‘I didn’t mean that, I meant when you were young’uns. Sneaking about town, getting into mischief, but never mean or nasty to anyone. It always gave us a laugh to see what you two would get up to. Everyone in the street thinks the world of Miss Abberton.’

  ‘Everyone in the street?’ Hamish looked past Number 4 to the ornate columns of Odette’s villa, then shot a look across the road to the Hempel’s home, Mr Babbage’s, and even Mrs Croft’s, where he could see her nose twitching at the curtains. Hamish twisted to look to his neighbour, the duke, whom they called the old grouch even though he was their age, and for all his grumpiness, he had still allowed Iris and Elise to use his lawn for their fundraiser. Iris was the only woman he had loved; he saw that fact now as clear as the thick strips of cloud across the blue sky. But then, everyone loved Iris.

  ‘I’ve been an arse,’ Hamish said.

  ‘Your words not mine, my lord,’ Irving replied.

  ‘And Iris… she didn’t deserve what I’ve done to her.’

  Irving bit his lip, not quite meeting his eye.

  ‘I can’t change the past, but maybe I can make things a little better. I have an idea, but I need a few hours to pull it off.’

  ‘And when you’re done, you’ll climb in the carriage and head back to the estate, as your father orders?’

  ‘I promise. Not for him, but for you. And your family. I respect that.’

  Irving tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  After seeing Papa to his favourite chair, and reminding Jonah she was never one to fall into vapours, Iris took herself to her room, but sleep would not settle. After tossing for more than an hour, she finally dressed in her favourite tea gown and made her way to her study. There, she slumped into her chair and swung idly, her eyes misting in and out of focus at the piles of notes, ledgers, and correspondence piled on the desk. All the papers that had suffocated her life over the last few years. All information Abberton and Co would need to ensure a smooth transition from her work to whomever took it over. She shot a look at the fireplace and thought to burn the lot, but then dismissed the idea. While Mr Sanders and the board could go the hell, destroying records would disrupt work and hurt the employees and their families that relied on them. And the board likely knew they would be her weakness—that was how men like them won out over people like her. She cared too much.

  Instead of thrusting it into the fire, Iris began to stack the Abberton paperwork into neat piles and tied them off with white ribbons. Part of her wanted to rage across London and holler at the men who had taken her work from her, or ask them to reconsider, or to even beg them to allow her to continue in secret. But with each sheet of parchment that she placed into a folder, the weight on her shoulders shifted.

  Iris slumped back in her chair, and she looked across the desk, past the notes to her father’s empty seat. The memory of their days in here, passing ledgers between them, arguing over invoices, discussing sales and markets fell hard and heavy. She burst into tears.

  Keeping the books for Abberton and Co had ceased bringing her joy for some time, but the hope of keeping alive those days when Papa had been lucid and sat opposite had always spurred her on. But Jonah was right. He saw it clearer because he knew her father better than anyone, and in his visits each week, he saw the stark change that she herself could not face. Releasing Abberton and Co felt like he slipped a little from her, but she knew clutching to a memory would not help them through the challenges ahead. He needed a daughter with fortitude and patience. Not a daughter with her head consumed by tallies and lies.

  In the soft afternoon light, flicks of dust motes shifted and swirled in a shaft of light that lit his chair. She could almost see him looking up from his papers and pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I miss you.’ Her voice cracked at the recollection of him as he had been, the man still alive and napping by the fire in the room next door, but somehow, still gone.

  The memory smiled and turned towards the map on the wall, the way he always did when a letter about some tile in an exquisite shade of blue or some expert rug weaving technique reached him, and his eyes twinkled with anticipation as he planned another adventure. Iris turned to the wall, trying to follow the glimmer of where he was looking, but couldn’t quite place it.

  Who was she to be now?

  Iris, I give you the world.

  ‘Miss Abberton?’ Mason stood by the door. ‘Some people are here to see you.’

  ‘Please no callers Mason. Today has had enough excitement.’

  ‘These aren’t callers, exactly.’ Iris scrutinised his face, searching for a clue, but the actor’s mask held firm. ‘I think yourself and Mr Abberton would call them potential investors.’

