Downtime (8 page)

Henry shook his head. “Leave him in Ezra’s charge, Derry. At least in the morning.”

“In the morning?” I asked Derry. “Church?”

Derry nodded. “You’re welcome to come with us.”

My Sunday mornings were invariably spent in bed. And I had the sure feeling that church in the nineteenth century was even more arduous than in my own time. “Why don’t I meet you afterward for lunch?”

Derry lit up at that. “Ezra calls
me
a heathen.”

It was dark when we got home, but still too early for bed. Kathleen was in the parlor, knitting needles flying down the length of a brown sweater in progress. Her gaze merely flickered over me before settling on Derry with a question. I heard a soft groan escape him. The poor guy really hated lying to his sister.

I had less of a problem with it, myself. “Guess this is something of a surprise, Miss Neilan. Believe me, I was hoping to leave today. But it looks like I’ll be here until Monday. I hope that’s not a problem, ma’am.”

As the others helped themselves to the coffee and pie laid out on the table, Kathleen eyed me with her prim, polite smile. “Not at all, Mr. Nash. I would ask that you remember to dress for supper. And as I still do not have a vacant room for you, we must resolve the matter of sleeping arrangements.”

Ezra cleared his throat. “Mr. Nash will stay with me tonight.” He met my eyes with a wary glance. “That is acceptable to you?”

I shrugged. “As long as you don’t talk to ghosts in your sleep, I guess I can live with it.”

The wrong thing to say, evidently, judging by the guilty flushes on the faces around the table. Henry seemed to be choking on a piece of pie. Derry slapped him on the back as Henry gulped down a mouthful of coffee. With an inexplicably murderous glare at Derry, Henry coughed and rasped, “You will stay with me tonight, of course, Mr. Nash.”

Ah. Derry had indulged in a little boot-to-the-shin encouragement. But I was even less thrilled about spending the night with Henry. “Look, I was just joking about the ghosts. It really doesn’t matter—”

“I had a hand in bringing you here,” Henry said. “I want to be fair. If you would be so good as to knock when you come up, I would appreciate it.” He patted his mouth with a napkin and, easing out of his chair, limped out of the parlor.

Once again they’d rescued Ezra from having to share a bed with me. Though nine was a little early, I went up when the others did. Stopping briefly at Derry’s room to borrow the nightshirt again, I did as ordered and knocked at Henry’s door before coming inside. He was still awake and sitting in bed with the blankets over his legs, reading by candlelight. Just the sight made my eyes hurt. As I came in, he looked at me glumly over the glasses poised on his nose. “Mr. Nash. I hope you are not a restless sleeper.”

“I sleep like a log,” I lied cheerfully and sat down on the loveseat to take off my shoes. Henry’s room was everything I expected. Bed, desk, chair, small sofa and rocker all neat, cushions plumped and throw pillows straight, knickknacks polished and arranged in a precise line along the mantelpiece, books shelved in visually pleasing order. Even his nightshirt was buttoned to the top button and his nightcap tidily perched.

Stripping to my briefs, I tugged on my own nightshirt and sighed, glad the mirror was turned to the wall. Too wide awake to sleep, I picked up a book and scanned a few pages, to find it was some sort of text on the supernatural written in unreadably esoteric language. I noted the bookplate, with “Property of Henry Dawlish” written in pinched script, and rolled my eyes. He probably demanded an IOU before ever lending a book to anyone. “Got anything to read besides this paranormal nonsense?”

Henry eyed me with stark disapproval. “Nonsense, Mr. Nash? And what proof do you have that it’s nonsense?”

“What proof do you have that it isn’t?”

Henry returned his attention to his book with a dismissive sniff. Giving up on the idea of reading myself to dreamland, I climbed into bed. But hitting the hay before midnight on a Saturday went against years of habit. In the absence of alcohol, television, or sex, I had no alternative but to annoy Henry further. “You and Ezra, you don’t see eye to eye on much, do you.”

“Why do you ask?” he inquired absently.

“Well, I guess I was just struck by how impressed Derry and Kathleen seem to be with Ezra’s psychic ability—”

That snapped his attention back pretty quick. “Not that it is any of your business, but Ezra’s talent is not the reason I must so often take him to task. He lacks proper training in spirit communication and will go off on tangents in the midst of a séance—”

“Séance?” I choked back a laugh. “You guys hold séances?”

“I do organize the meetings and handle any donations that come our way, as Ezra will not be bothered with the practical side of things.”

“Make a lot in ‘donations’, do you?”

“That is certainly no business of yours,” Henry said, returning to his book.

“Ezra gave me the impression he didn’t take money for his services.”

“Ezra has resources others of us do not.”

“Ah. Inheritance?”

He sighed and laid a hand on the page to mark his place. “Mr. Nash, I am sorry you’re in this position, but I do not intend to turn the intimate details of my life or Ezra’s into a bedtime tale to help you sleep. You will simply have to do your best to get some rest.” He put aside the book and his specs. “We have an early morning—”

“We do?”

“Yes. You do attend church, I hope?”

