He laughed—a sharp bark at odds with his foreboding appearance. “So I do. Well, Jane, my given name is Edward and you must call me it from now on. I am tired of this ‘Rochart’ nonsense.” His black brows lifted, knit. “I believe you should have a trunk, little one.”
“Indeed I do,” said Jane. “But you mustn’t carry it yourself; you will throw your back out.”
He looked at her sharply, as if trying to decide if she had really called him old. Jane smiled politely, feeling that in some obscure way she was staying level with him; that two could play the game of aggravation, and that by being sticky she was staying more truly Jane. It was a brief thought, with little time to untangle it, for he was speaking again, moving, his eyes searching her face.
“As soon as we are in the black beast,” he said, gesturing to the motorcar, “you shall take off that veil. I dislike it when I cannot see your eyes. I am certain they are laughing at me now.”
The sparring was a stimulant to her train-deadened wits, and Jane’s spirit rose. The contrast between his sense of humor and Alistair’s could not have been sharper. He did carry her trunk, and he hefted it into the old car, ushered her in, and closed the door.
“There’s no top,” he said, though that much was obvious. “We are both ancient—there, I will say it so you do not have to.” The car was indeed so ancient Jane wondered it didn’t need cranking. It clearly had been old even before the end of trade almost a decade ago. “We’ll drive slowly so you don’t get mussed.”
“Not for my sake,” said Jane. There was an undercurrent of warmth to the spring air tonight; it caressed her fingers clinging to the metal ridge of the door, promised summer ahead. The car lurched forward and the wind blew her veil back, and she let it.
“What’s on your mind?” he said, and she felt him looking sideways at her.
A million things, but one the most pressing to tell him. “I have an idea for Dorie,” Jane said. “I don’t know if it will work, so I don’t want you to get your hopes up. But I need to ask you something before I try it.”
“Of course.”
“Can Dorie safely touch iron?” Jane thought the answer must be yes, or he would’ve warned her about it the moment she entered the house. She tapped on the rim of her iron mask anyway, for luck.
He nodded. “Certainly. She may have difficulties, but she is still human.”
“Good,” said Jane. “I’d like permission to try an experiment with iron and Dorie, then.”
“I will support anything you do that is trying to get her to be more human,” he said. “You’ve found that slow going, haven’t you?”
His kind words made her admit in a rush: “Truthfully, yes. How do you get that child to mind?” And then she reddened at how exasperated she sounded with his offspring.
“Very poorly,” he replied. He sighed. “I love her greatly, but I confess every fey-touched thing she does pains me, makes me remember—” He bit off that thought and with an effort raised his spirits again. “But though I am wretchedly busy, shut away in my studio, you mustn’t be afraid to come to me. Seek me out, make me listen. Anytime you have trouble with her.”
“I have trouble,” Jane said dryly. “But I have a feeling the iron might help.”
“You have my full support in anything you do to rid her of those fey traits,” he repeated. “It’s why you are here. You have my trust.” He was driving, so he did not look meaningfully at her when he said it, but all the same Jane felt her breath catch in her throat. It closed off any words she might have said about her experiment, or about Dorie’s behavior.
When no more information was forthcoming, he said: “Well, keep your secret for now, but report to me within the week.”
“I will,” said Jane.
“Did you enjoy your sister’s wedding? I let you off the leash for it, so I propose the answer should be yes. Though on second thought, I don’t wish you to have enjoyed it so much that you will leave us for another wedding in a week.”
“That is my only sister, sir.”
“Carefully avoiding a real answer. I suppose there were a good many fine ladies and gentlemen there?”
Before Jane could stop her tongue, it leaped forth with “Do you know the Prime Minister and his wife?”
“Your sister travels in fine circles,” said Mr. Rochart. “Yes, I do. She was a client of mine last summer.”
“A client,” said Jane. Surely he couldn’t mention her so casually unless “client” was the entire truth.
“She sat to have a mask painted,” he said in answer to her implicit question.
“It must have been a beautiful mask,” said Jane. She could not imagine that woman wanting a hideous one, to wear or to hang on the wall.
“It was,” said Mr. Rochart. “Do you know they have five children? She told me at length about all of them. I was tempted to make the mask with a permanently open mouth.”
Jane looked up at him, startled—then laughed.