Archie didn’t nod, at least not with his head, but he turned to Effie’s father and said, jovially, “I’ve been thinking of a trip to Naples. My wife and I honeymooned in northern Italy last year and we’d like to go back. There is so much to see. We never got farther south than Florence. What time of year do you think is best? Is July too warm?”
“Mr. Nancarrow,” Effie said, shutting the door softly behind him and setting Leander on a side table. “I must prevail upon you to assist me in a somewhat sensitive matter.”
“Of course, my lord. I will help however I can.”
Would he, though? Effie didn’t have the true measure of the man. He well knew that affability sometimes papered over other, less pleasant qualities.
It mattered not. Effie had no choice. He did not want Father to find out there was a printing press in the stable. Either Mr. Nancarrow would help Effie in this matter, or he would not. If he elected not to help, Father would discover the press. Yet if Effie didnotprevail upon Mr. Nancarrow, the same outcome was guaranteed: Father would find out about the press.
Therefore, the only course he had was to ask this near stranger for help.
Cheered by this uncharacteristic application of logic, he decided the best way forward was forthrightness. “I wasn’t expecting my father back so soon. I have been storing a printing press in the stable. He . . . won’t be happy about it, and I think it better he not discover it.” He paused, considering whether to summon forth an exculpatory lie.I am fixing up the press to donate to the Church. I am printing self-improvement tracts for wayward heirs.
He could think of nothing that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. And had he not just decided on forthrightness? “I was planning to move it elsewhere after I returned from the holiday on which I am about to depart, but now . . .” He turned his palms upward in a wordless appeal.
“Think no further on it, my lord. I shall go round back and confer with the grooms. I am certain we can find somewhere else to stable the horses for now. Where had you been planning to move the press?”
“To the home of the Earl of Harcourt, Number Four Hanover Square. Of course, he is also holiday-bound with me, but if you explain that the press is from me, the countess will receive it.”
Clementine would, he was all but certain. He could only hope her sister was not in residence. But if he had to choose between Olive’s discovering he’d bought a printing press and Father’s discovering the same, he would choose Olive a thousand times over.
“Consider it done, my lord.”
Effie allowed himself to relax a touch. “Thank you, Mr. Nancarrow. Be warned that the press is quite heavy. You’ll need several men. And it’s broken, so there are . . . bits and bobs loose. Take care.”Beware the ghost of Hamlet’s father.
“If I may say, my lord, that is a fine bird you’ve got there. Is it a hyacinth macaw?”
“Oh, yes!” Effie had momentarily forgotten that he was carting Leander through this crisis. “You must know exotic birds, given that you identified him on sight.”
“Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus,” Mr. Nancarrow said. “Native to South America, I believe?”
“Ah . . . yes.” In truth, Effie did not know. He’d procured Leander from the same merchant who’d sold him Sally, and he hadn’t been made aware of any providential details.
“Studying birds is a particular hobby of mine,” Mr. Nancarrow said. “Though I’ve never seen a bird as fine as that outside the pages of a book. Does he talk?”
“Go!” Leander said, as if on cue.
“He says a few words,” Effie said as Mr. Nancarrow laughed in delight.
What a curious creature—Mr. Nancarrow, not Leander.
Whatever relief Effie had experienced in Mr. Nancarrow’s easy company disappeared as they reentered the foyer. Effie felt as though his ribs were calcifying, making his movements awkward and unnatural. He edged along the wall as best he could so as to not draw Father’s attention to Leander. With a small nod at Effie, Mr. Nancarrow slipped out the door.
When Archie, who was still quizzing Father about southern Italy in the summer, caught sight of Effie, he said, “What good luck to have encountered your father. He’s made several improvements to my hypothetical itinerary.”
“How fortuitous,” Effie murmured, smiling blandly as his father looked up, brow knit. Effie knew that look. Father was trying to remember if Effie had been standing there all along. It used to wound him, when he was a boy, to know he was that forgettable in his father’s eyes. For as a boy, he generallyhadbeen standing there the whole time. As he’d grown, though, he had come to understand that invisibility came with benefits that could be exploited—for example, the opportunity to arrange for the covert relocation of a printing press.
“If we want to make Brighton by nightfall, perhaps we ought to make haste,” Effie said, affecting a nonchalance he did not feel. “Perhaps you can call on our return, Harcourt, and continue your discussion. Will you still be in residence, Father?”
“Brighton?” Father said, frowning. He looked rather . . . yellow. Put out, though Effie could not imagine why.
“Yes,” he said, “our annual trip.”
“Annual trip?”
Effie didn’t say,Yes, Earls Trip 1822. The fanciful appellation for their holiday would not go over well with Father, who, in addition to lacking any sense of humor whatsoever, would almost certainly have pointed out that Effie was not an earl but a mere viscount. He was the heir to an earl. A very unpromising heir. To put it mildly. Which, to be fair, Father would do, given that they were in company.
Effie didn’t say anything, just smiled blankly.
