barked, voice cracking slightly with a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “Come here at once, and explain yourself!”
The boy only tilted his head and snickered again before darting a few steps forward, ready to slip past her. Lucy surged after him, the sticky beet juice tugging at her skirts with every step, threatening to slow her down but only fueling her determination.
“Do not run!” she demanded, trying to keep her balance. “You cannot possibly think you’re faster than me!”
She pressed onward, determined not to let him outwit her twice.
“Brook! Stop this instant!” Lucy’s voice rang sharp through the corridor. She lunged around the first corner of the corridor,expecting to catch him, but the boy was gone, laughter echoing faintly down the hall.
“Brook! I mean it, come back here!” she shouted, spinning into the library, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. Bookshelves towered above her, and for a moment, she thought she might have cornered him, but a flash of movement near the fireplace proved otherwise.
He darted past her, nimble as a cat, and she pivoted, skidding slightly on the slick floor. “Brook! Oh, just wait till I catch you!”
From the library, she followed the sound of his high-pitched giggle into the sunroom, her arms flailing to keep balance. He was just a shadow flitting past the doors, daring her to reach him.
