The next morning at the office, Richard tried not to notice Phillip(a)’s soft, husky voice; her elegant long-fingered hands; her generous smile.
She said, “The Pellon and Lord Simon inspections are next on the docket.”
“Lord Simon’s mansion is as ruined as the man.”
“Truflian Architecture. His fantastical era.”
“Not Truflet’s best work. Why does the belief in fairies automatically entail a penchant for curlicues?”
“Visual improbabilities,” Phillip(a) said and grinned outright.
Richard tried to also ignore that grin.
“I have my weekly meeting with Lord Rustilion,” he said. “Can you meet me at the Pellons?”
“I should track down the deeds for Lord Simon’s house.”
“You won’t go there?”
Lord Simon was an aged rake with magical proclivities. He was still capable of producing scandal, definitely not safe. He would see through Phillip(a)’s disguise.
“No—Government Library.” Phillip(a) raised her eyebrows at Richard’s stony expression.
“Good. We’ll visit Lord Simon’s together,” he added, turning away. It was a natural directive, not rooted in over-protectiveness. Not at all.
“Have a pleasant chin-wag with Lord Rustilion,” Phillip(a) said in a singing voice.
Richard had to laugh. His director, Lord Rustilion, held his office by virtue of his social position: an aristocrat, yet he supported New Government. He even defended Richard’s department. He just didn’t see the necessity. Richard’s activities appeared to puzzle him.
* * *
“Is the Pellon property so important?” Lord Rustilion said, eyes roving about his office, anywhere but on Richard’s face.
“Perhaps. The Pellon family can’t afford to maintain it.”
Lord Rustilion pondered that statement. He said doubtfully, “I guess the house is old.”
Richard said carefully, “Old doesn’t automatically bestow historical worth.”
“Hmmm.” Lord Rustilion pushed over cream and sugar, and Richard prepared his obligatory cup of tea. Every meeting with Lord Rustilion involved tea. The ritual gave the man something to focus on when his questions faltered.
“So why evaluate it?”
“It does have ties to King Erick’s reign.”
“Ah.”
“The land could possibly be transferred, in future, to the Commons Project.”
“Yes, yes. You, ah, have an interest there?”
“Sure,” Richard said. The Commons Project—a proposal to set aside land for public agricultural use—was the latest burning issue in committee meetings. Every time Richard got cornered by some overeager clerk or ambitious fellow functionary, the first question was always, “Are you involved in Com-P?” followed by confidential prattle: “George got asked to do a paper for Minister Fallon.” And: “Robert heard the latest update direct from Minister Belemont,” the head of the Commons Project and the Ministers’ Council.
Richard did a lot of “uh-huhhing” in these encounters.
He glanced now at his notes. “As for Lord Simon’s property—”
“That man is unstable,” Lord Rustilion said abruptly.
“Yes, yes, he is, but he has supporters among the ministers.”
“Hmm.” This time, Lord Rustilion’s hmmm sounded disgruntled.
Lord Rustilion was a true New Government man. He retained his title almost absently, being otherwise utterly modern and forward thinking. Despite his blank moments, he was a preferable director to others in the ministry. Most of the time: Richard wished he would be quicker to seize money and support for future projects.
* * *
“Lord Rustilion wants things to be simple,” Phillip(a) explained as she and Richard stood in a folly on the Pellon grounds, dressed in thick overcoats and tall hats. The property had been landscaped by Peder Vaughn, a factor of slightly more import than the house’s age. Not much, however—Vaughn had been a minor landscaper at best.
“He could make things simple,” Richard said. “It’s the paperwork that complicates our job.”
“The bureaucrats have been around longer than New Government.”
“Heaven help us.”
Phillip(a) laughed and turned to study the property’s flower gardens. Richard turned with her. The winter gardens, empty of flowers at this time of the year, were overgrown with shrubs. A solitary gardener wandered amongst distant compost heaps. Of course, the inability to maintain the gardens was one reason the Pellons hoped for a historical designation.
“Live in comfort for the rest of their lives,” Richard said, finishing the thought.
“The grounds would be open to the public.”
“The public would prefer the gardens be razed.”
“The Manderley Brothers would prefer the land be put up for sale.”
Richard shrugged. Phillip(a) said with bland coyness, “Though the ministers would doubtless go into ecstasies if the land ended up under their purview.”
He didn’t see how anyone could see her has anything but female.
* * *
“Pellon would make a lovely addition to the Antiquities Registry,” Gloria said at Mrs. Fertaff’s soiree that evening.
“It’s still under review,” Richard said.
“A formality.” Gloria lifted a dismissive hand.
