Chapter Ten
The papers before Gabriel blurred. He dragged his gaze back to the ledger, forcing his eyes to the columns he had already tallied twice over without comprehension.
He knew the figures well enough, but none of it lodged in his mind.
The ink might as well have been smudged water for all the sense it made. Frustrated, he set down his quill.
Outside the study windows, the day had unfolded into a cool, pale morning, soft with the hush that came after rain.
From this vantage, the gardens stretched in green disarray, hemmed by the neglected structures she now labored to reclaim.
He could not see her from here, but he knew where she was.
She would be somewhere near the far wall, where the glass houses slumbered beneath vines and moss, half-buried reminders of Mountwood’s more industrious past.
Genevieve…
He leaned back in his chair, abandoning the ledgers entirely.
He had watched her from his study the previous morning, her figure barely discernible as she moved through the overgrowth with that deliberate manner of hers.
She did not flinch at ruin, nor avert her eyes from work most women of her station would have called unseemly.
No simpering discomfort, no dainty protests.
Only quiet determination, sleeves rolled with purpose, skirts pinned just enough to avoid the thorns.
It was not merely the restoration that stirred his thoughts.
It was her manner of doing it. She was methodical and practical, guided not by sentiment but sober assessment.
It was as if, in those broken walls and rusted hinges, she had seen something worth recovering.
As if she had not entered this house as a stranger.
Her presence unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
It was not her beauty, though she certainly possessed it.
It was not even her intelligence, which had long since become apparent.
It was the growing certainty that she belonged here, not as interloper nor ornament, but as steward. As a partner. As my wife.
He reached for the topmost letter in the stack beside him, eager for distraction. The hand belonged to Mr. Ellison of London, a discreet agent and correspondent of longstanding reliability. Gabriel broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Mount Street, Mayfair
May 3rd
Sir,
As instructed, I have made inquiries regarding the gentleman in question.
I regret to inform you that Mr. Charles Weatherby has indeed returned to London.
His presence has been confirmed by three reliable sources, including Mr. Lenham of Gresham House and a footman at the Rothermere residence.
Mr. Weatherby appears to be moving within familiar circles, though not yet seeking public reconciliation.
He has spoken of matters involving your name.
These accounts are couched in language that skirts slander, yet suggest impropriety in your past dealings at Mercer’s Wharf.
I shall continue to monitor developments. It may be prudent to consider a preemptive address, should his innuendo reach less discreet ears.
Your most obedient servant,
T. Ellison
Gabriel’s jaw clenched as he folded the page with measured precision. He placed it atop the others, unmoving.
So, it is true, he thought with a tremor. Weatherby has returned.
The man had vanished after their quarrel nearly five years prior, retreating from the disgrace brought about by his embezzlement disguised as careless mismanagement, an accounting discrepancy that might have ruined them both had Gabriel not severed ties at once.
That it was he who had emerged from the debacle with his reputation intact still seemed to gall Charles.
There had been threats in the beginning.
And now, whispers in Mayfair. He ought to have anticipated this.
He cursed himself for not having prepared for such an obvious reaction.
A gentle knock at the study door drew him from his brooding. It opened a moment later without waiting for a reply.
“Gabriel,” Sophia said, smiling sweetly. His sister entered, bearing a silver tray and her usual disregard for boundaries. Sophia’s fair curls had been tamed into a modest chignon, and her expression was far too composed for mere civility. “I brought tea. And conversation.”
Gabriel glanced toward the door pointedly.
“I have neither appetite nor time for either,” he said.
Sophia shrugged in her carefree manner.
“That has never prevented me before,” she said as she set the tray on a low table and seated herself opposite him. “Besides, you have been impossible to catch of late. I thought matrimony would make you more sociable, not less.”
He gave her a withering look, which she ignored entirely.
“I passed Genevieve near the glass houses,” she continued, unperturbed. “Mud on her hem. Leaves in her hair. She was scribbling in a little book as though the fate of the nation depended upon it. I must say, I had not expected her to take such a thorough interest in brambles.”
Gabriel said nothing, though the sensation of Genevieve belonging in his home grew stronger. She was as dedicated to the cause as she had portrayed, after all. Despite the passion with which she spoke, he found himself surprised by the notion.
