Page 21 of And Then There Was the One
She frowned back at him and ate a spoonful of porridge.
“Just staying in character as a cherished friend of the family, bestowing a compliment upon one of its daughters,” he informed her innocently, and then returned his full attention to his porridge.
Meanwhile, her father appeared to be hanging on Sebastian’s every word. “I’ve not been to the Boat Race in…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. “Well, I can’t remember the last time. I ought to go again one of these years.”
It would have been, Georgie knew, at least twenty years ago that he’d last gone—the race had been suspended during the war, and then her mother had died, and her father had not traveled any farther than Bath since then. Initially, it had seemed reasonable—he was grief-stricken, utterly devastated by his wife’s death, with two young daughters to care for. And then, as the years had passed and Georgie and Abigail grew older, Georgie suspected that it had simply become something of a habit. Papa was not entirely isolated, for they did have visitors—friends from his Cambridge years would arrive for a fortnight spent discussing minor archaeological discoveries in remote English counties while eating shortbread before the fire; Aunt Georgiana would visit occasionally, usually as one of her marriages was on the rocks and she was looking to escape London. Mama’s parents never visited; instead, Georgie and Abigail were periodically sent to Bath to stay with them, since they felt that the civilizing influence of town—even if the town in question was merely Bath—would be good for both girls, given their somewhat helter-skelter upbringing at Radcliffe Hall with a scatterbrained father and no mother.
But Papa himself, while happy enough to entertain visitors, did not venture afield, and so it was somewhat astonishing to hear him now discussing the Boat Race as if it were something he might consider attending in the future. It seemed almost unkind of Sebastian to bring back this glimpse of the father she recalled from her childhood, the man who had once taken her to London on the train for the day, to visit the Natural History Museum and feed the ducks in St. James’s Park and select a box of violet creams at Fortnum’s.
Occupied by these somewhat melancholy thoughts, Georgie devoured her breakfast in a hurry, and then interrupted a lengthy tangent from Sebastian about the merits of Cambridge blue as opposed to Oxford’s darker hue to say abruptly, “Mr. Fletcher-Ford, if you are finished with your Scottish-quality porridge, I was hoping we might be on our way?”
Papa and Sebastian blinked up at her.
“Georgie,” Sebastian said with a winning smile, “if we’re to convince the fine people of this adorable hamlet of our deep familial connection, don’t you think you’d better see your way back to calling me Sebastian, as you were yesterday?”
“Sebastian,” she replied, her tone so syrupy it was practically dripping, “I will be departing through the kitchen door in approximately two minutes, and I will not be waiting a second longer, so if you intend to accompany me, I’d suggest you get moving.”
“I do enjoy a woman telling me what to do,” he said with a roguish wink.
He seemed not to notice her discomposure as he rose from the table, gave Papa an affectionate pat on the shoulder, and delivered his porridge bowl to Mrs. Fawcett in the kitchen, paying her all manner of compliments as he did so. Georgie trailed behind him mutely, trying to regain her equilibrium as she pulled on a mackintosh and a pair of muddy boots, and it was only once they were out the door and sloshing through puddles in the kitchen garden that she mustered her sangfroid once more.
Sebastian had other concerns, however. “My shoes may never recover from this,” he said, looking down at his loafersmournfully. They were a deep brown leather with stylish little tassels, and had no doubt cost a sum that would cause Georgie to have apoplexy.
“You cannot possibly have thought those were a sensible shoe choice today,” she said waspishly, opening her umbrella. Sebastian followed suit—he did, apparently, at least have sufficient common sense to have thought to carry one.
He neatly dodged a particularly large puddle at the garden gate, then opened the gate and stepped back, allowing her to pass through before him.
“Better than the alternative options,” he assured her, once again looking dejectedly down at the damp leather. They set off down the long, now somewhat muddy lane leading from Radcliffe Hall to the village high street.
“Do you not come to the countryside often?” she asked after a minute or two of silence, the raindrops tapping a gentle beat on their umbrellas.
“Not much these days,” he said, his tone slightly evasive; she glanced at him curiously, but he was still gazing around them at the surrounding fields, overflowing with buttercups and cornflowers, and his face bore its usual expression of absent-minded good humor. Despite the dreary weather, he positively radiated good health and vigor, his skin glowing, his expensive clothes tailored to show off his lean, athletic figure to best advantage. Even his golden hair seemed to be curling attractively in the damp. He looked like he should be racing about an athletic field somewhere, or rowing a boat, or carrying a willing maiden home. And yet, she could tell that he did not entirely welcome this line of conversation, despite everyappearance he gave of ease and good cheer. He hid it well, but he was also very carefullynotlooking at her at the moment, and her curiosity was piqued.
“Did you grow up in London, then?” she asked, something within her now determined to weasel a bit of information out of him. How, she wondered, did one come to be a secretary to a famous detective? Presumably his path into the world of murder investigation had not involved as many direct connections to crimes (or, at least, to their victims) as hers had.
“No, in a little village in Cambridgeshire,” he said. “Only moved to London after I left university.”
So far, so unremarkable—similar to the biographies of many a poncy and overprivileged man of his ilk. But…
“So you do not visit your home often?” she pressed.
“At Christmas, usually,” he said. “That’s sufficient time with my family to last me a full twelve months, I find.” His tone was all bland geniality, as usual, but Georgie looked at him sharply as he spoke. Spotting her curious gaze, he shrugged. “It’s not an interesting story, old bean. We’re just not terribly compatible.”
“Donotcall me ‘old bean,’?” she said shortly.
“All right,” he agreed, waiting another beat before adding slyly, “old sport.”
“For the love of—”
“Relax, darling Georgie,” he said soothingly. “I’m only joking.”
“I’m not your darling,” she retorted.
“Not yet,” he said, twirling his umbrella bit jauntily.
Georgie rolled her eyes heavenward as they continuedtheir rainy walk into the village—and it was only later that she considered that maybe, just maybe, he’d provoked her deliberately, so as not to talk about his relationship with his family any longer.
It was cunningly done, if so—which was odd, because prior to that moment, “cunning” was not a word she would have ever thought to apply to Sebastian Fletcher-Ford.
