Chapter 10

T he sun peeked through the windows, casting the nursery in a warm glow that did as much to stave off the chill winter as the fireplace crackling at Angelica’s back; though clouds gathered in the distance, it would be some time before the weather turned foul, and she reveled in the sunlight pouring through the glass.

With Emily having taken the children on a walk, the room was silent, and that ought to have provided a quiet place for contemplation, but Angelica’s gaze wandered to the world outside, tempting her with thoughts of a walk in the wintry wilderness. And then there was that novel she wanted to start. Frankly, even staring at the wall had its appeal, for it required no effort.

Angelica shifted in her seat and gave herself the lecture she usually reserved for her pupils. Work must be done, and the quicker one attended to it, the quicker one could be free to do as one pleased. A necessary evil that was only made worse when one complained and procrastinated.

Sheets of paper were spread across the tabletop, each one mocking Angelica with question upon question, demanding answers she couldn’t give. She would sort it out. Of course, she would. This was simply an unfortunate and irritating part of the process. All the various threads tangled together, tantalizing her with the knowledge that there was some manner in which to gather them. But how?

A few minutes of distraction wouldn’t do much harm. Of course, with Christmas Eve looming there was little time to waste, but her mind felt trapped in a fog, and the only thing it could lay hold of was that page.

Puffing out her cheeks, Angelica scowled at herself and set aside the work in front of her. Once her quill was ready, the words flowed through the ink, bleeding into the sheet. Thoughts of Thomas kept rushing to the forefront, urging her hand to move faster as all the things she knew she would never say rose to the surface.

Twenty years. Pausing, Angelica considered that. The family kept saying it had been over twenty years, yet a quick bit of arithmetic proved that it had been twenty-seven, which was closer to thirty than twenty. So, almost three decades of near silence. And now, Thomas thought to rejoin the family as though no time had passed? To ignore the promise he’d broken? To feign an interest in her life whilst never bothering to ask about it in the scant letters he wrote to Mama?

“Am I interrupting?” Mr. Knight’s voice shocked Angelica from her thoughts, and she glanced up from her work to find him standing in the nursery doorway. “Are you writing a letter?”

“No,” she said, folding up the paper and tucking it out of sight. “I am organizing my family’s schedule for Christmastime.”

“You are clearly writing a letter,” said Mr. Knight with that teasing smirk of his. “And the more you deny it, the more intriguing it becomes.”

“That may be, but your curiosity won’t entice me to admit I was writing something I wasn’t,” she replied. “It was merely a distraction from the true work I have at hand.”

“And it wasn’t a letter,” he said with a tone of clear disbelief.

“Leave it be, Mr. Knight. It has nothing to do with you.” Angelica set her hands on the table with a sigh and leveled a look at him, which had him raising his hands.

“I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Yes, you did,” she replied.

Rather than look chagrined or discomforted, he merely smiled. “I suppose I did. But do recall that I said I find you amusing, and I find myself with time on my hands at present.”

“And you thought to use it by pestering me?” she asked. He answered with an innocent expression that left her uncertain of whether she ought to smile or sigh at his antics.

“An amusing distraction,” he added.

Angelica huffed, though she couldn’t help a grin at that. Mr. Knight’s expression brightened, which added to her lightened mood.

“You are a fool, Mr. Knight. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I am a poet , after all. And you have made your feelings clear concerning my kind .” And with that, the rascal gave her a smoldering smile, his eyes lingering on hers with far more warmth than such a statement demanded.

“Ridiculous,” she murmured with a shake of her head.

“Yet I have a feeling that you enjoy that about me as much as I enjoy your dry wit.”

Angelica leaned on the table and gave him an arched brow. “You think you know me that well, do you?”

Matching her expression, Mr. Knight’s smile grew. “I know you are far more humorous than your family believes. In fact, I would say you are the most entertaining of all the Callaghans, even if your wit makes itself known in subtle manners.”

“A jester in a pantomime is more subtle than my family.”

Mr. Knight chuckled. “And you just proved my point, Miss Callaghan. So, yes. I do think I know you well enough to claim that you enjoy my teasing as much as I enjoy needling you.”

Angelica couldn’t deny the claim, for it was true enough. The rest of the family believed her devoid of any humor, yet Mr. Knight consistently laughed at her quiet remarks, and that alone was worth keeping him nearby.

“If you must know, sir, I am presently engaged with doing what I can to assist my family,” she said, turning her attention to the abandoned notes.

Scooping them up, Angelica sifted through the sheets. “Beyond keeping records of the various performances my family has scheduled during Christmastime, I am attempting to assist them with the pantomimes and mummers’ plays. As I am an abysmal actor, musician, and playwright, I am left to oversee the production in the only way I can: rigid organization.”

She motioned for him to take a seat. Mr. Knight did as he was told and didn’t look even slightly bored as she showed him the notations.

“There are often more people in the wings than there are on the stage,” she continued, “and it is excessively difficult to keep everything straight between the two separate sides, such as when characters need to change costumes and getting the props in the proper position, to say nothing of the mad dash it is to change the set dressings with each scene. Though we do not have much of that, it is still difficult to know what needs to be done without a thorough checklist.”

