“Indeed!” Ephraim hoped he didn’t disappoint him by saying so. Perhaps Lofthouse had entertained his own romantic notions regarding Miss Flora. Nevertheless, Ephraim refused to speak on the matter with anything short of honesty. “Mr Daniel Durst—a shipping clerk, and one well on his way to promotion in his firm.”
“Oh!” Lofthouse appeared not in the least bit disappointed. Rather relieved, in fact. “I’m glad of it.”
Ephraim declared himself likewise.
Lofthouse sipped his tea. Butcher followed suit. A silence fell; not altogether uncomfortable, but one which Ephraim hadn’t the least notion how to break.
Then Lofthouse cast another speaking glance at Butcher.
Butcher caught the glance. Very casually, he raised a hand to his raven hair. A lock had escaped the leather cord at the nape of his neck, and he brushed it out of his face.
And tucked it behind his ear.
Ephraim had never seen Butcher’s ears before. Butcher wore his hair long—longer than fashionable gentlemen had worn theirs even in the distant years of Ephraim’s youth. This long hair quite hid his ears from view. As a consequence, Ephraim had never thought twice about Butcher’s ears. Out of sight, out of mind, as the old saying went.
Now that he saw one, however, he couldn’t help noticing how it had not the rounded top of his or most gentlemen’s ears, but rather came to a long knife’s-point.
The instant he noticed it, Ephraim looked away. His gaze fell on Lofthouse.
Who caught his eye, then glanced significantly at Butcher’s ear, before meeting Ephraim’s gaze again. As if he expected Ephraim to say something.
Ephraim hadn’t the least notion what his former clerk was on about. For himself, he’d never stoop to allow his gaze to linger on any peculiarity of appearance—much less comment upon it.
The silence stretched on as Lofthouse continued to watch him with anticipation. Gradually, however, the anticipation ebbed, and Lofthouse set down his empty teacup with a sigh.
“I’m afraid we must be off,” he said, rising from his chair.
Butcher said nothing, but drew his hair forward to hide his peculiarity once more, before rising alongside Lofthouse.
Ephraim, meanwhile, fought the unaccountable panic building in his breast as he showed them out and wished them both a happy Christmas.
“Happy Christmas, sir,” Lofthouse echoed. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Whatever offer Mr Hull made to you, sir—for what it’s worth, I believe his intentions were sincere.”
The mention of Mr Hull gave Ephraim a pang. He covered it up with a smile and bid cheerful good-bye to Lofthouse and Butcher.
Only after they had gone did Ephraim recall he never told Lofthouse why he’d sacked Mr Hull.
~
Ephraim expected nothing on Boxing Day.
This day, at least, he felt accustomed to spending alone, as he’d always allowed Lofthouse the full freedom to do as he willed with it—which usually meant either Lofthouse left the office altogether and wandered off through London, or, as the years went on, shut himself up in the garret from dawn to dusk.
Which made it all the more surprising to hear, shortly after breakfast, the ring of the downstairs door-bell.
Ephraim, confused, nevertheless went to answer it. Perhaps, he thought, Butcher and Lofthouse had come again. Or perhaps Felix would finally return after his mysterious disappearance.
Yet when Ephraim opened the door into the stairwell, he found not Felix nor Lofthouse nor Butcher, but Mr Hull standing in the hall below.
Mr Hull looked just as Ephraim remembered—despite his efforts to forget. All that had changed was the expression on his face. Where once had shone a quiet delight, there now fell a shadow of solemn concern. When those dark eyes met his own, Ephraim found he couldn’t speak.
Mr Hull removed his hat. “May I come in?”
Dr Hitchingham would advise him to say no. Ephraim didn’t have his friend’s strength of character. “Of course.”
A gleam of something like hope came into Mr Hull’s dark eyes.
Ephraim turned his back on it and left the door open behind him.