  Curiosity waged a war with frustration as she walked down the stairs. Mason ignored her questions, until he paused at the threshold to the front parlour and announced, ‘Miss Abberton will see you now,’ like she was the queen and not some upstart from the streets who just happened to be good with numbers.

  ‘Odette? Elise? Rosanna? Why are you here?’ Iris tore her gaze from her friends seated on the lounge to sweep around the room. ‘Mr Babbage? And Mr Hempel?’ While their backs were firmly turned on one another, they were amazingly in the same room, and even more amazingly, silent about it. Iris looked to the tall man by the window, his features a little indistinct in the half-light. ‘Your grace?’ Indeed, it was the Duke of Osborne, who never called on anyone on Honeysuckle Street and kept his London activities confined to his villa, his club, and parliament. ‘Why are you all here?’

  ‘To hear your proposal,’ Duke Osborne grumbled. ‘Dalton’s valet was most incessant. Be quick. Some of us have other engagements to attend to.’

  ‘My proposal? Mason, I—’

  A rap came at the door, and Mason shot down the hall and tugged it open to reveal Mr Sanders, holding one of her folders, and flanked by Hamish and another man she didn’t recognise.

  ‘I do not wish to see you,’ Iris hissed as she hurried towards them. It was bad enough that the household had seen her humiliation. She did not need it seen by the street.

  ‘And I do not wish to be here,’ Mr Sanders said in a curt voice.

  ‘I was speaking to Lord Dalton. Although, I have no wish to see either of you. And you,’ she looked to the other older man dressed in a waistcoat as ugly as Hamish’s. ‘I have no idea who you are, but if you are in company with Lord Dalton, I am sure I have no wish to make your acquaintance.’

  Hamish winced as if wounded, still not meeting her eyes.

  ‘Algernon Pascoe.’ The other man removed his hat and bowed. ‘Enchanté.’

  ‘Lord Dalton and Mr Pascoe,’ Mr Sanders spoke between gritted teeth. ‘Suggested I return these to you. They arrived at my offices with some acquaintances of theirs, some ladies of the night,’ he hissed. ‘They threatened me with scandal. Me!’

  ‘Gabriella and Luciana are not ladies of the night,’ Algernon tsked. ‘They have been retired for some years now. It’s not my fault men like you judge before you know a person.’

  Hamish nudged his elbow into Mr Sanders, who jolted forward. ‘These are irrelevant to the future of Abberton and Co.’ He thrust a folder at her, much thinner than the one he had left with. Then he brushed Algernon’s hand from his coat, gave her a curt nod, and stomped down the stairs.

  Iris flicked the folder open to find pages of her handwriting: her notes for the presentation, financial predictions, and the numbers she had run on a business idea that would take the company in a new direction. An idea too big to achieve on her own, but with the right investors supporting her, a venture she could make a success.

  ‘I don’t know what they’ll say.’ Hamish nodded down the hall to where half the street sat waiting. ‘But I wanted to give you back your chance, the one I took from you. And here.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. ‘You don’t have to take it, but I wanted to invest first. You can use Number 8 for lodgers, people coming in from out of town who need somewhere to stay. I can’t imagine I’ll be back for some time.’

  ‘It’s too much.’ Their fingers brushed as she took the key, the familiar sizzle racing through her.

  ‘For what I’ve done, it’s not nearly enough. Now go tell them why Irving has asked them to wait in the parlour all afternoon. They have no idea. Goodbye, Miss Abberton.’

  ‘Goodbye Lord… Lord Dalton.’

  Mason had closed the door before Hamish and his friend had reached the bottom of the stairs. A cough sounded down the hall, followed by a dissatisfied grumble. Iris looked at the folder. The toes of her boots rustled her skirt as she entered the parlour. She took a steady breath, taking in all the people assembled. Neighbours. Friends. Even Spencer the cat, curled on a chair. Some people she’d known her whole life, and, she hoped, people who would see past a scandal if they saw value in the opportunity beyond.

