“Mr Lofthouse to see Miss Fairfield,” Wren recited. “On behalf of Mr Grigsby.”
Rather than let him into the parlour, she bid him wait on the doorstep while she ducked inside. Some minutes later, the door opened again to reveal Mrs Bailiwick herself, but no sign of Miss Flora.
“A thousand apologies, Mr Lofthouse,” Mrs Bailiwick trilled before Wren could state his purpose. “I’m afraid you’ve come a very long way all for naught. Miss Fairfield is not at-home to visitors today.”
Wren, caught off-guard, recovered himself just enough to reply, “Not ill, I hope?”
Mrs Bailiwick assured him Miss Flora was not in the least bit ill—but nevertheless, not at liberty to entertain her guardian’s clerk.
This did nothing to allay the suspicions teeming in Wren’s mind. Quite the reverse. If Miss Flora were somehow involved in Felix’s disappearance, then it proved very convenient for her not to be available to speak with Wren or with anyone else involved in Felix’s fortunes.
However, as Wren could hardly explain any of this to Mrs Bailiwick, he instead forced a stiff smile, bowed, and departed.
Once the front door had closed upon his back, he continued on down the garden path to rejoin the thoroughfare, strolling purposefully on down the street with his shoulders straight and head erect. He walked until he reached a crossroads, turned left, went on until he encountered another cross-street, turned left again, and repeated the exercise a third time to bring himself around to the academy again.
Approaching the edifice from the rear brought him to the high hedges bordering its back garden. An iron gate barred the gap in the hedge along the path leading from the street to the kitchen door. While the mistress of the establishment had rebuffed Wren’s attempt, he thought perhaps the staff might prove more accommodating. One maid in particular he knew for Miss Flora’s favourite. If only he could remember the girl’s name…
But as Wren laid his hand on the gate to open it, a curious murmur reached his ear. Not from the street behind him. From the garden ahead.
A garden which proved far less empty than he’d anticipated.
The gate was unlocked. No reason to lock it, Wren supposed, during daylight hours in a town as quiet as Rochester. Still, given its weather-beaten state, he took especial care to ease its latch open, muffling the clinks and squeaks with his fingertips. He lifted it as he pushed it inward, lest the weight dragging against its hinges made them screech. No sound arose save chirping finches in the hedge and human murmurs beyond.
Wren stepped through the gate, though he hung back short of passing the hedge. Peering around its leafy corner, he espied two figures in the garden beside a purely ornamental sundial.
Miss Flora in conversation with Tolhurst.
Or rather, Wren realized as he stared in stunned silence, Miss Flora with her hands folded in front of her in a demure posture, whilst Tolhurst loomed over her, hat in hand. Hardly a hair’s breadth stood between them. From this angle Wren could just make out Tolhurst’s profile as he leaned so near to her that his murmuring lips almost touched her ear. The back of his head obscured Wren’s view of her face.
It was not so unusual for a young lady to stand in an academy garden in the company of her music master. It was unusual, however, for Tolhurst to bend his head so low towards Miss Flora’s. Rather nearer than a sensiblechaperonwould permit, Wren thought. But of course there was nochaperonin sight. Why should there be, when Tolhurst was Miss Flora’s tutor and a perfect gentleman besides.
Still, something twisted in Wren’s stomach to see how near Tolhurst stood to her.
This feeling did not improve when Tolhurst reached out to grasp Miss Flora’s ungloved hand in his own naked palm. Nor when he took the further liberty of raising her hand to his mouth so he might press his lips to her bare knuckles.
As Tolhurst bent to kiss her hand, his head no longer blocked her from Wren’s sight. Not a single feature so much as trembled in her face, as cold and still as carved marble. Her eyes, however, burned with a hatred the likes of which Wren had never beheld before.
Then her gaze met his.
Wren had no chance to hide. And, as she had already espied him, he knew it would do him no good to duck behind the hedge now.
So instead he rolled his shoulders back and strode into the garden, calling out as he approached the pair, “Good morning, Miss Fairfield. Mr Tolhurst.”
Tolhurst bolted upright and whirled toward him at the first syllable. For an instant, Wren saw his brow knotted, his jaw clenched, and his mouth twisted in an impatient scowl. Then, in the space of the blink, it melted away so completely that Wren almost doubted it had ever existed, replaced by a look as blank as it was benign. “Ah, Mr Lofthouse. A pleasant surprise. What brings you to Rochester this day? Glad tidings, I hope?”
Nothing in his casual and even-toned speech could possibly raise the hackles of even the most discerning society matron. Yet Wren felt as if he’d interrupted a wolf feasting on a lamb and found its ravenous stare fixed on him.
Miss Flora, meanwhile, said nothing. Nor could Wren read her expression with any confidence. Though as her attention shifted from Tolhurst to Wren, it seemed the hatred in her eyes had faded to mere indifference.
“Tedious tidings, I’m afraid,” Wren said, forcing the words to assume a disinterested shape. “And such as must be imparted to Miss Fairfield in confidence. On her guardian’s behalf, you understand.”
“As her guardian is likewise the guardian of my nephew,” Tolhurst replied in affable tones, “one might consider myself an uncle to her, as well. Surely you may speak to her and feel assured of my silence on whatever matters you bring to her attention.”
Wren didn’t think what he’d witnessed of their meeting had in any way resembled the behaviour of an uncle, much less a trustworthy one. Aloud, he kept his voice flat as he reiterated, “My master will not permit me to speak my charge to any ears save Miss Fairfield’s. I beg your pardon for the inconvenience, sir.”
No hint of irritation showed in Tolhurst’s face. Yet Wren noted how his fingers twitched at his side.
“No inconvenience whatsoever,” said Tolhurst. “Good morning, Mr Lofthouse. And I shall rejoin you for your piano-forte lesson this afternoon, Miss Fairfield,” he added, his smile returning as he bowed to the young lady.
