CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER 2

Jenny pulled her dressing gown tighter, sitting in the half darkness of her boudoir. It was cold with the French doors open, but she didn't care. She was staring at her reflection in the bevelled mirror of her dressing table. She was also sipping a large glass of whiskey--neat--wondering where she'd gone wrong with her life. How could she have let herself fall for a man simply because he was in a uniform? How stupidly romantic was she, to think she could fall in love with a man she knew nothing about?

She wished it was more than her stunning beauty. Men had always been drawn by her beauty--had gravitated towards it--and as a result, she’d always had an easy time of things. She had long, dark hair, cascading down the middle of her back in rings and curls, with grey eyes made to captivate a man’s soul. She had cheekbones that cut, playing with the single dimple on her left cheek whenever she smiled. Her complexion was a milky white--the kind a man desired, she'd thought--with full bodied lips that were dark in the soft light of the moon. The light came in at a slant, the slats between the panes of glass casting long shadows that stretched across the parquet floor like the bars of a cage. She sought out a cigarette from somewhere inside the folds of her dressing gown. Straightening the cigarette once she found it, she began striking the lighter on the table beside her. It took more than a moment for it to ignite, and when it did, the flash of sudden light forced her to shut her eyes. She managed to light it in the end, exhaling a large cloud of smoke at the moon coming in through the doors as she let slip a silent tear.

It was obvious Roger wasn't coming home from the Club. Why should I be expecting him to? she asked herself. It wasn't simply a matter of him missing the last train out of London, but more a matter of how he might spend extra time with the mistress she was convinced he had. A voice she recognized as that of her mother's told her that a man should be left alone to have his dalliances. It was in a man's nature, she said, and sometimes better to let him have that than to put up with doing one's duty. Jenny wondered just how true that was; she wondered if Daddy had had his dalliances in the past? Was it even possible? How about Mummy? Somehow, she doubted that would've ever happened. Her brothers, maybe; her grandfather, certainly. There were not a lot of men in her life she could say had led by example, but her father certainly did.

But I'm supposed to be his wife, damn it! You'd think, if a man's going to be dallying with anyone, it'd be his wife.

She stabbed her cigarette into the oversized ashtray on the small table beside her. At twenty-three, it felt very much as if her life was spiralling out of control. She had to do something to catch hold of it again, but there was nothing she could think of that was of any interest. Roger was seven years older--seven years senior, as her sister Maggie would say--which meant that when she was being introduced to London society at the height of the Great War, Roger was scrambling through the mud in the trenches of France. While she was flirting, laughing, and filling her dance card, he was huddling in terror with the big guns pounding into the earth day and night. She could never pretend to understand what it had been like for him, except that he often had nightmares, and seldom slept more than four hours a night.

Still, is that any reason for him to abandon me here?

I should've never agreed to come home in the first place. I should've stayed with him, no matter how hard he argued. He needs me.

Standing up, she walked to the French doors and pulled them open, looking out across the vast garden and rolling acres falling off into the distance. She assumed it was a sight that usually took a person's breath away—but not tonight, not now, and especially, not at this moment. Even a light mist clawing its way up from the river and moving in among the trees where it laced through the hedgerows, the dew-laden grass glistening like jewels under the moonlight--even that wasn't enough to distract her from her mood. She stared, and supposed it had been built with that very purpose in mind. As great houses went, Bedlo Manor was relatively new, built early in the Victorian Age. Her great-grandfather had made the family's first fortune in steel manufacturing, supplying the railways with endless miles of track. But he’d also been a devoted reader of the American writer, Edgar Alan Poe, and the result was a Gothic styled manor house with gables and arches, and secret passages she and her brothers explored endlessly when they were children. The house was made of imported stone from Italy, although most of it was locally sourced; wood also--huge timbers—brought in from as far away as Brazil and Malaysia, as well as North England. No expense was spared, it seemed.

I've given him a son--and now he's turning me away.

She watched a truck making its way along the country lane high up on the hill, one headlamp at an angle catching her attention, an impartial silhouette cut out against the fading light of the moon. The truck was plodding ahead at a slow pace, and she almost imagined the driver slouched over the wheel—perhaps nodding on and off after the affects of the Chumley Grove Fair—the echo of the truck's engine startling the countryside with an occasional backfire sounding like a gunshot in the darkness.

And then she saw him.