Richard let the subject drop. Gloria despised even good-natured disagreement. Early in their engagement, he had tried to provoke her into arguments: Give me your reasons. I’ll give you mine.
Gloria had pursed her lips and spoken slightingly of “male manners.” (When Richard’s sister argued with her, Gloria sniffed about “a lack of proper decorum.” Andrew never tried to argue. Mother just chattered over her.)
Gloria’s pronouncements were exactly and precisely pronouncements.
"Pity the Pellons aren’t here. You could reassure them."
Richard would never do such a thing—it would be inappropriate to inform a petitioner of a decision before Richard had even completed the initial inspection. The Pellons being absent, the issue was moot, so he ignored Gloria and intercepted Bertram Fells, a functionary in the Department of Public Works, with a question about easement law.
Richard would prefer to carry out work discussions at work. He would also prefer to spend his evenings at home. Attending tedious evening parties during the week was the price for serving in the ministry. And it was an easy way to keep Gloria in an affable mood. She and her frozen-faced maid had fetched Richard in the Cartwright carriage that evening. He couldn’t yet afford one, and Gloria hated to arrive in a hired coach. She would be bringing one of Cartwright coaches with her to their marriage.
Yet after discussing changes to the law since the advent of New Government, Bertram said, “You’ll be holding soirees of your own soon.”
Richard tried not to blanch. He could convince himself that attending other people’s gatherings was a necessity. Putting on one himself seemed excessive.
Bertram raised a brow at Richard's lack of response. “The Mrs will insist.”
Gloria would. And she would be within her rights to expect Richard’s cooperation. How could he complain? This was the life he’d chosen when he pursued a government post, when he allowed Gloria to absorb him.
Bertram said, “The Cartwright Pater and Mater are riding their daughter’s, ah, train to social acclaim.”
“Gloria is the third generation,” Richard pointed out. It was natural that more doors would be open to her.
“So many new friends—” Bertram said softly.
Better Gloria than Richard. Wasn’t that the point of marriage: divide the load, share the burden?
“Lord Rustilion,” Gloria cried. Richard sighed and left Bertram—who grinned broadly and winked—to stand at Gloria’s shoulder as she waylaid Richard’s boss.
“How you must appreciate my fiancé’s hard work,” Gloria pronounced, a deceptively light hand on her quarry’s arm.
Lord Rustilion, looking more somnolent than usual, grunted.
“How fortunate I am to be engaged to someone with so much potential.”
Lord Rustilion blinked and gave Richard an unexpectedly sharp glance. Richard gazed back, trying to not too obviously detach himself from Gloria’s effusiveness. Wasn’t this how St. Clairs got ahead? He could hardly claim that he was too virtuous to fawn over his superiors.
“We are lucky to have him,” Lord Rustilion said finally.
Gloria’s good-natured expression seemed to thicken and solidify as Lord Rustilion strolled away. “It’s about time he recognized your abilities,” she said softly, her hand settling on Richard’s sleeve, agitating his glass of punch.
“I’ve only been in his department for five months.”
“Five months is long enough for a person’s value to reveal itself.”
“He admires my reports,” Richard said dryly.
Irony and other forms of wit bypassed Gloria.
“At least he doesn’t hold your sister against you.”
Richard frowned. His sister Aubrey had married a policeman, Mr. Charles Stowe, the Head of the Police, in fact. Charles had helped Aubrey when she’d been bespelled over a year earlier. Richard liked the man. His calm temper made him impervious to even Gloria’s snubs.
Gloria had been outraged by the marriage. For a few days Richard had wondered if she would call off their engagement.
She didn’t. “You’re too good a catch,” Aubrey had told Richard, but Richard doubted Gloria saw him as more than fodder for her plans for married life. Aubrey herself was the complication. She’d married “down,” but her bespellment had made her someone to whom even Academy magicians showed deference.
Richard said now, “Stevenson—admires my sister.” Stevenson was the Academy’s Acting Head.
Gloria stiffened, eyes at half-mast. Displeased.
“I don’t think Lord Rustilion is a proponent of magical potions,” she said tightly.
Richard wasn’t either. His sister hadn’t asked to be bespelled.
Gloria’s bosom heaved. But Richard had social endorsement, including the current social backdrop of chattering nabobs, on his side; Gloria relaxed fractionally.
“What a kind brother you are.”
Richard nodded vaguely and set himself to exchange innocuous greetings with fellow bureaucrats and deliver general compliments to posturing ministers. He set aside thoughts of Phillip(a)’s unselfconscious chuckle, her undimmed pleasure in the work, and her willingness to let Richard be himself.