Page 64

But his eyes are still honey brown, and his hair golden, and the memory of his arms around me is as fresh as if he’d just let go.

“It is you,” he says.

“It’s me.” I lean forward, almost ready to go to him when movement from my other side—movement from Ben—stops me. Ten years have passed, and anything could have happened. Marriage, a baby. Then I remember the paper I let blow away. Marriage: Catherine Pratt, 31 March, 1939. Not yet.

“Ben.” Quint finally turns to greet him, probably because his movement has drawn his attention to the fact that I haven’t come alone. Though he stared at me with an unreadable expression, he greets Ben with a smile, extending his hand. “Can’t say I expected to come down the stairs and see you two. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His tone is light, and though I only knew him a few days in the past, the lifetime of memories that have begun to swirl inside me tells me it’s falsely light. I put a stop to them—I can’t allow myself to think I can stay here with him. It isn’t right. He has a life of his own to live, married to Catherine Pratt, who, heaven help me, I hope deserves him more than I do.

Ben glances around us and says, “Well, it’s not something we can discuss in a hallway where anyone could come upon us.”

And I have Ben, I remind myself at the sound of his voice, who bought me a ring and wants to marry me. Who will give me a good life. He loves me. I love him.

Quint nods at Ben with understanding, his focus still intently on him. “Of course not. How stupid of me not to realize that. I’m sorry to tell you that my parents are in England.”

“We had assumed you were as well. It’s pretty presumptuous of us to just show up in your home.” Ben shrugs apologetically and spares me a quick glance.

Quint waves away the explanation. “It’s nothing. I’m aware that you can’t control where the mirror is placed.” He clears his throat. “I hope I can help in some way, but right now I have dinner guests downstairs—at least, Mrs. Barrow says they’ve arrived. Please stay and we can discuss it afterwards.” He heads down the hallway, with only a glance behind him, toward the grand staircase that leads to the entry hallway of the home, as well as the drawing room, the dining room, and the library.

Though we should do something about Gibbons right away, Ben and I need Quint’s help and resources. He can’t throw his guests out without undue attention, so we’ll have to wait. Hopefully, the information he can provide, or at least help us get, will be worth the delay. Surprise or not, we’re certainly better off with a man on the ground, so to speak.

“We’re not exactly dressed for dinner,” I say, even though Ben and I both follow Quint. It’s a ridiculous thing to say, but a stairwell is also not a place to beg forgiveness, especially forgiveness that shouldn’t be begged for.

Quint chuckles, casting another glance over his shoulder and then pausing so Ben and I can catch up. “What shall we say…? Perhaps that Miss Granville has been robbed?”

Ben laughs, and I force one. Miss Granville. Quint never called me that, and I can only remember once or twice when he’d mockingly called me Miss Mitchell.

“Perhaps we ought to be more creative than that,” Ben says.

“It’s obvious you just arrived.” Quint lets his gaze sweep over me for the first time since we met on the stairs. “That’s explanation enough. It’s not 1901, and I think most people will forgive a less-than-perfect wardrobe.” He offers a reassuring smile, but I barely have time to catch it before he turns to Ben.

“Thank you, Quint.” Ben’s expression is so grateful that it rips me to pieces. Both of them, so good.

Quint pauses before the door of the drawing room and claps Ben on the shoulder, a gesture that makes my stomach turn into knots of jealousy. “My father thinks of you as a brother—or perhaps son at this point.”

“I feel the same,” Ben says.

Quint nods and opens the door to the drawing room. Three people look up.

Two female pairs of eyes scour me. The blood rises to my face. I’m wearing traveling clothes, a plain brown midi-length pencil skirt and a simple blouse with flowing sleeves, all covered by a double-breasted trench coat, because that outfit made the most sense. I steel myself for their observations and try to find some confidence.

“Let me introduce you to my guests,” Quint says. He points to the sole male in the room. “Edward Chamberlayne.” He moves to a striking woman with jet-black hair styled in sleek victory rolls and smooth barrel curls. Her small, pink lips are thin with disapproval. “Florence Pratt and—” Quint turns to the final woman, a petite woman with glossy auburn locks curled in intricate waves. She looks so chic I think I might cry. “Her sister, Kitty … er, Catherine, my⁠—”

“Fiancée,” I whisper the same time Quint finishes his sentence on the same word. Everyone in the room turns to me questioningly, and my blush heightens. I manage a trembling smile before answering, “A pleasure to meet you.”

“These are dear friends of my family,” Quint continues. “Benjamin Mitchell and his…” He glances at Ben and then me, his eyes questioning.

Ben finishes the sentence in the awkward silence. “My sister. Miss Clara Mitchell.” Both Quint and I blink in surprise, and he shrugs at me. It’s the story we used before. If any of the servants remain, we’ll have to stick to that.

“They’ve just arrived. Quite a surprise, obviously,” Quint says. “I’ve invited them for dinner.” At which point both the women scrutinize me, which I think is unfair. Ben isn’t wearing formal dinner wear. Mr. Chamberlayne is dressed in a dinner suit like Quint’s, the kind I’ve seen in numerous old Cary Grant movies I watched with Aunt Vi.

“How delightful,” Kitty says, her voice smooth and carrying a clear British accent.

Quint rings for Mrs. Barrow. Her professed delight at seeing us seems more genuine than Kitty’s as she curtsies and takes our coats and hats. “How wonderful to see you again! Mr. and Mrs. Allen were always keen on getting you two back. What an adventure it must be to travel around the world and live where you please.”

Quint casts Ben and me a good-natured grimace. “My parents had to assuage Mrs. Barrow’s sorrow at you never being able to come and stay.”

“We’re happy to be back. I hope we won’t cause you too much trouble,” I say.

“I’ll prepare your rooms right away. You know, of course, that Mrs. Allen isn’t here—would it be all right if one of the maids helped you with your clothes and hair?”