She saw a silent figure slipping out from the back of the truck, sprinting across the wide expanse of the yard. She stepped to the edge of the balcony, and then stepped back into the shadows--frightened that he might've seen her watching him. There was no mistaking it was a man. He'd hit the side wall of the West wing with an amazing leap, climbing the height of the first floor wall in little more than four moves. He was up on the second floor balcony before she even had time to gasp, leaping up to a third one above-- where hanging suspended for a moment, he began pulling himself up-- leaping to another perch where he slipped in between the fading light of the moon and the walls around him. She saw him again on the third floor, walking a narrow piece of ledge as if he was walking a country lane, then pausing to look into a narrow window before slipping something into the French doors and stepping into the house.

Her first instinct was to call out the alarm. The only telephone in the house was in Mr. Berry's office downstairs. Her only chance of getting down there was using the service stairs at the end of the hall on the third floor. Her immediate reaction was to run down the hall, avoiding the man at all costs. She told herself a dozen times her only chance was to call the Constabulary in Chumley Grove. Her best bet would've been to sound the alarm and rouse the countryside. She knew there was no use in doing any of that, because she was alone for the night--everyone was attending the Fair. She burst through the library at full stride, careful not to run into the reading table, or several of the wing-back chairs, rushing through the south side door with a bang the echoed through the house.

If that doesn't wake up the family ghosts, then nothing will, she thought frantically, wondering what she was thinking she'd do if she encountered the man. She took the large, winding, staircase up to the third floor three steps at a time; clutching the smooth mahogany railing with an iron grip as she fought to get control of herself.

I need a weapon.

She approached the door to the servant's room, and paused, telling herself it was possible he might be in it; she hesitated, looking for a weapon she might use before pushing the door open. There was an iron poker on the hearth in the next room and she snatched it up, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She took a deep breath, looking at her reflection in the mirror for a moment, asking herself what she thought she was doing. There was a door in the room, leading to the servant's staircase--not a secret passageway, but a staircase the servants used leading downstairs to the kitchen and the telephone in Mr. Berry's office.

You can do this! You have to!

She opened the door without a second thought. As soon as she entered the room, the man grabbed her. She shrieked and the iron poker fell to the floor; he kicked it aside. There was a hand around her waist pulling her away from the door and another hand clamped tight around her mouth. She kicked out furiously and bit the hand at the same time. He threw her to the floor, kicking her in the stomach and knocking the wind out of her. He was quick to roll her over, tying her hands behind her back with a length of linen as she lay gasping for breath. He sat her up and punched her lightly on the back, helping her to breathe again.

"Are you mad, bursting in here like that?" he asked, looking at his hand in the soft light coming in through the windows and staining the floor.

"I wanted to call for help," she said, struggling to get up on her knees.

"Sit down!" he said, looking up from the bite mark on his hand. It didn't hurt, but he could see the tiny indentations of her teeth in the soft flesh.

"I will not.”

“Sit down,” he said, levelling a look at her.

She sank back on her haunches.

He was dressed in black—the better to move in the shadows, she supposed. He was also wearing a black scarf tied over his head--she supposed it was supposed to be a mask of some sort--hiding his hair as well as his face. There were crudely cut holes for his eyes, and she realized he'd made it just moments before she burst through the door. He had a black canvas vest with a dozen different pockets sewn on, each one buttoned closed.

“I saw you cross the yard and climb up the wall. How'd you do that? I've never seen anyone do that before," she added, settling on her knees and looking up at him through a cascading waterfall of long, dark hair. She was unable to move her arms and suddenly realized the danger she was in and how helpless she actually was. She could feel a cool breeze coming up the servant's stairwell on her exposed flesh, and tried to shrug the dressing gown back up over her shoulders.

“It’s something I picked up over the years," he said, ignoring her as he continued searching the room.

"What? Climbing a wall in the middle of the night? I doubt it," she said.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I live here."

"No, I mean, why aren't you at the Fair with everyone else?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about? Why do you think I'm here? I knew everyone was going to be at the Fair tonight."

"How would you know that?"

"That's what I do. I've been watching these houses for the last week."

"I should have just locked the door so you couldn't get out," she said, more to herself.

"That would've been smarter than what you did," he laughed. "You could've gotten yourself killed. What are you doing barging into a room like that?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No. I said you could have been killed. It's been known to happen. A thief gets caught and kills his victim in a struggle with a gun—or gets killed himself. I know of several people who were killed breaking into houses."

"Do you have a gun?"

"No."

"Then why would you say that?"

"Why would I need a gun when I know the family and servants have all gone to the Fair? What's your excuse for not going?"

"The baby."

"What about the governess?"

