Page 73 of Apt to be Suspicious
“Did you hear that directly, or deduce it?” Alexander was suddenly leaning forward, but Lady Lizzie was as well.
Pen swallowed, not entirely sure what to do with the intense focus. “Someone was making a solid attempt to get the gossip circulating. That was what caught my ear. Too much weight in the wrong places, a repeated word a few times? I’m not sure I could reconstruct it properly.” It had been about the rhythm of it, in the sound, rather than on the page like she normally worked with code.
“No, that will do quite well.” Lady Lizzie looked delighted. “Edmund, dearest, I owe you a forfeit. Pen, he has been singing your praises as clever in a way he is not, and you have just nicely proved that. Also, it is a pleasure to have him bring someone home who might appreciate some of my own interests in keeping track of the sadly relevant gossip. Twice over in that case, since part of it does involve government secrets, and part of it is designed to limit future action by relevant parties in other ways. I keep track of both, partly for Lap. Edmund’s Major Manse.” She clarified the last when Pen looked blank.
“And besides, Giles thinks well of you already.” Lord Geoffrey shrugged, again with that show of lightness on the surface. He was not entirely fooling her there. Pen had seen enough of the men leading the huts at Bletchley to spot the underpinnings.
He waved his hand. “Edmund knows how to play this sort of match, and we will consider how to present you to best advantage. I think you’re quite right, Edmund, of some months of outings where you can be seen, as opportunity allows. With something a little more settled at the winter solstice if you, Pen, are willing at that point. There’s no need to fuss over rushing anything. Just quietly show that you are happy with each other. And,” His voice turned more amused. “That the various young women prowling around Edmund should find themselves others to hunt.”
“Papa.” Edmund sounded in good humour, though. “I admit, I will look forward to having that off my back. It’s tedious, more than anything. People will elbow into a conversation or insist on things I’d rather not spend my time on.”
Pen snorted. “You’d rather be studying, doing the crossword, or on a horse, I’m fairly sure.” Edmund blinked at her, looking bemused. “Or, all right, talking to me.” Doing other things than talking, not that Pen wanted to think about that here and now.
There was a brief silence after that, but before it could become too awkward, Lady Lizzie said, “Now, you’re welcome to visit here whenever Edmund likes. Even if he’s not here. We’d be delighted to have you for a meal here or there while he’s away. You made a good impression on Merry and Ros. At least to start. Ros is not interested in cryptography, but she is interested in the theory. And I suspect Merry will eventually have a number of questions about locational magic when she gets around to it.”
“Thank you for the— yes, I’d be glad to come out, if that’s good on all ends. The food here, you must realise, how refreshing it is after hall.”
That got a laugh from Edmund’s father, who definitely had stories about his own time at Oxford. They went on from there to conversations about food in different places, or different restrictions, from all three of the adults. Lady Lizzie had done a fair bit of travelling when she was younger, and Alexander and Lord Geoffrey had been in terribly remote places at times. Once they’d talked for an hour, Pen and Edmund were permitted to go off and do what they wanted. Edmund arranged a loan of riding breeches to go with yesterday’s blouse, apparently a pair of his mother’s.
It wasn’t until they were well away, a good mile from the estate, that he said, “That went very well. I hope you’re not so intimidated by them you’re thinking you’ll give me up?”‘
“No.” Pen glanced over at him. “But if you’re feeling like you want to tempt me with some enticements, you’re welcome to. Your family are all quite sharp-witted. I might want restorative plans to look forward to after meals with them.”
That got Edmund laughing. The rest of the ride turned into a comfortable conversation about her likes and dislikes, his preferences. And what things both of them had in abundance and needed no more of.
Chapter 45
Sunday, July 4th in an English village
Edmund glanced around the train station. He’d taken all the appropriate precautions, since he was walking into that hotbed of gossip known as the local parish. Pen’s grandfather’s parish, to be specific, for his first meeting with Pen’s family. That involved both a certain amount of deception and a great deal of careful attention to his mode of dress. More than usual, that was.
The train itself had been less of a bother than he’d expected. The problem was that he needed to be seen descending from a reasonable train, and to board one again later in the day. Along with being on the train the whole way to and from London, rather than taking the much less roundabout portal either direction.
This was exactly the sort of place where there would be casual conversation with the train conductor or others who normally took that train about Pen’s young man. The details needed to match up properly. So, he’d do it the long way round, and the train was at least a place he could do some of his ever-present reading. Slacking or letting the details slip would cause a problem for Pen, and he wouldn’t have that.
It was only his third train trip since the nationalisation of the trains at the beginning of the year, but everything had run smoothly enough. There was someone on the platform, who gave him a nod, then came over. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m visiting the vicarage. One of the family was expecting to meet me, but it’s possible something’s come up.” Edmund kept his voice light. His accent would tell a great deal here. Posh and well-educated young man, well-attired, but polite and cordial.
“Ah, that’d be likely.” The man twisted over his shoulder. “There’s Miss Agnes Fenweather, now. The vicar’s daughter.” Pen’s aunt, then.
Edmund smiled, slipping the man a suitably sized coin. “I’ll be taking the train home this evening, thank you.” He then straightened, taking several steps toward the end of the platform and the stairs. “Miss Fenweather?”
“You’d be Edmund Carillon, then. And yes, I’m Agnes. A pleasure to meet you. Welcome, welcome. Pen was just helping her mother with the last of the roast or she’d have come herself. Is that all you have with you?”
Edmund nodded. He trotted along as Agnes Fenweather took long strides down the road, then into the vicarage. She didn’t say much at all. She had the brisk walk he’d expected, that school teachers often did, needing to pretend to be eight places at once and often managing at least four. By the time they turned to go through a garden gate, he had seen glimpses of the village, and a few curious heads. Then he was shown through into the front hall, where he divested himself of hat, gloves, and satchel, taking out the two things he’d brought as gifts. She eyed them. “One for Father?”
“And one for Mrs Stirling and the household,” Edmund said agreeably.
“Come through. We’ll all be in the dining room. The curate as well.” That was the warning Edmund had not been sure about. The curate was apparently not magical, though also largely oblivious to such things as the household boiler behaving better than it ought. Pen had thought that either her grandfather would talk to Edmund in his study after the meal, or they’d go upstairs, and magic was on topic in either place.
Now, Edmund came through to find everyone arrayed at table, with the food set out on the sideboard, waiting. Agnes brought him around to the end to the elderly man seated there. “Father, this is Edmund Carillon. Mister Carillon, my father, the Reverend Augustus Fenweather.”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Edmund said, offering his hand and a firm handshake. He presented the tin of pipe tobacco. “Pen suggested this might be to your preference, sir. And my father asked me to inquire about a map in your collection, if there’s a chance to speak after the meal. An early unpublished map, I gather?”
“Hmm? Oh.” Pen’s grandfather sized him up, whisking the tin out of the way deftly. “Yes, yes. Geoffrey, yes. A good eye for early manuscripts, I gather. You’re an Exeter College man.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir. Like my father before me.” It was the traditional and expected comment here.
