The Stewart clan always declined.
“What makes you think he’ll be there? He doesn’t attend that many functions, from what I understand.”
“Rupert Milton’s engagement to Esmie Bradley will be announced, of course,” Callie answered promptly. “He and Mr. McCaffrey are great friends; I can’t imagine he wouldn’t be there. It’s a brilliant idea, Eliza.”
“How do you know the engagement will be announced, if it hasn’t happened yet?”
“Everyone knows. How do you not know?”
“I’ve been a trifle preoccupied,” Genevieve answered. She didn’t quite snap, but came close, and let out a small, vexed breath when she caught her friends exchanging a meaningful glance.
Why was she so irritable on the topic of Daniel McCaffrey? Eliza was right: if she wanted to get more information, the best way to do it was to interact with the man.
“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “It is a good plan, Eliza. Now I just have to break the news to my parents that I’ll be attending a function at the Bradley household.” The three friends had reached the point where they would part ways, Genevieve north to her family townhome, Eliza and Callie west toward Eliza’s. She bid her friends adieu, giving Callie a particularly long hug.
“Thank you,” Callie whispered into her ear. “I’ll be fine. Go on, best not delay letting them know.”
Genevieve chose the most direct path home toward the Square’s north side, but as she had parted from her friends on the southern edge, she still had to traverse the park’s length, and the path wended its way through several areas not well lit. The tree branches continued their unpleasant song as the wind increased again, and she shivered and shoved her hands deeper into her white fur muff.
The unexpected sound of loud, boisterous singing made her start, and she spotted two men down the path far to her left, supporting each other and stumbling slightly. She accelerated her pace. The park was mostly safe, but vagabonds still sometimes frequented its paths.
Halfway there, a distinct tickling sensation at the back of her neck caused her to pause. Dusk had given way to a darker-hued sky, and the lamps scattered throughout the park provided little illumination against the deep pockets of gloom created by the shrubbery and towering, ancient trees. When she risked a peek over her shoulder, her heart stopped, then immediately resumed at triple its regular tempo.
A man was there. As on Fifth Avenue, he was far enough away that any details beyond his general form were obscured, but again he was immobile, facing her direction.
There was no one else in the park.
A breath that was part moan involuntarily escaped her, and Genevieve turned north, letting her muff dangle and picking up her skirts to facilitate a faster stride. Fear rippled through her, tingling her back, where she could almost feel the unknown man’s gaze resting.
Blessedly, the distance was short. Though it felt like miles, she reached the front steps of her home in under two minutes, and flung herself through the heavy front door gratefully.
Leaning back against the door, Genevieve allowed her breath and heart to resume their regular pace before removing her jacket with trembling hands. She had no idea if her imagination was getting the better of her or if both incidents had represented actual danger.
Perhaps you’re going mad, a sly internal voice insinuated. Perhaps you’re not up to the task of finding Robin Hood.
She firmly pushed the thought away. That was the naysayer’s voice, Clive’s voice, and she refused to let it take root.
A moment in the water closet with a damp cloth pressed to her temples helped calm her shaking. She took a deep breath and ventured forth to find her parents.
The front drawing room was, like all the rooms in the Stewart house, an odd, ramshackle mix of elegance and clutter. A bit more of the residual tension from her walk home slipped away; she loved her slightly messy, eccentric house, and felt more comfortable here than anyplace on earth. The deep-blue wallpaper and dark, heavy furniture ought to have been oppressive but gave the room a cozy feel. Hung around the walls were delicate watercolor landscapes, portraits in oil paint, and framed photographs of family. Some of the paintings were by friends such as Eliza, or the Stewart children at various ages; some had been painted by local artists Genevieve’s parents admired; and there were a few inherited works by old masters interspersed throughout. Tall windows overlooked the Stewarts’ front garden and the wide expanse of park, keeping the room bathed in sunlight most of the day, though she was glad to see they were now shuttered against the early night. The opposite wall was lined with ceiling-high bookshelves, each crammed with volumes in no particular order.
“Hello, dear,” said Anna, her mother, around a mouthful of chocolate biscuit. “Come sit and have some tea.” Anna Stewart, tall and full of bustling energy, pushed a pile of pamphlets to one side to make room for Genevieve at the tea table.
“What are those?” Genevieve asked, settling herself onto the comfortable settee but refusing a biscuit. She was still too unsettled to eat.
“Leaflets about our rally next week,” Anna said. “We’re surrounding the mayor’s house and demanding women be given the right to vote in the next mayoral election. It’s very exciting; twelve ladies will dress as Lady Liberty and stand in formation blocking traffic at the front of the main gate.” Anna stood up suddenly, scattering several pamphlets to the floor and holding her half-eaten biscuit aloft. She grabbed a nearby book and mimicked the new statue’s pose. “Pretend the biscuit is a torch. Can’t you see it, my dear? The artistic and political impact we’ll make? All twelve of us?”
Genevieve decided she did need a biscuit and chose one, considering her mother’s stance. “Will the torches have flames?”
Anna beamed at her briefly, then resumed her somber, statuelike