Angelica paused only a moment to look at Mr. Knight’s expression, but she found none of the glassy-eyed ennui that usually accompanied such a discussion. The gentleman merely nodded, his gaze fixed on her scrawled notes that detailed the movement of one of the swords that would be required to pass between several actors throughout the evening.

“By having an inventory of everything that needs doing, both sides of the stage will know what to do—”

“And there won’t be any confusion during the production,” concluded Mr. Knight with a nod. “Brilliant.”

“You don’t think it is excessive?” she prodded as she watched him with wary eyes.

Mr. Knight shook his head, his gaze sifting through the notes. “I have assisted with the odd amateur production before, and it is always chaos behind the scenes. Having a methodical approach to organizing the stagehands is quite sensible.”

Angelica straightened, her expression brightening. “Isn’t it? I am putting together a detailed list of what everyone needs to do, and I have learned that I ought to have a complete list as well, to help direct when even those instructions are insufficient. I even borrowed Bella’s pastels to mark each stagehand with a different color to help keep them straight.”

Holding up one of the pages, she demonstrated the dots of color beside each point, certain that this would finally bring forth the wide eyes and scoffs that such exuberant planning always earned.

“Perfect,” said Mr. Knight with a smile as he studied the product. “Every production is fraught with mistakes and accidents, and this is bound to minimize them.”

“Precisely!” she said, unable to hide her own grin as her whole body lightened at his praise. “I do not expect perfection, but knowing everything that needs to happen makes it far easier for me to adapt without becoming flustered and causing more issues as I attempt to mitigate those mistakes.”

Considering each of the sheets, Angelica fixed her gaze on the large, angry letters she’d written several days ago and ignored ever since; no matter how much she’d considered the problem, no solution had presented itself, and it was driving her mad. There had to be an answer.

She slanted a look at the gentleman and cleared her throat. “May I ask your opinion on a matter?”

“Certainly,” he replied, turning his full attention to her.

“While we do not have much in the way of set design or costuming, there are a few moments where there are significant shifts during the pantomime, and the audience is left watching the stagehands scurry about and waiting for the actors to ready themselves, which ruins the effect of the play. The scene ends with a great laugh, and then the audience sits in silence—”

“Which leaves them restless,” concluded Mr. Knight. “Yes, I know how painful it can be for all involved. I have attended more than a few performances and concerts in which the evening is ruined by the uneven pacing of the program.”

“Precisely.” A frown pulled at her brow, and Angelica studied the notes she’d made; in quick succession, she described the scenes in question and huffed. “Looking at everything that requires doing before the next scene can commence, I would say that the audience must wait two to three minutes.”

Mr. Knight grimaced. “That is bound to cause trouble.”

“Usually, I can organize it in a manner that minimizes such things, but I do not see how we can avoid it this time.” Turning to her companion, Angelica watched him as he considered the situation. Gone was the silly expression he’d employed moments ago; Mr. Knight looked at the notes with a furrowed brow and a determined glint in his eye as though he were considering the greatest of questions.

“Have you considered a transitional performance between scenes?” he asked.

Angelica frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You lower the curtains to hide the stage as it is being changed, but a performer stands in front of it and sings a song or gives mocking commentary on what has happened—something short to keep the audience engaged. I’ve seen it done before with great success.”

“Like a little performance within the performance?” she asked, her spine straightening.

Mr. Knight nodded. “I could write limericks, which with the right delivery would add to the entertainment.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course, Miss Callaghan,” he replied in an off-handed manner as though the effort required to assist her was inconsequential and his acceptance a given.

“Thank you, Mr. Knight,” she said, reaching over to squeeze his hand before turning to the sheets. With quick swipes of her quill, Angelica began making a note. “I wonder if we might get Alegría or Gael to recite one. Not only would they enjoy the opportunity, but even if they stumble, the audience will think them so adorable in their costumes that they are bound to get applause.”

“Too true,” he replied, his fingers drumming against the table as Angelica scribbled that idea in the margins—but she paused as Mr. Knight spoke again. “May I ask you a personal question?”

When she met his eyes, Angelica’s words fled her for a moment as she was struck by the sight. Despite having looked into them many times before, she’d never noticed just how odd a color they were. At first glance, she’d thought them merely brown, but as she looked closer, Angelica saw hints of blue and green, and in the afternoon light coming through the nursery windows, Mr. Knight’s gaze looked more hazel and brown.

No doubt he used their uniqueness to his advantage, as they and the wild curl of his dark hair added to his “poet” aesthetic. However, there was an impishness to his smile that destroyed the brooding demeanor he might achieve when deep in thought.

“You may ask me anything you wish, Mr. Knight. Whether or not I will answer fully depends on the question, and I will not promise anything until I hear it,” she replied in a tart tone, which made his grin grow.

How did he recognize the jest when so many others didn’t? For that reason alone, Angelica felt as though Mr. Knight truly understood her far better than even her kin. No matter how much she teased, he laughed and then gave it back in equal measure, even dubbing her “amusing.” Had anyone ever called her such before?

And even as she sat with a mountain of organizational charts and lists that everyone else dismissed as ridiculous and unnecessary, Mr. Knight appeared genuinely impressed with her efforts. With her . Angelica’s chest burned at the thought, making her feel as warm and golden as the light streaming through the nursery windows.