Sophia poured the tea and passed him a cup he did not want.
“You admire her,” she said softly.
His brow tightened.
“She has been of use,” he said, stiffening. “That is all.”
Sophia looked at him with potent disbelief.
“You are a poor liar,” she said. “As you always have been.”
He set the untouched tea aside.
“This is not a topic I am inclined to entertain,” he said.
Sophia tilted her head and gave it a firm nod.
“That,” she said, “is precisely why it must be pursued. Gabriel, do not tell me you mean to spend the rest of your days hiding behind contracts and convenience while pretending this woman does not affect you.”
He stood, not roughly, but with unmistakable finality.
“I appreciate your concern,” he said. “However, I do not require it.”
Sophia rose as well, her expression unflinching.
“She is no longer merely your obligation, if that is what you believe,” she said firmly.
Before he could answer, the door opened once more.
“Gabriel,” James said as he entered, his face unusually drawn as he gave a pointed sidelong glance to Sophia. “Pardon the interruption.”
Gabriel seized the moment.
“That will be all, Sophia,” he said.
She looked between them, her curiosity palpable, but wisely said nothing further. With a crisp nod, she withdrew, the door closing behind her.
Gabriel turned to James.
“What is it?” he asked, pushing his own troubling news aside for the moment.
“He is, indeed, back,” James said. “Not just in England, but in London. And he is speaking your name.”
Gabriel gave no outward sign of anger, though the silence in the room seemed to thicken.
“I just read as much from a correspondent,” he said. “To whom is he speaking?”
James shook his head, looking as bewildered as he was frustrated.
“Investors,” he said. “And also shopkeepers, as well as a few of the men from Mercer’s.”
Gabriel’s gaze darkened.
“Does he accuse me outright?” he asked.
James shook his head.
“No,” he said. “But he lays the foundation. Enough to make trouble if left unchecked.”
Gabriel moved behind his desk, not to sit, but to steady himself with one hand braced against its edge.
“I thought him dealt with,” he said quietly.
James shook his head.
“So did I,” he said.
***
By Thursday morning, the estate had taken on the air of quiet upheaval.
Gabriel crossed the rear terrace just after sunrise, intending only a cursory walk before returning to the accounts James had laid before him the previous night.
Yet his steps, almost by habit now, drew him toward the southern wall.
Dew clung to the hem of his trousers, the path still overgrown in places, though far less so than it had been a fortnight earlier.
The transformation had not occurred by accident. Genevieve was already at work.
She stood with her back to him, sleeves rolled to the elbow, bonnet discarded beside a weathered bench.
A rusted hinge protested as she opened the side panel of one of the smaller houses, but she paid it no mind.
Her journal lay open atop a crate, a pencil tucked behind one ear.
Several panes had been cleared of moss; others bore chalk marks, cryptic only to those unfamiliar with her method.
He lingered a moment longer, then cleared his throat as he approached. She turned, squinting into the morning light.
“You are up early,” she said.
Gabriel smirked, glancing at her saturated skirt hem and sweat-dampened skin
“I might say the same,” he said.
His wife blushed.
“I find it easier to work before the sun rises too high,” she said. “The warmth trapped inside makes it nearly unbearable by midday.”
Gabriel studied the structure before them, its ribs still half-choked with vines.
“It is not a small undertaking,” he said thoughtfully.
“No,” she said, glancing toward the exposed frame. “But I believe it is a worthy one.”
He stepped closer, picking up her open journal without asking for permission. The pages bore delicate pencil sketches beside notations in a hand as precise as it was firm.
“You have itemized the repairs,” he said with more awe for his wife’s intellect and meticulousness.
Genevieve nodded with a pleased smile.
“I have,” she said as she pointed her fingers in opposite directions. “Support timbers here, and replacement panes there, if a glazier may be found with sufficient skill. These portions, I believe, can be preserved, though they require careful treatment.”
Gabriel’s eyes widened. No woman in the ton who spoke of such things would be deemed a proper lady. Yet he was utterly fascinated by the knowledge and passion she continued to exhibit for her unconventional interests.