He extinguished the candle and lay down, pulling the blankets to his chin. Ten minutes had hardly passed before he was snoring. I stared at the shadows flickering on the wallpaper and considered a brief sojourn to the bathroom, but that felt just a little too weird. Not that I hadn’t made use of what a friend of mine referred to as “the natural sedative” in some fairly unusual places, and granted, I could be quiet about it when I had to, but this whole situation was too damned surreal. For all I knew, I could end up arrested for that too.

Deciding to stay put, I finally drifted off, only to wake in the dead of night with a need to use the bathroom for a more conventional purpose. I made it without waking anyone—or at least so I thought. On my way back, I saw the gleam of light under Ezra’s door. Curious, I stood listening, but no sound came from within. Maybe I hadn’t wakened him. Maybe he just slept with the lights on. If I believed in ghosts, I probably would too.

Or maybe there was another reason he was awake. Maybe he had a friend he snuck in at night after everyone else had gone to bed. That would explain why he was so unwilling to let me bunk with him.

And I knew I wasn’t going back to sleep until I’d relieved my curiosity. Armed with the excuse that he’d forgotten to give me something to wear in the morning, I would crack the door open and peek inside.

“
Trouble
sleeping?” From behind me loomed Derry, candle in hand and looking like something out of
A Christmas Carol
in his nightshirt, cap, and worn slippers. “Anything I may do?”

“Just up to use the bathroom.”

“A bath?” His eyebrows lifted. “At this time of night?”

I let that one go with a grin. “You don’t take baths in the middle of the night? I guess it is kind of late….” I looked toward Ezra’s door as pointedly as possible. “Is he usually up at this hour?”

“More often than he ought to be, that’s sure. Though now and then he falls off with the light still burning.”

I followed as Derry, without knocking, opened the door.

“Is he afraid of being alone in the dark?” I whispered over his shoulder.

“Bless you, he’s not alone.”

Derry went to the window and drew the curtains. Ezra lay sound asleep on the quilt. He was still in his clothes, except for the suit coat draped over the bedpost. I scanned the rest of the room. “There’s no one else here.”

As I spoke, Derry put a finger to his lips and moved to the bedside. Ezra had been feeling the cold even in his sleep, judging by the way he huddled with his arms around the pillow. Derry eased off his shoes, but didn’t bother with the clothes. As he tugged enough of the quilt loose to cover Ezra with it, Ezra opened his eyes and squinted against the low lamplight. “Derry?”

“None other. Back to Nod with you.”

“I’m sorry about the light. Don’t tell Kath.”

“And when have I ever? She’d tar us both.” Derry brushed an affectionate hand over Ezra’s hair, murmuring a good night. A twinge of envy caught me by surprise. Ezra and Derry lived in a quieter age with fewer distractions, not to mention closer quarters. But I had friends living in the same apartment building, friends I hadn’t seen in weeks. They had busy lives, like I did. Maybe that was a lousy excuse, but it had always seemed an inescapable fact of life, at least when I was back there, living it.

Ezra had drifted off by the time Derry had covered him and doused the lamp. He motioned me out and a moment later appeared with his candle in hand.

“Do you do that every night?” I asked as he closed the door.

“When he’s needing it. Some sense seems to wake me on the proper nights.” Derry shrugged. “We all of us have trouble sleeping now and then.”

I didn’t ask when he had trouble. I had a pretty good idea. Derry offered me the candle to take back with me, but I declined. My night vision was good and a lone candle didn’t make that much of a difference. I found my way back, to discover Henry had taken subconscious advantage of my absence to roll into the middle of the bed.

Tired and chilly, I unceremoniously pushed him back to his side and crawled under the blankets. He was up and gone by the time I woke. I lay in bed a while, listening to the sounds of the house and wondering if I felt like sightseeing after all. I really wanted a hot shower and a shave. I assumed that was available, since mostly everyone in the place seemed bathed and clean-shaven. A bath would do in lieu of a shower, the relevant word being hot.

I heard footsteps in the hall and, feeling safe in assuming it was neither Kathleen nor Hannah, I opened the door. Derry, more somberly dressed than he’d been the day before, grinned at me. “You sleep nearly as late of a Sunday as Ezra,” he said cheerfully.

At least I didn’t sleep in my clothes. “What time is it?”

Derry checked his watch. “Just after eight.”

Dear God. He thought that was late? “Let me ask you,” I said as he started down the stairs. “Is there somewhere I can clean up? You know, shower and shave? Or bathe?” I wasn’t all that fond of baths, but I felt like I’d been on a six day stakeout without even a gas station sink to wash in.

He directed me down the hall and left me to figure out the bathroom on my own. It was old-fashioned, with feminine touches in the lace curtains and white lace-trimmed towels. I supposed the guys didn’t mind too much, since it was all so bright and clean. Cleaner by far than my own bathroom at home.