"I told her to go. What are you looking for?"

"Anything I can steal. That's what I do. Remember? I'm a thief."

"You're not going to find anything in here. This is the servant's room."

"The servant's room?"

"The door leads to the kitchen. It's a stairwell. What are you going to do to me?"

"What makes you think I'm going to do anything to you?"

"You're a thief. That's what you do. Remember?"

"I suppose I’ll have to leave you trussed up, like a Sunday dinner," he said, and she could sense the smile under his mask.

“I want to be your partner,” she said quickly, matter of factly. She wondered if maybe that had been in the back of her mind and that was why she'd gone to search him out in the first place?

“What? My partner? What makes you think I want a partner? Why would I want you as a partner? I could never trust someone like you.”

“But I can help you.”

“Help me? Does it look like I need your help? I'm not the one who's tied up.”

“I'll help you find whatever you're looking for. Untie me, and I’ll take you to my parent’s room.”

“Again. Why would I trust you? In fact, what reason do you have to want to help me in the first place?”

“I’ll prove it to you."

"Prove what to me?"

"I'll do whatever you want to prove to you that I mean what I say.”

“I wish I could believe that,” he laughed.

“Believe it,” she said softly.

“There's only one thing you can do that'll convince me you’re serious.”

“Oh? Do tell,” she said, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

He turned to look at her in the soft light, considering her for the moment as he slowly undid the buttons of his fly.

"And if I do this, do we have a deal?" she asked, crawling toward him on her knees, finally looking up at him.

*

"Deal!" Artie said, stuffing himself back into his pants and doing the buttons of his fly back up.

He'd leaned over and untied her hands as soon as he realized how far she'd been willing to go. He'd wanted to feel her holding him in her hands, milking his cock and draining him. She'd had no objections to him pushing her dressing gown down, exposing her breasts and pinching her nipples before wrapping his arms around her head and pushing himself into her mouth.

After, he looked at her breasts in the soft light, the nipples teased to life by the cold air slipping in through the crack under the door. She was spitting into a small lace hankie, looking at him with a tight smile as she wiped her lips, her long dark hair covering half of her face. She sat back up on her haunches, pulling the dressing gown up and over her shoulders, before raking her hair out of her face with her fingers and stuffing the hankie in the pocket of her dressing gown.

"That was...different," he said with a laugh.

"I want you to know that I won't copulate with you—not yet—but I won't object to fellating you, if that's what I have to do to convince you I meant what I said. I want to be your partner."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, sitting on a small pile of laundry, looking around the room. It wasn't a large room. There was a just enough room for a laundry chute and dumbwaiter. There was a pile of dirty dishes and soiled linen, an ironing board, and a laundry table for folding clothes. There was a bar lightbulb in the corner hanging from a cord.

"I'd hoped you might think we were off to a good start?" she said. "It might better persuade me as to your sincerity if you were to take off that silly rag and let me see your face."

"Why? I can assure you, you do not know me."

“Then what do you have to hide? You asked me to prove that I’d be willing to go as far as I did to be your partner—and I did. The least you could do is return the trust."

He nodded, pulling the mask off.

"Do you have a cigarette?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Look, I'm willing to work with you as one of my partners—”

“One of them?”

“But it seems obvious to me that you have issues—"

"Issues?" she laughed, crawling into the shadows and sitting with her back against the wall, looking up at him. She pulled the dressing gown tight, wrapping her arms around herself. "My husband's not here tonight. Do you want to know why?"

“Is he a part of the issue, or the whole issue?”

“I suppose he is, isn't he?”

“And you want to use me to get back at him?”

“Does it matter what my motives are?”

“It might help me understand you a little better.”

“He's in London--probably for the night. He didn't feel the need to telephone, or let me know he wasn't coming home, but that's probably because he has needs, like every man—like yourself—which explains why he'd rather be with his mistress, rather than his wife."

"Then the man's a fool.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

"You're a very beautiful woman…I don't even know your name.”

“Jennifer Ashcroft. Jenny.”

“Artemus Spencer. And let me say, I'd never let you out of bed if you were my wife."

"That's the problem with men though, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“You all feel that women are your possessions."

"I never said that. I never even implied that--"

"You just said that you would never let me out of your bed if I were your wife. That sounds like possession to me. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong."

"You're one of these free thinkers," he said, matter of factly.

"And what, pray tell, would that be?"

"Do you believe women should have the vote?"

"I thought we all ready did?"

"Only if you are over thirty. And have limited land holdings."

