“Your fingers are wrong.”
He choked on a laugh – it was either that or haul her against him. “They’ve always looked perfect to me.”
She gave him a cheeky look complete with an eye-roll and then proceeded to reposition his grip on the stone. Her touch was delicate, barely there at all, yet it stirred a place so deep within him it almost felt as though he’d sprouted wings. “Try now. Just flick your wrist and let the stone slide from between your fingers.”
He followed her advice to the letter and watched as the small granite disk sped over the water, kissing the surface as sweetly as he longed to kiss Miss Faulkner. He counted a total of four perfect skips before the stone vanished from sight – his best attempt ever.
16
The next day, Steven rose earlier than usual so he could get as much work as possible done before luncheon, hoping this would permit him to spend another afternoon in Miss Faulkner’s company. He’d enjoyed yesterday’s outing immensely and with the date of her departure drawing nearer, he did not wish to squander the limited time they had left together.
So he started by gathering the previous day’s receipts and by reviewing Mr. Pontoppidan’s ledger, which had been delivered to him by the man himself the previous evening. This was customary – a habit that had begun with Mr. Greene – since the manager often paid for deliveries himself while also noting Mrs. Elkins’s purchases below stairs.
This system provided Steven with an excellent form of cross reference. When he reviewed the cook’s ledger, every item listed therein ought to be mentioned in the manager’s. If it wasn’t, the numbers wouldn’t add up, and right now, after staring at the neat rows of penmanship Mr. Pontoppidan had written and then at Mrs. Elkins’s for the better part of an hour, Steven was forced to admit that the sums didn’t tally.
Steven pulled out his own ledger and compared the price he’d listed for ten crates of wine delivered the day before yesterday. In his ledger the amount was fifteen pounds, but Mr. Pontoppidan had written thirteen, creating a clear discrepancy. And this was not the only place where the numbers differed.
Expelling a heavy breath, Steven called for a maid to bring him a large pot of coffee, then started reviewing. He’d have to go over every purchase made since Pontoppidan started his employment four days earlier, and then he’d have to get to the bottom of the cause. Which meant he would likely be stuck in this office all day.
Irritated, he crossed to his filing cabinet and retrieved the receipts and credit notes that had been compiled during the past week. Mr. Greene might have been a disagreeable person, but damn if he hadn’t been meticulous with regard to keeping accounts.
Two hours later, after using five pieces of paper to jot down every purchase made since he’d hired the new manager, one thing was clear: the numbers were off by nearly one hundred pounds. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was almost nine o’clock and he’d not yet begun the updates he’d intended to make to his own accounts – a task he’d hoped to have finished by now so he could spend the rest of the morning on his correspondence.
Hell and blast. He was meant to write Mr. Gregorson of Bath, the foreman he’d hired to see to his new building there. Plans had to be approved, a few sketches made for clarification, and notes added. Now it would have to wait. So would everything else, including Miss Faulkner.
Steven cursed beneath his breath and stood. He rolled his shoulders, gave the pile of open ledgers a disgruntled glare, and crossed to the bell pull. It was time for him to address this mess with the man responsible for it.
Calista had deliberately risen late because she knew Mr. Donahue would be busy until the afternoon. So she’d taken her time eating breakfast since there was little else for her to do. She had no friends in the City nor any desire for solitary excursions.
Instead she looked forward to spending more time with the man who’d pulled her out of the kitchen. A smile curved her lips as she stood by her bedchamber window and looked at the street view. She felt like Cinderella. More than that, she genuinely liked him, not only his appearance but as a person.
Yes, he was attractive and there was no denying her being drawn to him on a physical level, but she also enjoyed his company. Chatting with him while skipping stones yesterday had been fun and relaxing. She was comfortable with him, except in those moments when deeper interest gleamed in his eyes or when they happened to touch.
Then she’d be breathless. Hot and nervous. Unsure.
Yet she dearly hoped he would kiss her before they parted ways. During their game of billiards, she’d been certain he wished to do even more, but then, like a cloud passing over the sun, he’d cooled his responses toward her. Now she worried he’d not cross the line that existed between them, and that the only lips she’d ever feel against her own would belong to Mr. Thorkilson.
She shuddered as nausea roiled in her stomach.
It could not come to that. Surely. But what other option was there? She had to marry him once she got back to New York, and in so doing, she would be granting him every right to do far more than kiss her.
The nausea grew, turning around as it crawled up her throat. She took a deep breath to keep it at bay. Making herself ill over the issue would not improve the situation. Rather, spending time with Mr. Donahue would be the best sort of distraction.
But when she’d finished her luncheon and still hadn’t heard from him, Calista worried he might have changed his mind about the outing he’d suggested. He’d mentioned the Hunterian Museum which sounded like an interesting curiosity. She’d looked forward to visiting it immensely, yet with each passing minute her hope of doing so today dwindled. He’d said they’d depart at one, after all, yet it was now almost two.
“Would it be wrong of me to seek him out and inquire about today’s schedule?” Calista asked Emma after luncheon. She’d gone downstairs to eat in the hope of encountering Mr. Donahue there. Instead she’d met the Kernoffs, who’d invited her to dine with them. Which had been pleasant enough, though it did not bring her closer to figuring out whether or not Mr. Donahue had forgotten about her.
By now, she was fairly certain he must have, which was slightly disappointing although she supposed he might simply have lost track of the time while working.
“No, miss. If he said to be ready at one and he failed to show up, I see no harm in figuring out the cause or, more to the point, if you should make alternate plans so the day’s not wasted.”
Calista would not make alternate plans but she also preferred not to sit around endlessly waiting. If Mr. Donahue had changed his mind, she wanted to know.
With this in mind, she made her way to Mr. Donahue’s office. There she paused, took a deep breath to gather her composure, and knocked.
“Enter!”
She opened the door and stopped. Mr. Donahue sat at his desk, hunched over, with three large books – ledgers, from the looks of it – spread open before him. Pieces of paper were strewn about, pushed aside only by a coffee urn and cup. A few, she noted, had even toppled onto the plush oriental carpet. The nib of a quill scratched frantically across a piece of linen foolscap before Mr. Donahue glanced up.
He gave her a puzzled look, as if it took him a moment to figure out who she was and what she was doing here, before his eyes widened with realization. “What time is it?”