Page 12 of Bane Bloom

I stepped over for a closer look at the shelves above the bench and discovered the books were mostly on scientific subjects like botany, medicine, and alchemy. There was even a copy of Aristotle’s Masterpiece, which I knew of only because I’d seen it discussed in the Times. Originally written in the eighteenth century, it was a still-popular text on reproduction and childbirth that contained both medical fact and outdated fancy. Not something you’d expect to find in most people’s sitting rooms, but perhaps unremarkable for an apothecary’s library.

The bottommost shelf did contain works of fiction and poetry—Shakespeare, Milton, Voltaire, Swift, Defoe, Fielding.

Turning to more closely study the other side of the room, I saw that the casement window had a view of the lake and a lovely box pianoforte resting beside it. The room’s other furnishings consisted of worn but comfortable-looking chairs and a sofa arranged before the fire. Rugs in faded pinks and greens mostly concealed the floor planks.

Everything was aged and somewhat dusty, but tidy. A home well cared for but with no money for updates. Which reminded me of our house in Chelsea, and I liked it just as it was.

I was approaching the glasshouse when the front door opened, and Thomas set my trunks inside. Following them in, he closed the door and hoisted them again. He’d removed his hat and coat and folded back his shirtsleeves, baring tanned arms with a covering of fine, sun-bleached hairs.

Eyeing me, he said, “If you come up, I’ll show you to your room.”

“All right,” I replied, my voice still carrying a note of defeat.

I followed him up the steep stairs, running a hand along the wall for safety because I couldn’t seem to shift my eyes from his broad back, black braces snug against his white shirt, revealing the strain of muscle under the load he carried. The man is part Viking, I’m sure of it.

As on the ground floor, there were rooms on either side of the upper landing. He entered the one above the sitting room. It had a sloping ceiling due to the gable but still managed to be bright and cheerful. Paper with a pattern of yellow flowers and green leaves covered the walls, though as below, it was fading and had peeled in places. A chest of drawers with a pitcher and basin rested near the bed, and a writing desk had been placed beneath a window that offered a breathtaking view of the lake and fells. An armchair sat near the hearth.

I noticed a pretty teacup and saucer on the sill of the window facing the lake. The cup was home to a small plant with rounded leaves that almost looked covered in frost and a single, dusty purple flower that resembled a stack of tiny cups.

Someone has a rather charming sense of humor. I glanced at my companion, who’d deposited my trunks next to the chest and now stood in the doorway regarding me through squinted eyes—and the thought shriveled.

Had Thomas been anyone other than who he had shown himself to be over the past half hour, I would have expressed how pleased I was with the room. Instead, I said, “Will I find the kitchen downstairs?”

He nodded. “Through the door at the back of the dining room. And the kitchen has a door that will let you out back. To the right of that door, beyond the kitchen garden, there’s a root cellar with apples, turnips, beetroots, and onions.”

I won’t starve, anyway. I held in a sigh of relief.

These were the most—and softest—words he’d spoken since we’d met, so I was stunned when he continued. “I trade for my own provisions from the farms hereabouts. I’ve left eggs and butter on the cold stone in the kitchen. If you know enough not to poison yourself, there’s wild garlic growing now. And cress grows around the beck just south of the house.”

Sheepishly, I said, “‘Beck’ . . . that’s a stream, yes?”

“Aye.”

Gratitude welled in my chest. He had done a great deal to ease my worries, which I hadn’t expected after our prickly start.

I glanced at the lakeward window and out at the stone hut with the boat for a roof. “Where do you live, Thomas? I understood it was on the grounds, but I’ve seen no groundskeeper’s cottage.”

“You are looking at it, Miss Gray.”

My head swiveled, brows lifting. He would scarcely be able to turn around in such a small dwelling! Before I could reply, he said, “I’ve a net out for trout. If I get any, I’ll bring you one.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said faintly as he started downstairs.

I stepped closer to the window, studying the boat hut and trying to imagine him inside it. The idea was absurd, considering I had this whole house to myself. Was this the Society’s doing? Why shouldn’t he be allowed to live here, when no one else did? Especially since, if I’d understood Annie rightly, this was his family home.

“Miss Gray?”

Startled, I turned. Again Thomas stood in the doorway, and he reached up and rested a hand against the top of the doorframe, leaning into it in a way that caused the muscles of his arm to flex and bunch. I swallowed.

“You understand,” he said, “many of the plants in the glasshouse are dangerous. Arthur Bane, who built and planted it, knew how to make medicine from them. But if you don’t know what you’re about—”

“Thank you,” I interrupted, though gently. “I do understand.” There was something different in his manner now. I’d seen him annoyed, but now he seemed . . . troubled. On impulse, I asked, “What of Mr. Carroll? Did he know what he was about?”

Thomas dropped his hand and stepped back. “As to that, I couldn’t say.”

My eyes followed as he started down, stairs creaking under his weight. This Mr. Carroll business had me uneasy. Where could the man have gone? And why were his associates avoiding the subject? I had a mind to write to Mr. Harding, yet I was afraid of being a bother and hurting my chances with the Society.

Then it occurred to me there could be a very simple explanation for why Harding hadn’t mentioned Carroll; perhaps he had turned up back in London. Perhaps no one had bothered to notify the people here.