"You sound as if you do not agree?"

"I care little one way, or the other. The social needs of women matter little to me. I'm just a thief. I merely said that I think you're a free thinker. You certainly have no reservations when it comes to satisfying a man."

"Is that all it takes to satisfy a man?" she smiled. "I told you, I will not copulate with you. I may, in time, but not now."

"And what if I force myself on you?"

"I simply refuse to believe you would jeopardize your new partnership with a single act of carnal desire."

"Carnal desire? Is that what you people call it?"

"You people? What would you have me say, instead?"

“No. You're rightt. Carnal desire, carnal knowledge, so much better than the vulgarity of the trenches.”

“You were in the trenches? Of course you were. I mean, every able bodied man was there, weren't they?”

“I was there.”

“So was Roger. He’s haunted by horrible dreams.”

“He wouldn't be a real man if he wasn't.”

“He seldom sleeps more than four hours.”

“It’s hard to sleep when you have horrible dreams to look forward to.”

“He refuses to talk to me about it.”

“Did you expect he would?”

“I need to know what he saw there. I want to understand him.”

“And so you seduce me as a way of…what? Getting him to pay attention to you?”

“Seduce you?”

“Was I the one who suggested you should be my partner? You asked me, as I recall.”

“And you agreed.”

“Under duress.”

“Duress? Is that what you are calling it now?” she laughed.

“Look, I’m not going to say that I won't benefit from having you as a partner. You probably know the people living in the surrounding houses? Now that the war's long behind us, I’m sure they'll be having their socials, balls--costume balls--and fox hunts. You know who has what as far jewelry goes, and artwork—you know, paintings, and the like. Paintings are always a good sell. You may say, why would I not want someone like you for my partner? But if you want to do this so you can get back at your husband for him dallying with whores, or a mistress, or whatever the issue is, we may have a problem.”

“And what sort of a problem is that going to be?”

“You won't be thinking of the job at hand; you'll be thinking of your husband, and how best you can get back at him.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because it has been my experience with women like yourself, that once a man has done you a grave injustice, there is little you won't do to hurt him.”

“Women like myself?”

“Yes. Women like you who know nothing of the world around you.”

“Know nothing? I have a child, I'll have you know.”

“And that makes you a woman of the world?”

“I may not be a woman of the world when it comes to having seen the world, but believe me, having a child opens your eyes to a great many things a man like you would never understand.”

“Do you mean a thief?”

"I mean a man!"

"And what would that be that I don't understand?

“Love.”

“Love? That’s naïve. My mother is a woman—and a great woman, at that. I grew up in a house not unlike this one. She had five of us. Four boys and a daughter she doted on. I was her youngest. Believe me, love is the last thing a woman thinks of when it comes to having children.”

“Is that why you became a thief, then?”

“Is what?”

“Because you were the youngest; as such, you would inherit little.”

“I believe we were talking about yourself, and how little worldly knowledge you have.”

“I readily admit to having been sheltered for most of my life. What would you have me do?”

“Do? Tell your husband you want to see Europe. Tell him you want to see Paris, and Vienna. Berlin. Amsterdam.”

“And why would I tell him that?”

“Because he’s sure to have friends in Europe who are just as wealthy as he is.”

“My husband's not wealthy.”

“No?”

“He married me for the money my father had to offer.”

“And what is it that your father does?”

“You don't know? He owns the Great Eastern Railway.”

“And what's his name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Baron Guernsey, 3rd Earl of Aylesbury.”

“You father is the Earl of Aylesbury?”

“I thought you knew? Why else would you be here?”

“My present partners are in no position to know the names of many of the great land owners about. They know the manor houses by the names people hereabout call them.”

“Which only proves how much you need someone such as myself; issues, or no issues.”

“I prefer to have no issues.”

*

Somewhere in the distance a clock struck the hour, echoing through the emptiness of the large open hall as she opened the ornate doors and entered. Artie looked up at the full-length windows, the moonlight slipping in through etched glass work, spilling across a Turkish carpet partially covering the parquet floor and washing up against a book lined wall. There was a large piano-forte tucked into the corner of a darkened stage at the far end of the room, the ebony coloured legs almost reflecting the soft moonlight. A large harp and small chair stood next to the piano, along with a music stand. There was a violin resting on a stand in its own case. Next to the violin was a cello, and two chairs off to the side. Everything was properly covered, as if they hadn't been played for some time.

There was a settee and Artie sat down, reclining. There were two other camel-back couches and several high, wing backed chairs with two, ornate tables between them. Each of the tables had new electric lamps on them, and Artie reached over, turning one on.

