Storing Up Trouble, стр. 92
“I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself to the door, Norman. I’ve had quite enough of you tonight and don’t want or need you to see me the last few feet home.” She settled eyes that were suspiciously bright on him. “You’ve insulted me without cause, and because of that, I feel free to finally admit something to you.”
“You are a spy?”
She sent him a look that spoke volumes before she opened the door and stepped to the ground. Turning back to him, she caught his eye. “What I wanted to admit was this—I’d grown very fond of you, Norman, some might say exceedingly so. But you’ve done me a grave disservice this evening, jumping to conclusions before you did your proper due diligence. I have to believe you didn’t become the scientist you are today by being so neglectful, but that you’d be so remiss in your care of me, well, it speaks volumes. Any fondness I might have had for you is now long gone, although I do hope that the fondness you once held for me will have you at least extending me an apology—in the form of a written note, of course—after I clear my father’s name. After that apology, I’ll not want to have any further contact with you.”
Trepidation was immediate. “You’re going to attempt to clear your father’s name?”
“Of course I am, and to do that, I’m going to have to return to New York as soon as possible.” With that, Beatrix shut the door and glided away, not turning back to look at him a single time before she disappeared through her aunt’s gate and straight out of his life.
Chapter 34
Beatrix stepped from the hansom cab and onto the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue. After paying the driver, she stood on the sidewalk, appreciating the sight of her family home, feeling as if she’d been away for years instead of months.
Four stories tall and built of limestone, the house was created in a style that combined Italianate touches with the formality of French neoclassicism, and was a lavish display of opulence mixed with a hefty dose of refinement.
The front door, flanked by tall windows, opened, and then Mr. Parsons, the Waterbury butler, was striding toward Beatrix, frowning as he stopped in front of her.
“Miss Beatrix,” he exclaimed. “We’ve had no word you were returning home. What’s happened?”
Before she could answer, Mr. Parsons took hold of her hand as his gaze ran over her, concern in his eyes before he pulled her into his arms and gave her a good squeeze. Releasing her a moment later, he stepped back. “You’re a mess.”
Beatrix grinned. “I’ve just been on a train for hours and hours, so of course I’m a mess. But do know that nothing too troublesome has happened to me.”
“Too troublesome sounds like a story to me,” Mr. Parsons said firmly. “But before I hear the details of what I’m certain is going to be a disconcerting tale, you should go and greet your parents while I ring to have some coffee and cakes brought to the library, which is where your parents are currently engaged in their latest . . . ah . . . diversion.”
“Should I ask what that diversion is this time?”
“Best to see it with your own eyes.”
Exchanging a grin with him, Beatrix walked with Mr. Parsons into the house, the fresh scent of lemons greeting her. Lemon was a scent her mother adored, which was why the maids always polished the furniture with lemon paste and also spritzed the air with lemon water a few times a day.
Mr. Parsons gestured her down the long hallway that led to the library, telling her he’d join her there directly after he fetched the coffee.
Striding down the hallway, Beatrix heard her mother’s laughter, followed by a hearty laugh from her father in response, and braced herself for whatever diversion they were pursuing now.
Arthur and Annie Waterbury enjoyed the reputation of eccentric couple about town, that reputation a direct result of the disregard they showed at times for what society expected of members of the New York Four Hundred. That her father was one of the wealthiest men in the country allowed them to disregard the rules at will, especially considering he was from a Knickerbocker family, which meant his position within society was solidly secure, no matter the antics he and Beatrix’s mother got up to.
Easing open the door to the library, Beatrix stepped inside, coming to a stop and shaking her head at the sight that met her eyes.
In her absence, the library had undergone a bit of a transformation.
The floor-to-ceiling bookcases were currently draped in linen, and all the furniture was missing in the room, save for a few battered chairs that Beatrix had never seen in her life and a large table that was in the middle of the room, holding a potter’s wheel on it.
Her mother, Annie, was sitting in front of the potter’s wheel, a mound of clay whirling about, and her father, Arthur, was standing behind her with his arms around her, both of them apparently trying to mold the same pot together. Given that the clay whirling around on the wheel resembled a blob instead of any discernable object, it was apparent that they’d yet to master the art they were currently pursuing.
“It’s no wonder the two of you are often the talk of the town, what with your unusual habit of always touching each other,” Beatrix said, moving farther into the room as her mother’s head shot up, as did her father’s, right as the blob on the wheel collapsed, bits of it flying into the air when the wheel kept spinning.
“You need to stop pumping the foot pedal, darling,” Arthur said before he abandoned the clay and moved around the table. “Beatrix, this is a lovely, although unexpected, surprise.”
Annie nodded as the wheel came to a slow stop and she rose to her feet. “Indeed, it is a lovely surprise, but why didn’t you send