Chapter 17

H umans were creatures of habit. Enough so that despite having been in Haydon for less than a fortnight, Julian already considered this chair in the parlor “his.” It wasn’t as though returning to the seat again and again was a compulsion; it was merely a byproduct of having decided to sit in this precise location on his first day and finding little reason to change the position once it was deemed acceptable. Why waste time choosing anew each day?

As much as he appreciated the intimacy that Ernest’s study provided, Julian thought much clearer when they were in the parlor, away from the heaping mess the gentleman kept in his sanctuary. The room was still vastly different from his own tastes, having every nook and cranny filled with heirlooms and mementos, but at least one could breathe without worrying about knocking something over.

And for once, the house was quiet enough to use the parlor instead of retreating to the place where no one dared disturb them.

In one far corner sat the two youngest Fitzherberts, cuddled up to their grandmama as she quietly read them a story. With their mother and elder siblings already gone to play for the evening, the piano sat silent, and Miss Callaghan was curled up with a novel opposite Julian, her eyes fixed on the page as though the world beyond her story didn’t exist. Only Ernest made any noise as he sifted through the coins the carollers had collected the night before.

With his paper sitting atop his lap desk, Julian stared at the page for a long moment before setting the desk aside and rising to his feet. Not wishing to disturb the others with his pacing, he crossed to the window as the words echoed in his thoughts again and again, his internal quill scratching out words and replacing them as he stumbled his way toward the answer.

Ice curled along the edges of the glass, obscuring the world beyond. Despite the people just behind him, a sense of isolation washed over him as he gazed out at the wintry landscape, a solitary figure against the vastness of the frozen world. Stillness blanketed the village, as tangible as the snow hanging thick upon the eaves, and the only movement was that of the smoke curling lazily from chimneys, drifting upwards into the crisp winter air, its wispy tendrils disappearing into the pale sky.

“If you change your mind, you are quite welcome to join me tonight,” said Ernest, looking up from the piles of coins he was sorting.

“That is kind of you, but I have no wish to intrude upon your work,” replied Julian, turning away from the window to return to his seat.

“I am only telling a few ghost stories to a group of people who cannot tell good literature from bad,” he murmured with a sigh. “Such a waste of my time and talents.”

“Yes, but it pays the bills,” replied Julian.

Ernest stared down at the money on the console table. “If the villagers weren’t so stingy, I wouldn’t have to debase myself by creating such drivel.”

Julian groaned in sympathy. “It is always amazing to me that those with the most money are always the slowest to pay their bills. For all that many gentlemen in my profession seek out the wealthy to ply their trade, I find they are the most infuriating to work with—always demanding of your time but reluctant to pay in a timely manner.”

Ernest waved that away. “I simply demand payment when I arrive and do not perform until the coins are in my palm. Anything I’ve prepared shan’t go to waste, as I can simply use it another time.”

Leaning forward as though to share a secret, he added, “In fact, I often reuse things written for other occasions or borrow others’ work. The people hereabouts cannot recognize true genius when it is presented to them, so they don’t know the difference between my work and something published in a rag of a magazine. They only care to be titillated.”

Julian frowned, though he supposed it made sense. It wasn’t as though the contracts he employed were brand new each time; rather, they were revised copies of former ones he’d used. And though each client’s needs were individual to a degree, he often employed similar strategies for their investments. One needn’t reinvent the wheel each day, after all.

Yet it made him uneasy to think of charging them for a personalized consultation if he were only going to regurgitate the same advice he’d given others without deviation. Yes, one might reuse bits and pieces, but not the whole of it.

And one did not pass off another’s work as one’s own.

Sliding the coins into the box with a sigh, Ernest set the funds on the shelf behind him. “I can only hope that we will collect more tomorrow. The Feast of St. Stephen is all about generosity to the less fortunate, after all. A time for one’s purse strings to loosen.”

“What is your goal?” asked Julian, nodding toward the box.