The marvels of science, he told himself.

The walls were papered with tiny floral patterns. The ceiling was high, arched, with a mural that looked recently restored. A large chandelier dominated the center of the room, with a chain as thick as a man's srm, and several other lamps placed throughout the room. There was a small, recessed alcove where several bronze statues stared down at him, as well as small ornate vases and figurines.

“Music room?” he asked.

“The Music room,” she responded. “The Conservatory, as my father likes to call it. Once upon a time, it used to be the East Library.”

“Library? There’s only one wall of books. I’d say that hardly qualifies calling it a library.”

“I did say once upon a time. It was one of three.”

“You have three libraries in this house?”

“Had. My great-grandfather liked to collect books. My grandfather, not so much. He thought this room was better suited as a music room, I suppose.”

“Who plays the harp?”

“My mother.”

“Which one do you play?”

“The piano-forte. It’s whispered that Hayden once played it.”

“Of course he did. Every house has either a piano-forte or harpsicord that Hayden played. I suppose one of your brothers—or your sisters—played the violin, and the other one the cello? Either/or, it doesn’t matter which. You’d all have family gatherings on a Tuesday night, play Brahms, or Beethoven; maybe Mozart? Perhaps Hayden? Daddy and the other siblings in attendance, watching, along with aunts, uncles, and maybe grandchildren?”

“My brother played the violin; my sister the cello.”

“You don’t play anymore? How come?”

“My brother was killed in the war.”

“Sorry to hear that. I know men who died over there.”

“Where did you—”

“France,” he said quickly. “I finished up behind enemy lines.”

“You say very little about it, those of you who served,” she added softly.

“We try to forget.”

There was a strange, awkward silence that filled the room, and Artie stood up. Walking to the violin he picked it up, looking at the case closely. He opened the case and took the violin out.

"Do you play?"

"I've been known to raise a racket once in a while," he smiled, running the bow across the strings. "Needs to be tuned," he pointed out, replacing it in the case. “I'll be taking this with me."

"That's my brother's."

"It's also a Stradvarius. I was sent here to steal it."

"Someone wants it?"

"Bad enough that he'll kill me if I don't bring it to him. Now, as my new partner, shouldn't you be directing me to the safe?” he said, turning to look at her.

“What safe?”

“You said your father owns the Great Eastern Railway? He’s bound to have something locked up in a safe somewhere. Naturally, I'll want to see what’s in it.”

“Naturally, but I know nothing about a safe.”

“Your father has an office, I imagine? We could start there?”

“I thought you’d want my mother’s jewels, or money? That sort of thing. Not my brother's violin, or my father's safe.”

“All in good time, Jenny,” he smiled, looking at the pocket watch he kept in one of the buttoned pouches of his vest. It was shortly after ten. If anyone was returning from the Fair, it would be the servants. They’ll have to prepare breakfast for the morning and can’t afford to stay out late. Time would be a factor, and he hated the idea of leaving empty-handed.

“Fine. Yes,” he said, putting the watch away. “Take me to your mother’s room then.”

They walked through a wide hall lined with floor to ceiling windows and paintings. He thought he recognized a few different styles, but knew they’d be the generic, Salon-type paintings commissioned during some period, or movement of the last century. Purchased in either London or Paris was his guess. There were Classically styled portraits, and Neo-Classic scenes of mythology, with rosy-cheeked cherubs and naked nymphs--no Satyrs, thankfully. There was nothing he’d consider contemporary. He supposed some of the paintings might be worth something, but he didn’t have enough time to discern what was valuable or not. Besides, he couldn't let himself get distracted.

It's funny how things just fall into place sometimes.

“You have a lot of paintings, here,” he said.

“My great-grandfather wanted to fill the walls—or that’s one of the stories they tell. He bought everything he could get his hands on, without regard as to who the artist was.”

“You mean you don’t know what you have here?”

“Me? I don’t even look at them. My brother adored them. He was going to be an artist. He even studied in Paris before the war.”

“Maybe you should ask about the paintings? Show some interest in them. I know a dealer in London who might be interested in one or two of these.”

“Here,” she said, stopping outside of a room and opening the door. She leaned against the wall and waited.

“Here? What do you mean: ‘Here’? What’s in here?”

“My brother’s wife stays here. Agatha.”

“The brother who died in the war?”

“I had two brothers, and two sisters; now we're down to one brother, but three sisters.”

“So what’s in here you want me to take?”

