Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(42)

She found a little Romany cart down a side street. From them, she purchased a pin studded with polished quartz. Emmeline could wear it to church. Normally Elsie would be pleased with such a find, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel any pride today. Stowing the pin in her bag, she started toward Seven Oaks.

“Miss Camden?”

She turned at the sound of the familiar voice just as Mr. Bacchus Kelsey came strolling up beside her. His darker coloring and blue frock coat made him blend perfectly with the street lit with fresh dawn, like an artist had painted him there. An artist with a very good hand. His eyes looked spectacularly green, like endless rolling hills just before twilight set in.

Pinching herself to remain present, she nodded to him. “Good day, Mr. Kelsey.” He is only kind because you’re helping him. Because he’s forcing you to help him. Bah!

“You’re early.” He fell in step beside her. He held two old-looking books in his hands, but Elsie didn’t try to read the titles. Not today. With Emmeline taken care of, her mind turned elsewhere, sitting on some forgotten easel, waiting for the artist to remember her.

“I don’t believe we set a time,” she countered, watching the cobblestones pass underfoot.

He thought a moment. “I don’t believe we did.”

She nodded. It wasn’t a long walk to the duke’s estate, though she wouldn’t have minded a long walk. They were good for the body and the mind. A walk after a rainstorm, especially, but it hadn’t rained yesterday or last night.

“Are you well?”

She glanced up at him, and the cylinder of her thoughts spun a moment before firing. “I believe we’ve only been chatting for a few seconds, Mr. Kelsey. I doubt you’ve had enough time to gauge my health. But yes, I am well.”

“Hmm.” It was a sound of disbelief.

The market street bent near the end, almost like a river, and they took the turn together. On another day Elsie might worry someone would eye them and wonder after her, a young woman strolling with a man, but no one paid her any mind, other than the occasional nod. They didn’t even notice Mr. Kelsey, but perhaps they were used to him by now.

Once they cleared the market street and reached the road that stretched to the estate, Mr. Kelsey asked, “Are you in trouble with your employer?”

Which one? she almost asked, but instead said, “No.”

“He’s treating you well?”

She blinked a couple of times, feeling the need to wake up. “Mr. Ogden treats me very well. Like a daughter.” Daughter.

The word sat like a lead ball in her chest.

“I believe you are lying to me.”

She glared at him. “Mr. Ogden—”

He raised his free hand. “About your state of mind, not your employer.”

Elsie raised her chin. “You never asked about my state of mind, Mr. Kelsey. One generally perceives the question of wellness in relation to the body.”

“Now you are being more yourself.”

She folded her arms. “Am I?”

“Yes. You’re being difficult.” He said it with a sliver of humor.

Her arms dropped back to her sides as quickly as she had lifted them. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be.”

“And now you’re apologizing, which truly alarms me.”

She sighed. She could see the top of the duke’s estate through the trees.

The lead ball in her chest was maddening.

“Since you already think me a criminal,” she tried, focusing again on the road, “I don’t suppose it does any harm to tell you.” She’d like to tell someone about Mr. Hall’s letter, about the death knell of her foolish hopes, and she’d already worried Emmeline and Ogden enough over her drama with Alfred.

Mr. Kelsey was silent. Listening.

She straightened her back, as though that would add dignity to her situation. She had already begun to regret her offer of information, but it would do her good to let it out. And what was Bacchus Kelsey to her? He already knew her biggest secret.

“I came to work with Mr. Ogden”—she left out her time with the squire—“from a workhouse.”

Mr. Kelsey hesitated. “That . . . is not uncommon. Unless changes have been made to the system concerning the impoverished.”

Elsie shrugged. “I was in a workhouse because I lost my family. Or they lost me. On purpose, I suppose.” She rolled her lips together. She never spoke about this to anyone, not in detail. Ogden knew some of the particulars, but she’d told him only because she had to prove she had as much experience as many of his older candidates. It was strange speaking about it now, like reciting poetry in German. “I mean, we stayed with a family in a small town west of here one night, and only I remained in the morning. And so I write to that family every now and then, to see if they’ve received any word of my parents or siblings. And yesterday they wrote me back telling me to stop wasting their postage.”

When Mr. Kelsey didn’t respond, she took her eyes off the cobblestones and looked up at him. His gaze was unfocused, like he was thinking.

“I suppose that’s why I’m such a vagabond,” she tried, but the humor fell flat. “And I would appreciate you keeping it to yourself. I have a good standing in Brookley, you know.”

Mr. Kelsey shook his head. “No, I . . . I mean to express my sympathies. I am . . . not sure how to do it.”