Chapter Ten #2
“You sound more like an architect than a lady of leisure,” he said.
His wife looked at him warily, though not coldly.
“I was not raised for leisure, as you are already aware of,” she said as she met his eyes. “And I have no patience for ornamental tasks that serve no function.”
He nodded, glancing around at the progress that had already been made.
“That is plain enough,” he said without any censure. He closed the book gently. “May I assist you in any way?”
There was a long pause as she tried to assess if he was mocking her.
“If you are offering in earnest, yes,” she said, seeming thoroughly surprised. “There is a section of rotting beam that requires reinforcement before the men return this afternoon. I had hoped to brace it temporarily.”
Gabriel removed his coat and set it aside on the bench.
“Show me,” he said.
They worked together in easy silence, interrupted only by the occasional murmur of instruction.
She spoke with clarity, neither yielding nor unkind, and he felt perfectly comfortable, despite his current troubles.
By the time they stepped back from the repaired frame, the sun had risen fully, gilding the high branches above.
Genevieve wiped her hands with a cloth tucked into her apron.
“I had not expected you to offer assistance,” she said, not quite looking at him.
Gabriel’s expression melted, and he grinned.
“I had not expected to remain,” he said. “Yet here we are.”
Something in her expression softened.
“Yes, indeed,” she said, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that could have been from the sun or from the bashful smile on her face. “Here we are.”
The following days continued much the same.
By Saturday, the outer structure of the largest house had been partially stripped and measured for new support beams. Laborers had been engaged under James’s supervision, but it was Genevieve who directed their placement.
By Sunday, their conversations grew lengthier, shaded with shared knowledge rather than formality.
Still, he never once addressed the change between them. Nor did she.
***
The journals rested in neat stacks beside her, their leather bindings worn smooth in places by frequent use.
Genevieve sat at the worktable near the smaller glass house, the late afternoon light filtering through clean panes above her head.
Gabriel approached without ceremony, his coat draped over one arm, sleeves rolled above the wrist in quiet defiance of propriety.
“I trust you have found them useful,” he said, his tone less guarded than usual.
She turned a page slowly, careful not to smudge the delicate graphite lines.
“More than useful,” she said. “Your mother’s hand was as fine as any professional draughtsman’s. Her notes are exacting, yet never clinical. There is warmth in her method, like reverence.”
He did not respond at once. Instead, he took the seat beside her, allowing his gaze to settle on the open page between them. A rendering of Epimedium alpinum faced a brief essay on soil acidity and shaded environments. His mother had even noted the changing behavior of pollinators across seasons.
“She used to bring me here in the days of my youth,” he said quietly. “My father called it idle indulgence. She called it instruction.”
Genevieve glanced at him sidelong.
“Did she succeed?” she asked.
He smiled, though the expression did not reach his eyes.
“I learned to observe, if nothing else,” he said. “She insisted there was dignity in patient attention.”
Genevieve turned another page.
“Then you absorbed more than you admit,” she said, gently teasing.
Gabriel scoffed gently, but not without affection.
“I doubt she would say so,” he said, his voice thinning as he added, “She died before I could prove otherwise.”
A silence followed, not uncomfortable, but full. Genevieve traced a line of script beneath a drawing of wild campion.
“She had talent,” she said. “This could have been published.”
Gabriel shook his head.
“She never pursued recognition,” he said. “She preferred to work quietly, away from scrutiny. I have often thought—“ He stopped, then shook his head. “No matter.”
Genevieve stepped toward him with an encouraging expression.
“Pray, there is no cause for concern,” she said. “I am willing to hear what you wish to say.”
Gabriel took a visible breath before he sighed.
“I have often thought she might have been happier had she been permitted ambition,” he said.
Their shoulders now touched, the space between them narrowed not by intention but shared focus.
Genevieve held still, aware of the solid presence beside her, of the subtle scent of sandalwood and linen, of the warmth that radiated from him in steady measure.
The page before them displayed a rare alpine variety she had only seen once, long ago in her aunt’s garden.
Her fingers moved toward the edge to examine the details and met his.
His hand stilled beneath hers, neither withdrawn nor assertive.
The stillness became something else entirely.
She did not move. Nor did he. Then, Gabriel cleared his throat, and the moment fractured like thin glass.
He turned the page slowly, his fingers just a degree less certain. The next illustration of a fuchsia specimen from South America, labeled in graceful Latin, came into view, and Genevieve gasped softly.
“This ought to be preserved properly,” she said. “There is mildew on some of the bindings.”
Gabriel’s expression brightened. It was another thing he could do to encourage his wife’s pursuits, which was suddenly almost as important to him as his own.
“I can arrange for their protection,” he said, though his tone remained subdued. “Or you may continue to review them as you see fit.”
Genevieve smiled and nodded.
“I should like that,” she said. “But I will tell you if I do not think that they will thrive without a little more assistance.”
He nodded and rose. She remained seated, fingers still curled against the edge of the journal. He did not touch her again. Nor did he speak of it. Yet something had altered between them, and it did not feel altogether uncomfortable. Was Gabriel truly interested in supporting her endeavors?