I searched the cabinets and found some strong-smelling soap and bath salts, but no shampoo and no razor. Filling the tub, I sank into acceptably warm water with a deep appreciation that I hadn’t gone back any further in time. Sure, I’d bathed in some pretty iffy spots before, including an impromptu bath in an ice-cold creek, but I didn’t want to make a habit of it. I lingered in the fragrant, enveloping warmth a good twenty minutes, then reluctantly got out and wrapped a towel around my waist. Catching a look at myself in the mirror over the wash stand, I winced. The soap hadn’t done my hair any good and I was in desperate need of a shave.

Somewhere in the array of drawers and cabinets, there had to be a razor or at least a comb. My diligent search was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Yeah, come in.” With any luck, it’d be someone with a comb I could borrow.

I glanced around as the door opened. Ezra, in tweedy brown pants and a crisp white shirt, came in, saw me, and stopped short so abruptly he nearly tripped over his own feet. He hastily shut the door with his back against it, no doubt to protect the ladies from the danger of accidentally viewing my half-naked form. I got a firm grip on the towel as it started to slide. “I was just getting cleaned up. You mind?”

His lips twitched, eyes alight. “Not at all.” He took in the half-opened drawers. “What is it you’re looking for?”

“I didn’t exactly get the chance to pack for this trip, if you’ll recall. Comb, razor, shampoo—”

“Of course. Give me a moment.”

He slipped back out and I waited, finding my own amusement in the way he’d been so obviously checking me out. He came back, hands full, and set the items carefully on top of the cabinet. I looked over the old-fashioned gadgets dubiously. “No electric razor?”

“Electric?”

I heard his fascination and realized I should’ve been more careful. Not that it was likely he’d go out and invent one; but the thought that I could so easily alter history bothered me. “I was just joking.” I picked up the straight razor, a gleaming piece of steel attached to a slender porcelain handle, and wondered if I could use it without disfiguring myself. I brushed the blade over my thumb. Damn, it was sharp. “This is what you use?”

“It is, yes.” A puzzled crease appeared between his brows. “How exactly does an electric razor work?”

“Better than this, I’d bet,” I said under my breath and put the blade down. “I think I’ll just wait until I’m back home.”

He’d hooked a flat leather strap from a slim bar on the cabinet. Picking up the razor, he began to strop it up and down the leather. “It’s not difficult to master. You may want a little guidance if this is your first time.”

I eyed him suspiciously, but saw no sign of intended innuendo. Still, I imagined he was capable of it if he wanted to be. “You offering to give me a shave?”

“If you would prefer Derry’s assistance or Henry’s—”

“You’re here,” I said with a shrug. “Just as long as you’re not planning to do me in with that thing.”

He met my wary gaze with a bright smile and reached around me to appropriate a wicker stool serving as a plant stand. “Take a seat, Mr. Nash.”

He ran a little water into a brown mug, stirring with the brush until the mug overflowed with creamy lather. I sat and he applied the fragrant mess to my face like an artist sweeping his brush over the canvas. He took his time, rubbing the lather into my skin, and giving me too much opportunity to think over what was coming next. As he picked up the razor, my second thoughts became third thoughts. The rugged look wasn’t really all that bad….

The blade came closer and I caught Ezra’s wrist. “Have you done this before?”

“Nearly every day—”

“No, I mean on someone else.”

“Ah.” His eyes were sparkling. “No.”

“Keep any bandages in here?”

He laughed. “Not the most trusting of souls, are you?” Wriggling out of my grasp, he tilted my head back gently with one hand. “Hold perfectly still, please.”

That was one thing he didn’t have to worry about. “Maybe if you just show me how—”

“That, I believe, is what I’m doing.”

I felt the blade glide over my skin with an expert ease that was encouraging and worrisome at the same time. Blue eyes flickered briefly to mine. “Breathe, Mr. Nash.”

He held the razor poised a few inches away while I blew out a breath. “Sorry. This is all taking some getting used to.”

“I understand.” He rinsed the blade. “I hope you did not have a difficult night with Henry. He can be—temperamental.”

“We tolerated each other well enough.” I knew it wasn’t the best moment to risk pissing the guy off, but sometimes you just have to live dangerously. “What’s he so mad at you about? It can’t be just because you’re better at the game than he is.”

“It isn’t a game,” he said quietly. “And I don’t know that I’m better at it. I think I’d prefer to be a complete failure.” He moved around me and bent close to shave under my jaw. “I do not mean to take clients from him. It’s just that….”

“Just what?”

He lowered the blade to rinse it again. “What would you do if someone asked for your help?”

“What would I do? I’d tell the client that Henry’s just as willing to help,” I said, unable to keep a sarcastic inflection out of my voice on the final word.

He let out a breath that was warm against my ear. “I didn’t say the client had asked.” He moved around behind me and cupped a hand under my chin, tilting my head back. “Have you ever considered growing a moustache?”

He was as good at changing subjects as he was at convincing people he could converse with the dead.

“I had a moustache for a few months, about six years ago,” I said. “Didn’t really like it.”

“The ladies didn’t approve?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” The feel of the sharp blade grazing my skin was mesmerizing. He hadn’t so much as nicked me yet. He slowed down along my upper lip, shaving there with small, careful strokes before proceeding to the other cheek.