  ‘Good afternoon, ummm…’ How to address them? They ran the gamut from your grace to spinster miss. ‘Good afternoon, Honeysuckle Street. I have been working on a business proposition for some time, and—’

  Elise caught her eye and motioned her hand up, her mouth forming the word louder. Iris cleared her throat. ‘As you all know, Papa and I travelled anywhere we could. His dream was always to bring the beauty of the world to London, and to place it within the reach of ordinary men and women. Just a little piece.’ Iris remembered the spark in her father’s eyes when he planned another trip, and the passion with which he spoke of sales and pay rates and opportunities. ‘But he didn’t live through things. He lived through experiences and adventures. And I wonder, if maybe, we could create a business for people like him. People who want more than just a shot of lace from Venice, or a handmade tile from Egypt. What if, instead of bringing a hint of adventure to London, we gave people an adventure of their own?’

  Iris spoke from her heart, even beyond her heart, from her soul, of those moments that had resonated with her. Of the beauty of a waterfall at sunrise, or the splendour of a sun sinking behind a mountain range. Even during the terror of having their baggage stolen and hopping a carriage, she had learnt how strong she could be. She wanted them to understand how travel wasn’t only about discovering places, but of discovering oneself.

  ‘And that is my idea,’ she said, pacing before the fire, her notes long since discarded as her enthusiasm took over. ‘To take people by road, or train, or boat or any means necessary, not just to see things, but to have adventures! Wonderful, life-changing, mind-boggling adventures. Not quite as rough or unexpected as those Papa and I had, but something with a little more edge to them than they might find elsewhere.’ She turned to the room, spread her arms wide, and exhaled the last of her breath into a smile. ‘What do you think?’

  For a moment, she thought her talk had bored them to stone, as all of them sat stiff and unmoving.

  ‘You’ve worked very hard, I can see that,’ Odette spoke slowly, no doubt choosing her words carefully. ‘But what would you offer that a tour with Mr Thomas Cook does not?’

  ‘Thomas Cook offers amazing options, but I am not talking about being in competition with him, per se, although as Papa says, “Every player in the market is in some sense a competitor.”’ Back on track she chided herself. ‘I am talking about special tours. Like an itinerary of grand structures for the engineers. The Champs-Élysées in Paris for the newly minted heiress in need of a fresh wardrobe who is too afraid to ask for guidance, lest she seem an idiot in the eyes of the ton. Historical tours for scholars, or a focus on… on… I don’t know, libraries and bookshops for the reader!’ She dared a look at Odette. ‘Even the chance to visit opera houses and attend concerts with a famous soprano as company?’

  Rosanna’s father leaned over the arm of the chaise to retrieve one of her sheets of paper. ‘I’m not so certain about the viability of such an undertaking—’

  ‘I’ll invest!’ Mr Babbage called out abruptly with a sharp look at Mr Hempel. ‘I believe in you Iris. Always have.’

  ‘I wasn’t implying I don’t believe in her,’ Mr Hempel half rose from his seat. ‘I was simply asking a question.’ He dropped the papers onto the table. ‘I too will invest.’

  Odette shrugged. ‘What good is money if one cannot use it to raise up a friend? I am here for you, my darling, but I will not be leading a tour.’

  ‘It’s some years before I come into my majority,’ Elise said. ‘Maybe I can help with the books? Or the advertising? I know how to plan an event.’

  ‘Oh Elise,’ Iris pressed the back of her hands to her eyes. ‘I would love your help.’

  ‘You are all quite mad!’ The Duke of Osborne turned back from the window and huffed, his hands on his waist. ‘People have been travelling to the Continent and beyond for centuries without assistance.’

  ‘Excuse me, your grace, but you mean people like you,’ Iris spoke gently. ‘People with family or connections, people for whom letters of introduction can open doors. But others do not have the same luxury. Papa and I travelled to all these places. I know the best places to stay, or to try a local delicacy, or where to find the most striking scenery. But I also know where a young lady can have a dress mended in a hurry, or the best place to have a hat made.’

  ‘You are all being frivolous.’ The duke crossed his arms. ‘Lucky for you, I can afford to be frivolous from time to time. I will make a modest investment.’ He pouted a little, gave a sniff, but also added the hint of a smile. ‘And if anyone can make this ridiculous idea a success, you can, Miss Abberton.’