“She has jewels. She likes to show them off. We hate her.”

“And so you want me to take them?”

“Can you think of a better way to hurt her?”

“Quite the family,” he smiled, stepping through the open door.

“And you liked yours?” she quipped.

“What was not to like about them?”

She was silent for a moment, watching as he slid on his leather gloves, fixating on the studded ridges along the knuckles; the palms were re-enforced leather--but not thick enough she thought, remembering the bite she gave him. He took a small torch out of one of the pouches of his vest and looked at it before pushing the switch.

“That's awful small for a torch,” she said, stepping forward to take a closer look.

“I had it made,” he said with a trace of pride. “I’ve had all my equipment made.”

“Why do you have those nobs on your gloves?”

“My gloves?” He turned them over and looked at the knuckles. “Once in a while, you have to break a window; the old ones can be quite thick. And they can pinch you by the fingerprints you leave behind. I try not to leave them behind.”

“How do they do that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a Constable. I’m sure they have experts, though. I’ll bet you they have people who study that sort of thing.”

“Tell me about your family,” she went on.

“You do jump about, don't you?” He was methodically waving the light around the room, searching for the dresser, the light reflecting in the mirror.

She reached out and turned the light switch on.

“Welcome to the twentieth century,” she giggled.

Artie shook his head slowly. It would’ve been better leaving the room in darkness, in case one of the servants coming down the road saw the light and thought it looked out of place. Well, she could say she'd been snooping through the rooms, he thought. She could confess to snooping in the rooms and no one would know different. But how would he be able to take any jewelry and not implicate her?

And then he found the jewelry box and every reasonable excuse was forgotten. It was locked.

“Do you know where she keeps the key?”

“No idea.”

“As my partner, it's up to you to find these things out.”

“Me?”

“What’s the point in having a partner, if not for that?” He reached inside his vest, pulling a knife out of a sheath he had strapped under his armpit.

“Does that mean you’ll show me how to climb walls?”

“I doubt it,” he smiled, jamming the knife into the jewelry box and prying it open.

“Jack pot,” he said, pouring the contents of the box into a cloth bag he took out of another pocket, only pausing long enough to open it. He did a quick search through three different dressers, where he found a small purse stuffed full of bills, more jewelry, and a lace kerchief filled with old coins.

He took it all.

“You don’t seem to care if you leave a mess,” she pointed out.

“I want her to know I was here. I want her to be afraid. It's better if she thinks I might come back. The more she feels violated with me being here, the more she’ll be afraid of me—or the idea of me.”

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?"

"Most people are afraid of their own shadows. That's what the War taught me. It doesn't take much."

"So why won't you teach me to climb walls?”

“Have you ever climbed before? When’s the last time you climbed a tree?”

“Thirteen years ago. I was ten.”

“And you know that for a fact?”

“I fell and had a nasty break. You don’t forget that sort of thing.”

“You fall from this height, it'll kill you.”

“I’m not afraid of heights. Watch.”

Jenny pulled a chair over toward the fireplace, pushing it up against the wall. Standing on the chair, she shook off her dressing gown, the hankie falling out of her pocket, and tied her negligee so that the hem ended well above her knees. She pushed three small ornaments off the mantle before climbing up and walking the length of it, kicking knick-knacks to the floor as she stepped, laughing when they smashed and skidded across the floor.

Artie looked at her reflection in the large Baroque mirror, admiring her beauty, thinking even if she didn’t make a good partner, she’d make a nice distraction. He looked at the length of her thigh, noting how she was naked under the negligee, and saw the swell of her breasts and erect nipples, telling himself she was probably excited by her singular act of defiance.

He walked to the doorway and hit the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

“Why would you do tha?”

“Two reasons. You have to do it in the dark, and if someone comes back from the Fair, they might see the lights on and wonder who’s in here.”

Suddenly there was a splash of headlights in the room and Jenny froze, looking out of the window and seeing an automobile in the drive outside.

“Someone’s here,” she said in near panic.

Artie walked to the window and looked down. The automobile was around the other side of the wall, out of sight. He walked back to the mantle and held a hand up to her. She reached out and jumped down on the chair, picking up her dressing gown and putting it back on. She ran to the window, looking down.

“Did you see who it was?” she asked.

“No.”

“I have to get back to my room. Whoever it is, will naturally think I’m sleeping. I cannot let them find me wandering the halls.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Why?”

“I need to know which one is your room. I would hardly think it any wiser for me to wander through the halls looking for you.”

“Hurry then.”