“Please,” Christopher agreed.
The man tipped his hat.
The cold wind had died down to a shivery breeze, and a pale sun tried to
warm her, though it would be several months before any discernable heat would appear.
Christopher withdrew the key he'd received from the agent.
Katerina crossed her fingers as she took in their last option. The
neighborhood consisted of a single continuous string of identical two-story structures, all red brick with white plaster columns supporting white balconies.
The windows had been shaped into triangular peaks for added interest.
“This place is charming!” Katerina exclaimed, resting her hand on the iron pole of a gas streetlamp.
“It is,” Christopher agreed, “and the location is quite good. Close to my parents, far from the Thames and the factory.”
“Doesn't that mean you'll be longer getting to work?” Katerina wondered.
“The weather is still quite cold.”
He shrugged. “Once I find my gloves, I'll be fine. Living far from the factory
is a blessing unless you fancy darkening your hair in a shower of ash.”
“Your gloves are under the bed,” Katerina replied, smirking at his sudden, thunderstruck stare. “I noticed them this morning when I was trying to find my
other boot, and I see what you mean about the ash. Very well. Shall we go in?”
Inside, the lower level consisted of a series of rooms arranged along a central
hallway with creamy plaster on the walls and polished wood on the floors. First,
a small parlor waited to greet guests. Katerina could imagine a comfortable, stylish sofa, a few armchairs and a little table with a vase for flowers. The size
precluded fitting in any musical instruments. Even a diminutive harpsichord would have no place once the furniture arrived. Across from the parlor, a room
with built-in shelves seemed to be a study. She smiled to imagine Christopher sitting behind a heavy, masculine desk, a glass of sherry nearby, bent over a pile
of correspondence. Behind the parlor, a long dining room dominated the rest of
the house, large enough to invite the entire poetry group to dinner, should an alternate location become required. At the back, opening to the outdoors, the kitchen retained a pleasing aroma of previous meals, like a ghostly yet friendly
hug.
“Do you cook much?” Christopher asked.
Katerina shook her head. “A few things, but not many. Father has a great deal of money. You see, his father had a shipping business, which he inherited. Since it runs itself best without his interference, he simply collects the money and does
whatever he wants. Father does have trouble keeping servants because of his temperament, but he always manages to replace them. My duties in the
household were… limited.”
Christopher's gaze turned inward as he leaned against a cold and dormant
cast-iron stove and Katerina could almost see the gears turning in his head.
Probably refiguring the budget. “I think we can afford a cook-maid,” he said at last, confirming her surmises, “and of course, my man. Can you get by with that?”
She nodded. “Certainly. Especially if I have mostly clothing that does not require help to put on.”
“Which I'm sure you would prefer,” Christopher commented.
He's right, she realized. I always hated my maid Marietta seeing my back and making judgmental comments. Even if I found a maid who kept her own counsel, I would still wonder what she was thinking. “Would it bother you to have me dressing like a governess?” Katerina asked.
Christopher turned, his eyes intense as he looked her up and down. At last,
he shook his head. “Of course not. I know you won't be happy if you're uncomfortable, and in my circles, there are plenty of women who prefer simple,
modest clothing. You wouldn't be alone in that.”
Katerina smiled, but inside her sense of disbelief grew. This is too good to be
true. How can I trust it? Shoving the nervous voice away, she considered the kitchen. “So far this place seems quite good,” she said, changing the subject.
Christopher accepted her dodge with a wry twisting of lips and escorted her