  Iris tried not to burst into laughter, although doing so would have provided a welcome release for the elation bubbling inside of her. This afternoon she had imagined herself condemned to this street, now, in a short span of time, it had proved her salvation, even better than salvation, because instead of being beholden to hypocritical old snodgers like Mr Vincent and Mr Sanders, she would be accountable to her friends and neighbours.

  ‘What will we call ourselves?’ Odette asked. ‘No offence, my dear, and I genuinely do say this with all sympathy, but, given recent events, the name Abberton may not encourage the right type of bookings.’

  ‘What about Honeysuckle Street Travel company?’ said Mr Babbage.

  ‘That name,’ said Mr Hempel. ‘Is terrible.’

  ‘What about Spencer and Co?’ Elise scratched behind the old tom’s ears. ‘He’s seen parts of London we can only imagine, but no matter how exciting a night he’s had, he always comes home. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? The joy of departing, and the joy of return.’

  As if in approval, Spencer stretched his legs and pawed at the air, arched his head backwards to expose his neck, and gave a rumbling purr. Rosanna smiled, Mr Babbage chuckled, and even the duke gave half a grin as Elise tickled Spencer’s chin.

  ‘Spencer and Co Travel. Adventure and excitement with the comforts of home,’ said Iris. ‘Elise, it’s perfect.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The carriage pulled up at the entrance to Caplin House sometime after midnight. The lamps cast eerie shadows over the gravel drive, the meagre light accentuating the moss-stained teeth of the sandstone gargoyles that perched over the oaken double doors. The dim light stretched their shadows over the bricks, so that it appeared as if their wings were spread, and the monsters were about to swoop from their perch and devour him.

  Hamish stepped onto the gravel and arched his back into his knuckles, his spine cracking with the movement. The monsters hadn’t scared him even as a child—they were far less menacing than the demon inside. He trudged up the stairs and raised his fist to knock like the visitor he always felt himself to be, but when his knuckles hovered inches from the door, it swung open, and one of the staff—he could never keep track of their names, so many of them fled to better employment once subjected to his father’s tirades—stood to attention and gave a short nod.

  ‘Welcome home, my lord.’

  Caplin House must have been the only building in England where, even in the depths of winter, outside was warmer than inside. Hamish tugged his coat around him as he walked into the entrance, his breath misting before him. He was about to ask for a warming whiskey to be sent up to his room when the familiar hunched form lumbered across the landing and paused at the top of the stairs.

  ‘You went and bollocksed that up, didn’t you?’ the earl barked.

  If Hamish had been wearing his hat, he would have doffed it and bent into an exaggerated bow. As it was, all he could do was plant his feet and meet the old man’s glare. ‘Spectacularly,’ he replied, the -ly reverberating off the stone floor and walls.

  His father grunted, silencing the echo.

  On the journey, Hamish had consoled himself that he had made things right with Iris, and from what he had taken, he had given back as much as he could. He had lost Iris before he knew what she meant to him, and while it was a poor consolation, he would still, at least, have his revenge. But as he rolled his shoulders back and met his father’s penetrating stare, the freedom he had craved eluded him. He had made a mess of things, and in doing so, he had not scandalised the old man at all. He had simply proved him right.

  ‘The tenants need attention,’ his father grumbled. ‘See you’re of a temperament to visit them in the morning.’

  He shuffled off, his long shadows converging into the night. After he had gone, Hamish turned to the man on the door, thinking of the whiskey, then decided against it. The coldness, while not a comfort, felt like what he deserved. A penance for his stupidity.

  Spring arrived, then stretched into summer, before retreating to make way for autumn. Rich reds, oranges, browns, and russets adorned the trees, which slowly dripped their leaves onto the lawn. A cascade of auburn to taunt him, for as Hamish stood at his window each morning, contemplating his day as he sipped his morning chocolate, all he could draw into his mind was the image of Iris lying before the fire, her hair streaming behind her, the flames casting an orange and yellow glow over her skin. Part of him craved winter so that he could be done with the memory, but part of him dreaded it as another loss. In a year, would his reminiscences goad him the same? Was there a way to get her out of his system?

 

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