“As much as we can get,” replied Ernest with a laugh. “A little extra will never go amiss. With Emily living at home and her two boys in school, we need every penny.”

Julian shook his head. “I meant the caroling. How large a donation are you looking to secure?”

“As large as my coffers can hold. I would love it if we could simply live off the caroling alone and not subject myself to using my talents for such menial labors. To write such drivel…”

Despite understanding English, Julian blinked at his friend as he tried to comprehend those words. “The collection you gathered last night wasn’t intended to go to the less fortunate?”

Ernest’s expression scrunched as he stared at the young man. “What do you mean? Of course, it is going to the less fortunate. I don’t think there is a family in the area that requires it more than us.”

During his exploration of the village, Julian had seen more than a few hovels whose residents would beg to differ, but his wits were still struggling to grasp this turn of events. His gaze drifted to Miss Callaghan, who (despite her relaxed pose) clutched her book before her eyes like a sinner clinging to a crucifix, and her breathing stilled as she refused to meet Julian’s gaze.

“You and your family were out begging?” he asked, turning to his friend.

Brows shooting upward, Ernest scoffed. “I take offense to that. We provided a performance, and they compensated us. The only difference between that and being hired to do the same thing is that with caroling, I am paid by all those who enjoy the performance and not just the host.”

Julian’s stomach churned at Ernest’s logic that, though seeming quite sensible when one considered it objectively, felt decidedly wrong.

“That and the fact that performances are commissioned, not forced upon the audience,” said Julian.

Ernest waved the argument away. “Nonsense. Besides, why shouldn’t the townsfolk provide for their resident artists? After all, we bring beauty and enlightenment to people who would otherwise be creatively stagnant, and don’t we deserve compensation for it? Must I sacrifice my very soul to provide for my family, destroying not only my integrity but my artistic vision?”

With each question, his friend grew more heated as he spoke. “Already, so much of our art is squandered. I’ve lost two sons to commerce—though at least Tristan still writes, even if it is as a journalist .” The gentleman said that title as though it were a byword, and then added with a sigh, “But as far as I can tell, Thomas doesn’t even sketch anymore.”

Pausing, he considered that and added, “Emily is a far better musician than these backwater villagers appreciate, and her children look to match her skill—if they aren’t forced to play only quadrilles, waltzes, and country tunes. I have great hope for Aloysius, but to make a proper go of it, he’ll have to do commissioned work, which is absolute death to an artist’s creative vision. And all my daughters—”

At that, Ernest glanced at his eldest with a doting smile and amended, “All my daughters, except Angelica, show degrees of talent in various artistic endeavors only to waste it by settling into mundane married lives with husbands who do not value their spirit. I can only hope Helen and Ophelia choose better.”

Miss Callaghan’s eyes rose from the page, their deep blue looking as bleak as the moors outside; her expression was as calm as ever, but it was in that gaze and the pinking of her complexion that Julian saw her heart cracking beneath the embarrassment. He had teased and twitted her about not joining in, never once considering that her reason might be entirely justifiable.

Which was the precise moment he recalled his participation in the caroling. Julian’s gaze fell away from Miss Callaghan’s as heat swept through him. His part in the embarrassment had been minor and unintentional, but the townsfolk hadn’t known; all they saw was Julian Knight throwing in his lot with people who had arrived on their doorstep, unannounced, to badger and beg them out of their hard-earned funds.

And he’d judged the villagers as unfeeling and miserly. Good heavens.

“The invitation still stands, should you wish to join us tomorrow,” added Ernest as he rose to his feet and strode toward the parlor door.

“My thanks, but I must decline,” murmured Julian, his manners still firmly in place despite his shock.

“As you wish,” was all the reply granted before Ernest strode away, grabbing his greatcoat, hat, and gloves whilst opening the front door in one fluid motion. A second later, the sound of it closing echoed through the house.

And Julian remained frozen in place as his stomach burned.