Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly #1)(33)

Mama and Mrs. Wilcox sat in high-backed armchairs, the tea tray between them. They chattered about the séance and future parties. I sat at the grand piano, plunking aimlessly at the keys, and Allison chattered amiably beside me.

Clarence sat on the sofa. He looked dreadful. His skin was greenish white and his eyes were ringed with puffy, black circles. Sweat shone at the edges of his face, and he dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. He seemed sick or as if he hadn’t slept in days.

He was probably just overworked. After all, he had taken on the family’s business recently. Funny, I didn’t actually know what that business was. Perhaps it was political? Clarence was running for some government position, after all.

I flicked my gaze out the window and into our grassy yard. A bulky figure loafed against our cherry tree—the same tree from which I’d fallen and broken my wrist as a child. It was Willis, Clarence’s footman. His black coat and trousers blended in with the shadows. The bench only feet away was also protected by the tree’s shade, but the footman did not sit. As I watched, he detached himself from the trunk and strolled into the sunlight.

He reminded me of a patrolman who prowls the Philadelphia streets at night, but for what Willis prowled, I couldn’t guess.

I returned my attention to the piano and found that Allison had stopped speaking. She eyed me through half-lowered lids.

I lifted my brows. “What is it?”

“Are you wearing makeup?” Her voice was accusatory.

“Of course not.” I hit the highest white key, and it plinked sweetly. “Why would you think that?”

“You look... different. Almost pretty even.”

I smirked. “Are you jealous?”

“Pshaw. Don’t be stupid.” She flipped a dark curl over her shoulder. “I would never be jealous of you. Though”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—”you will have to tell me how you colored your cheeks.”

I gritted my teeth. “It’s quite simple, Allison. It’s called sunshine.”

At that moment, Clarence stood and cleared his throat.

“Miss Fitt, I don’t suppose you’d like to go outside for some air. I fear the indoors do not suit me today.”

“Yes please.” I smiled gratefully and rose.

He turned to Mama. “Mrs. Fitt, would it be acceptable if I took your daughter for a stroll in your garden?”

“Of course.” Mama’s lips puckered. I knew that pucker—poorly masked smugness. She fluttered her lashes and turned to me. “Be sure to take your parasol, dear.”

“Can I come?” Allison asked eagerly. She slid to the edge of the piano seat.

“No,” chimed three voices. Clarence, Mrs. Wilcox, and my mother formed a stout chorus of refusal.

Allison’s face fell. “Fine.” She glowered at the ivory keys and pounded a low, plaintive note.

I took Clarence’s offered arm, and we sauntered to the parlor door. Someone moved in the corner of my eye, and when I glanced back, I found Mama mouthing something, her eyebrows high.

“Greee-shenn beeend.” Her lips moved with exaggerated care.

I whipped my head straight, and Clarence guided me through the parlor door. Mama wanted me to remember my Grecian bend. It was the most popular stance for ladies these days: bottom thrust back and high, chest pushed forward and low. Supposedly, it was an enticing pose to the modern man. I couldn’t imagine why since it made us look like camels who expected at any moment to be ridden by our masters.

Ah, but of course. That was no doubt precisely where the enticement lay. Heat rose in my face as the scandalous ideas connected in my mind, and I decided that ignoring Mama was my best course of action.

Clarence and I stepped onto the front porch, but Clarence wobbled unsteadily down the steps to the yard.

“Are you ill?” I asked him. “Or losing sleep?”

“No,” he murmured. “I’m fine.” He squinted and lifted a gloved hand to block out the sunlight.

“Really?” I stopped walking, and since we were linked, he was pulled to a halt as well. “You don’t look well, Mr. Wilcox. I’m truly concerned for how...” I gestured vaguely toward him. “For how you are.”

He clenched his jaw. “And I’m truly concerned for how red your skin is. You ought to use your parasol or the spots on your nose will spread all over your face.”

I huffed in disgust. A tired and grumpy walking companion—fabulous. Although... my skin did feel overwarm. I popped open my parasol, a beige, Indian lace affair. Though it didn’t match my dress in the least, it would protect me from the dreaded freckles.

After we resumed our stroll, Clarence pointed to the cherry tree. “Let’s sit in the shade, shall we?”

“I’d rather walk.”

“And I would rather sit.” He clasped my arm and tugged me toward the shaded bench.

“Why are you so ornery?”

“And why are you so stubborn? I’m tired, and I want to—” He broke off, for at that moment Willis stepped around the edge of my house. The footman’s eyes ran over Clarence and me. Then he planted his feet shoulder width apart and locked his gaze on mine, as if I were somehow a threat to his master.

I gave the burly man my fiercest glare before turning it on Clarence. “I’m going back inside, Mr. Wilcox.”