Ephraim swallowed his instinctive utterances of you-mustn’t-trouble-yourself and thank-you-kindly, as Butcher had gone from the room. He turned to the fireplace to put on teabut found Lofthouse had already got the tea-caddy off the shelf and pulled out the poker to stir the embers into life beneath the copper kettle.
“Do sit down, sir,” Lofthouse said without looking up from his work.
Ephraim supposed he may as well sit down. As he watched his former clerk make tea as he’d done more than a hundred times before, he noted how the freckles had spread from Lofthouse’s face down to the backs of his hands, as if they tumbled out of his sleeve-cuffs.
The thud of boot-heels on the stair announced Butcher’s return from the garret with the third chair. The kettle sang out soon after, and then all three gentlemen sat close around the two desks with teacups and saucers in hand.
Ephraim cleared his throat. “Allow me to offer my congratulations on your new position, Lofthouse.”
A rosy tint flourished beneath the freckles. “Thank you, sir.”
“And are you likewise employed by this gentleman, Mr Butcher?” Ephraim asked.
Butcher furrowed his brow and looked to Lofthouse.
Lofthouse cleared his throat. “Heisthe gentleman, sir.”
“Oh!” Ephraim said before he could think better on it. Most gentlemen didn’t fetch chairs or garb themselves in medieval trappings. Then again, Lofthouse had described his employer as an eccentric. “In that case, Mr Butcher, I thank you for making Lofthouse so happy in his new position.”
A small yet warm smile graced Butcher’s lips. It brought to mind another smile which Ephraim had grown accustomed to glimpsing in the office these past few months. One which had brought him great joy until just a few short days ago.
“We’ve brought you something,” Lofthouse said, jolting Ephraim out of his miserable musings. “Just a small thing, in the spirit of the season.”
Butcher, meanwhile, reached beneath the manifold depths of his cloak and withdrew a beautifully blown bottle with a cheerful green ribbon tied ‘round its neck. Liquid of a promising dark plum shade sloshed within.
“Sloe gin,” Lofthouse explained as Butcher handed the bottle over. “Made with berries from Mr Butcher’s property.”
“Goodness!” said Ephraim. “How magnificent. Thank you both very much. I only wished I’d known you were coming—I haven’t anything in return.”
“Your hospitality is a still greater gift,” said Butcher in a low burr.
Ephraim blinked, astonished as much by Butcher speaking at all as by the words themselves. “Very kind of you to say so, sir.”
Another smile twitched at the corner of Butcher’s mouth.
Ephraim set the bottle aside on the desk next to Dickens. It would make a delightful tonic to share with his guests after dinner. He tried very hard not to wonder what Mr Hull might think of it, if he had remained. “Will you stay for dinner?”
“I’m afraid we cannot,” Lofthouse replied—and for once, appeared genuinely pained to have to give his refusal.
“Oh.” Ephraim couldn’t quite keep the disappointed syllable in his head where it belonged.
“But,” Lofthouse continued, “we thought we might just pop in and see how you’ve got on since we went away so suddenly.”
Very suddenly, indeed. And so very much had happened since. Ephraim hardly knew where to begin telling it. With gentle hesitation, he asked, “Have you heard what became of Tolhurst?”
A grimace flickered across Lofthouse’s face. “I have.”
Ephraim clucked his tongue. “Dreadful. The poor man.”
Lofthouse said nothing, though both Ephraim and Butcher looked at him keenly.
Ephraim tried to change the subject. “Have you heard anything of Mr Knoll?”
“I have not. Though I hope, by this time, you’ve heard something from Miss Fairfield?” Lofthouse pronounced her name as though it felt unfamiliar on his tongue.
“I have!” Ephraim took delight in replying. “She gets on quite well in Canada. She’s staying with a friend of good standing and has every hope of making a better match than she could ever have found in England.”
“Oh?” said Lofthouse, evidently startled.
