Page 22 of Inventing Vivian

“There you are at last,” Miss Rothschild said from her seat on the sofa. “We’ve come up with a very diverting scheme.” She shared a smile with the other ladies and stood. “Charades!” She clasped her hands together as she made the announcement.

“What fun,” Meredith said, taking a seat next to the sofa. “Shall we assign teams? How do we keep score?”

Benedict smiled. Charades did sound diverting. The group split in two, moving to separate ends of the drawing room. Ruben, Lady Lorene, Miss Rothschild, and Benedict prepared their performance. They planned to act out a scene fromTheThree Musketeers, but after a moment of discussion, the ladies disagreed on their parts; Lady Lorene insisted she portray Milady de Winter, while Miss Rothschild proposed that the four of them should all act as Musketeers. As they argued, Benedict walked around the room, trying not to attract attention as he massaged his aching stomach. He’d eaten far too many potatoes and too much bread for a person used to a diet of vegetables, noodles, and rice.

He walked to the window, looking out into the garden lit by the dim half-light of dusk.

A flame flickered.

Benedict squinted and saw something, or someone, moving around near his pond. With the reflection of the inside gaslights on the glass, it was difficult to see.

“My lord.” Miss Rothschild came up beside him and squinted out the window as well. “Is there someone in your garden?”

“I believe so.”

He saw the shine of a lantern on a spray of water and couldn’t help but smile. He knew exactly who was in his garden. He hadn’t seen Miss Kirby since James Maxwell’s lecture three days ago, but he’d thought about her often. The heartbroken look on her face when Baron Harrington had turned away her request for a sponsorship was seared into Benedict’s mind. His impulse had been to go after her when she rushed away, but of course, he was the last person she wanted to see under the circumstance.

“Please excuse me for just a moment,” he said to his guests. “I’ve just remembered a small matter of business.”

He hurried out the door and down the garden path, hearing voices ahead and seeing shadows in the darkening twilight. As he drew closer, he recognized the sound of running water. His fountain was repaired.

When he reached the pond, he found the area around the fountain lit by three lanterns.

“Chester, bring the light a bit closer.”

Miss Kirby’s voice came from the far side of the fountain. Benedict followed the sound and found the lady lying on her back at the edge of the pond. The upper half of her body was beneath the fountain, her head and arms inside. He could see by the mud on her boots and the lower part of her skirts that she must have waded into the pond at some point.

Chester was kneeling beside her, holding one of the lanterns.

Zhang Wei held another.

Pipes and tubes and other pieces of fountain were piled next to the pond with a muddy shovel. A box of tools sat on the ground beside the young lady. She strained at something he couldn’t see, her elbow moving back and forth, and the fountain’s flow decreased.

“The water is smaller now,” Chester said.

Miss Kirby muttered something. Her hand reached for the toolbox, feeling around for a moment, until she grasped one of the tools, then returned her hand to the inside of the fountain.

She twisted her elbows again, and the water sprayed out.

“It’s better,” Zhang Wei said.

“But is the flow steady?” Miss Kirby asked.

Benedict stepped into the lantern light. “Well, well, if it isn’t the nighttime fountain-repair committee.”

Miss Kirby went still.

“Lord Benedict!” Chester jumped to his feet, grinning. “I’m glad you came outside. Vivian said we were not to disturb you. You cut your hair.”

“I did indeed, Chester.”

Miss Kirby pushed herself out from beneath the fountain and sat up. Her curls were falling from their pins in wet strands, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She set the tool in its box, her face looking as calm as if she were sitting beneath a parasol in the park. “Lord Benedict.”

He offered his hand to help her rise, but she didn’t take it.

She pushed her wet hair from her forehead, leaving a streak of mud, or perhaps grease, and then stood, motioning toward the fountain. “How do you prefer the flow, my lord? Is it strong enough? Too strong for your liking?”

Benedict stepped back, studying the stream of water. “Exactly like this,” he said. The flow was stronger than it had been before, and he was pleased by the sound of running water. “You have improved it immensely.”

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