Page 18 of And Then There Was the One
“He merely helped me to my feet, Papa, it’s not as though he rescued me from drowning!” she called churlishly, and Fletcher-Ford flashed her that maddening smile once again.
“That can be tomorrow’s entertainment,” he said, his smile widening as her scowl deepened. “Think how thrilling—all those wet garments!”
Georgie’s jaw dropped, and yet somehow her father—too busy babbling his thanks—did not appear to have taken in a single word Fletcher-Ford had just said.
“Papa!” she called again, loud enough this time that her father at last broke off and looked back at her with some concern. “My head is aching. I’d like to go home and rest.”
This, predictably, did the trick—her father was very worried by any physical ailment either of his daughters ever mentioned, which was why Georgie harbored such concerns about Abigail’s newfound affection for Dr. Severin. If Papa had his way, the doctor would be summoned the moment his younger daughter so much as sneezed. In no time at all, Georgie and Fletcher-Ford—“You must call me Sebastian, sir, if I’m to stay in your home!”—were settled in the Morris (Fletcher-Ford having, with a great show of chivalry, offered Georgie the front seat and made a production of folding his long legs practically to his chest to fit in the cramped back seat, Egg panting happily beside him), and then they were rattling back down the high street toward Radcliffe Hall, having made a brief detour to the train station to collect Fletcher-Ford’s luggage.
“Papa,” Georgie said, “you should know that Mr. Fletcher-Ford—”
“I thought you were going to call me Sebastian,” the manin question put in from the back seat, leaning forward to be heard, his chin scant inches away from Georgie’s shoulder. This close, she could smell whatever soap he used when shaving—sandalwood, she thought. It was not unpleasant.
“Sebastian,” she said through gritted teeth, “is going to be an old family friend of ours, if anyone asks.”
Papa frowned. “Why are we lying?”
“Not lying,” Georgie said soothingly. “Merely… stretching the truth. We don’t want the police to know what we’re up to, you see.”
“I thought you said Constable Lexington is part of this scheme?”
“He is,” she said hastily. “But we don’t want Chief Constable Humphreys or Detective Inspector Harriday to catch word of it—you know they’ve never particularly approved of my sleuthing.”
“Hmph!” Papa said, sounding gratifyingly disgruntled. “They should be thanking you for doing their jobs for them, without pay.”
“Exactly what I thought, sir,” Sebastian agreed from the back seat.
“Mypointis,” Georgie said, “we don’t want them to know we’re investigating, so Sebastian is going to be an old family friend staying with us for a week or so. Enjoying a countryside idyll, if you will.”
“And in such lovely company,” he said, winking at her. Georgie scowled.
Soon, they were pulling up before Radcliffe Hall, in all its ramshackle glory; a family of ducks was crossing the drivewayas they arrived, which eventually necessitated Georgie hopping out of the Morris to usher the final duckling to safety before they could continue, so by the time they came to a halt outside the front door, Abigail and Mrs. Fawcett had emerged and were watching them with undisguised curiosity. Abigail, Georgie was relieved to see, had at least changed out of the dressing gown she’d been wearing earlier, and was now wearing a blue pin-striped shirtdress, her blond hair pinned back.
Much as Georgie was dreading everything about this meeting, there was something undeniably amusing about watching Abigail’s jaw literally drop as Sebastian unfolded himself from the Morris and proceeded to tug his enormous, heavy suitcases from the boot with great ease.
“Abigail… Mrs. Fawcett… this is Sebastian Fletcher-Ford,” Georgie said, suppressing a weary sigh as Sebastian deposited his luggage on the front steps and reached up to offer a kiss on the hand to her sister and housekeeper, both of whom turned pink. Georgie did not think she had even known Mrs. Fawcett was capable of blushing, prior to this moment.
“Delighted,” Sebastian said, smiling at them. “A household full of lovely ladies—my favorite sort!”
Abigail giggled.
Georgie glowered.
“I’ll show you to your room,” she said, brushing past him to lift his relatively light hand-case, leaving him to trail behind her lugging the suitcases. She led him through the front doors, across the entry hall, and up a flight of stairs to the nicest of the guest bedrooms. Mrs. Fawcett must have been in to cleanthat afternoon, she thought, detecting the faintest scent of lemon oil and beeswax. A chipped willow vase of fresh wildflowers sat on the nightstand, and the bedding looked freshly washed. The room itself was of a decent size, filled—like all of the guest rooms at Radcliffe Hall—with mismatched bits of furniture that had been inherited over the years: Bookshelves of differing heights flanked the secretary against one wall, and there was an enormous dresser that had once been in Georgie’s parents’ room shoved against an opposite wall. The wallpaper was a slightly faded green-and-white print, and a couple of mismatched rugs covered the floor. To Georgie’s eye, it looked cozy and inviting.
Behind her, Sebastian set down his suitcases, uttered a cheerful “Ah!,” and then crossed to the large window that offered a view of the kitchen garden below and the fields beyond.
“I say, is that a chicken, Georgie?” he asked, hands on his hips as he took in the scene.
“Probably,” Georgie said. “We’ve several—eggs don’t grow on trees, you know.” It could have been Wilhelmina, or Gladys, or Ethel, though probably not Mary Magdalene, who preferred to stick close to the henhouse after a near miss with a fox the month before.
“What a delightful place this is,” he said, turning to beam at her. “I see there’s a pond, even.”
“Yes. Let me guess: You brought your swimming costume, in addition to the tennis racquet?” she said wearily.
His grin widened. “I didn’t, actually—but, my dear Georgie, a swimming costume is notreallynecessary, is it?”
Was he… flirting with her?
