The Forgotten Room(13)

“That’s it,” he said. “Undo the braid. And don’t frown quite so hard. I’m not so awful as that, am I?”

“No. It’s just that I really shouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, you should. You’re doing nothing wrong.”

“Mrs. Keane won’t think so, if she finds out.”

“Well, she won’t.” His voice was full of calm assurance.

“She’ll dismiss me without reference.”

“And I’ll take the case straight to my father.”

Olive thought that was a little strange. Wouldn’t this be Mrs. Pratt’s task, to sort out trouble in the domestic staff? But maybe things were different that way, among the upper classes. Olive came from a good family, a respectable professional family, well educated, well dressed—at least before Papa’s disgrace, anyway—but they weren’t anything like the Pratts. On the other hand, hadn’t Mr. Pratt sorted out that little rumored difficulty with another housemaid? Which brother was that, anyway? Olive wondered, and she shifted her bottom uncomfortably against the chair, suddenly conscious of the thin barrier of flannel between her collarbone and the rapacious male gaze of Harry Pratt.

I shouldn’t be here, she thought again.

Harry went on sketching, looking even more beautiful with his brow creased like that, his sleeves rolled up to expose a few inches of each forearm, his capable long legs crossed to support the sketchpad. Scènes de la vie de bohème, Olive thought, and she smiled.

“That’s better,” said Harry.

“What’s better?”

“Your smile. It transforms you. I may have lost my breath a bit just now.” That little curl was back at the corner of his own mouth, and combined with the studious crease in his brow, the disorder of his hair, it took a little of Olive’s breath, too. She was still a bit stunned to find herself here at all, doing this, with a man she didn’t know. It was daring and shocking, something the old Olive wouldn’t have imagined, even as mischievous as she was. Alone in an attic with a beautiful young man at midnight? In her dressing gown? Unthinkable. But here she was.

“Still, I’m afraid it’s not what quite I need at the moment,” Harry said.

“What isn’t?”

“Your smile.”

Olive realized she was still smiling, that a silly wide grin hung from her mouth like a clown’s mask. “I’m sorry,” she said, stiffening her back.

“Don’t be. How long have you been with us, Miss Olive?”

“Only a few weeks.”

“Ah, that explains it. I would surely have noticed you if you were around this summer. Are you from New York, or elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere.” Which was true, if you counted Miss Ellis’s Academy.

“But you’re not going to tell me where?”

She hesitated. “I went to school in Connecticut.”

“But you haven’t been in service long, have you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you talk. The way you don’t lower your eyes when you speak to me. A thousand things, really. Am I right?”

She started to rise from the chair. “I think that’s enough for now.”

“No, please.” He started up, too. “No more questions, I promise. Please. Just a few more minutes.”

Olive realized, in horror, that she was going to sit down again. That she couldn’t say no to that charming voice, that humble please.

His voice dropped, shedding the charm, turning earnest. “Miss Olive, I assure you, I’m not like my brother. You have nothing to fear.”

“Your brother?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.” He went on sketching, glancing at her and then at the paper before him, pencil stroking furiously. His mouth turned tense at the corners, his knuckles white around the edge of the sketchbook.

“You mean about the housemaid last year?” Olive asked daringly.

“That, among other things. I expect he’ll drink himself to death by the time he’s thirty. Poor devil.” He glanced up from under his brow. “Stay away from him, do you hear me? If you have any trouble, come to me.”

Olive huffed. “I’ve only just met you. How do I know you’re not the one to stay away from?”

The pencil paused. Harry looked up at her and flashed that smile again, the old smile, lopsided and irresistible. “You don’t, do you? You’ll just have to take me on faith. Now. There we are. Would you like to see it?”

“You’re done already?”

“I told you I’d be quick, so you can get back to the nunnery.”

“The nunnery!” She laughed, because it was true. The little locked hallway of tiny bedrooms was exactly like a convent.

“Old Mrs. Keane learned her lesson last year.” He lifted the sketchbook and turned it around. “Here you are, my lady.”

Olive rose from the chair and stepped across the clean wooden boards. He held out the book to her, still smiling, and she took it from his hand and gasped.

“That’s not me!”

“Yes, it is.”

“But she’s beautiful!”

“Olive, you are beautiful.”

She looked up. “Not like this.”