his throat, focusing on the fragile book. His imagination was always fertile, but it usually waited for more suitable subjects for its flights of fancy.
He reached for the scribbled strip of paper and, though he had not actively intended to, his arm brushed hers. He drew back, feeling stifled.
‘I’ll take that. And we had best return to our task if we are ever to finish.’
Her curiosity and excitement extinguished immediately, and the schoolmistress was back—calm, blank and faintly disapproving. He could have kicked himself for his petty rejection. He was definitely off form.
‘Shall I have Pruitt bring us some tea? My temper can be measured in direct opposition to my hunger.’ It wasn’t much of an apology, but her mouth relaxed a little as he went to tug at the bell pull.
‘You remind me of Hugh.’
‘Who is Hugh?’
‘My brother. We could tell the hour by his temper when he was a boy. If we had not fed him by five we did not need the clock to chime the hour. But once fed he was an angel for precisely another three hours. Mama always said it was because his mind was so hard at work. He is quite brilliant.’
‘I don’t have that excuse, unfortunately. How many of you are there?’
‘Five. Myself, Susan, Edmund, Anne and Hugh.’
‘You are the eldest? Never mind, don’t bother answering. Of course you are.’
‘Why of course?’
‘I recognise the symptoms. You are natural shepherds—everything into its proper slot.’
‘Ah. Did your brother herd you?’
‘Not for many years. Lucas knows when to abandon a lost cause, a very useful characteristic in an older sibling.’
‘I wish he would tell me how. My siblings inform me I am terribly managing.’
‘Perhaps I should have a word with them instead. Teach them a trick or two to herd the shepherd. Behind your back, of course.’
‘I don’t believe they need your help, Mr Sinclair. They are enough of a handful without your dubious advice. Now, as you said, we should return to these stacks or we shall never be done.’
Her shift in humour was so swift he was caught off guard.
‘Did I upset you? It was just idle nonsense. I would not really do that, you know.’
She shrugged and returned to her armchair. Chase took the book of hours and leaned across the desk to place it by her hand.
‘Keep this. My cousin would have liked you to have it.’
She shook her head and pushed the book back towards him. It was another dismissal, but it made him all the more determined to restore her to good humour. He didn’t like the ease with which she slipped back into her shell and he certainly didn’t like being the cause of it.
‘Take it. Please.’
He could see her weakening, but her eyes darted to the stacks of books on the table.
‘I could not take something so precious, but perhaps... No.’
‘What is it you would like?’
‘I see he has two sets of the Desert Boy novels—the one on the table and the one on the shelves over there. Perhaps I could have one... They are my siblings’ favourite books and I thought...’
‘You could have both if you like. One for your family and the other for you to have here at Huxley.’
‘Oh, but I won’t be—’ Her words stopped as if dropped off a cliff. Then she gathered herself. ‘One set will do, Mr Sinclair. My siblings will be very grateful.’
He watched her, unable to shake a sense of unease about her. And so he did what he always did when he was on shaky ground—he went digging.
‘How old are your siblings?’
Wistfulness warred with reserve on her expressive face. Even her features were a study in contrasts—her eyebrows and long eyelashes were several shades darker than her hair, accentuating the faintly exotic slant of her eyes, and her lower lip was a lush counterpoint to a thin and very precise upper lip. She wasn’t traditionally pretty, but there was something fascinating about her face, a play of contrasts that caught and held the viewer’s interest; like a painting he didn’t understand but instinctively liked.
‘Susan is twenty-two and Edmund almost eighteen, and Anne seventeen and Hugh is fourteen,’ she replied, her voice still curt.
‘Are you worried about them?’
She kept her gaze on the book, her long fingers riffling through the pages.
‘They have never been without me before. And then there is Aunt Florence.’
‘Your aunt is minding them? Then surely you need not worry.’
‘They are probably minding her, rather. She is a darling, but she can be as bad as my mother for daydreaming. I do not know how useful she will be if anything happens.’
‘Perhaps you underestimate them. I find it hard to believe siblings of yours are not also intelligent and resourceful. They must grow up eventually, you know.’
She finally looked up.
‘Next you will say I am mollycoddling them or...or something worse.’
‘No, I will say you probably need time away from them more than they need time away from you. Though I would have recommended a rather more relaxing venue than Aunt Ermy’s domain.’
Her mouth wavered between annoyance and amusement.
‘That does leave quite a few possibilities in between,’ she replied and he smiled at her lowering of arms.
‘Just about anywhere else, in fact. So, where would you go if you could go anywhere?’
Her gaze became wistful again as they settled on the Desert Boy books. ‘I wish I could disappear into the leaves of one of these books. Or perhaps...there.’ She turned to the framed picture on the wall. It was one Sam painted for Huxley many years ago—a view of the Nile from the cliffs above Qetara, the sails of the feluccas blushing in the sunset and the shores stubbly with papyrus reeds.
‘I hesitate to ruin your daydream with anything akin to reality, but Egypt is hardly relaxing. Sam, my sister, nearly sat on a scorpion while painting that. She probably would have if poor Edge hadn’t spotted it and pushed her away.’
‘Goodness. Who or what is poor Edge?’
‘He’s the nephew of Huxley’s antiquarian partner, Poppy Carmichael, and a good friend of ours until we all left to join the army during the war. His name is Lord Edgerton, to be precise, but Sam enjoyed vexing him by devising less-than-complimentary variations on his name and her favourite was Lord Stay-Away-from-the-Edge because he was always telling her
