Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Southampton
Julian stood at the office window overlooking the loft floor with Sam Worthing while Adam Turner concluded his report on the state of St. Clair Shipwrights’ accounts.
“It appears the man who you previously employed as your bookkeeper did an admirable job,” Turner said. “In fact, his accounts are in perfect order.”
Julian had wished for an honest accounting when he had recruited Turner, sure that if he knew his wife had kept his books, his report would be biased in fear of offending his husbandly feelings. So Julian had concealed the fact.
“’Tis a shame, sir,” Turner said, “that you lost him to a competitor. Though I am quite pleased to have my position, you understand.”
Lost him. Indeed, Julian had. It was the price to be paid for trust. For sanity. For the respect of others as well as his own. And he wasn’t lonely, he reminded himself when he awoke each morning and returned to the lodge each evening. He was merely alone.
Beside him, Sam shifted on his feet, a habit Julian had pegged years ago as a tell of irritation. Sam didn’t much like Adam Turner, who had just recommended cutting Kitty’s calculated Christmas reward by half.
“They will be grateful to have any reward,” Turner said.
“True,” Julian said, holding firm, “but we will pay the amounts already determined.”
Sam nodded with a squint at Turner. But his foreman’s victory was short-lived when Julian’s new accountant wholly dismissed the idea of providing the men a percentage, saying,
“If I may,” Adam Turner said and finished when Julian waved him on, “It really is not done, sir.”
“And where would we be,” Sam said, “if a man never did a thing that ain’t been done?”
Turner blinked, regarding Sam in the condescending manner of one with considerably more knowledge on the subject. “Mr. Worthing, with Mr. St. Clair’s approval, I may allot time in the future to explain to you the absurdity of the scheme.”
Sam stepped toward Turner. “And if you knew bullocks from a bull’s foot, you’d know men buy into the building of smuggling boats from Cornwall to Dover and get percents of the haul. So it has been done.”
“Mr. Worthing,” Turner said, “you are not buying into anything. You wish to be given it.”
“We work for it.”
“And you are paid wages accordingly.”
“Then any man who likes can buy in with his Christmas reward. See there, I’ve done yer job for you.”
Turner puffed up. Sam leaned in.
Julian calmly pledged to consider both sides. “Thank you, Turner. You may leave now. Enjoy the rest of the day with your family.”
Turner on the high ropes quit the office and Julian turned back to the window.
“I don’t like ’im,” Sam grumbled.
“I had no idea.”
“He said we got too much timber. That we should be sellin’ it to other yards. That stiff-rump thinks small.”
The timber Julian had purchased in London had been stacked for optimal air flow in two outbuildings floor to ceiling and had started the lengthy process of seasoning. Time would tell if his gamble paid off. Without commissions, the wood was worth market price and the labor and storage costs wasted.
“Turner’s merely cautious,” Julian said.
“Never thought I’d bless the day I see Madame at her desk in her blacks and ink on her fingers.”
Never thought? Julian peered sideways at Sam’s backhanded compliment.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. Madame’s a good woman, only—”
“Stop while you’re ahead.”
The first day they opened the yard, Julian had sensed Sam’s resentment at Kitty’s presence.
There were the hard glances, the toadying responses.
Before departing for London, Julian had told the men that Madame would lead the yard in his absence.
Sam had seemed especially annoyed. Kitty had sensed this as well.
Julian had told her to accept it. She was a female in a man’s world.
Could he have done more to support her without cutting her authority?
Julian accompanied Sam to the loft and labored into the late afternoon feeding the strakes which were to be shaped into the hull planks into the steambox, a long brick oven which would soften the wood for shaping.
He dripped with sweat, his hair pasted to his scalp, and when someone opened the door and the wind gusted over the line of men, they all swore the blighter to hell and back and carried on.
When he returned to the lodge and dismounted from his horse, he saw the stable door slide open and his coachman, Simon Wort, approach.
“I dropped Miss Dixley at Vicar Carleton’s,” Simon said. “And yer wife at a princely home in Huntingdonshire.”
“I assume your journey was eventful based on your late return?”
“Aye. Roads were shite north of London from the rain and ice.”
Kitty had gone to Georgiana. Why had he wondered as to his wife’s destination? Because he had worried she might disappear forever.
In his room, he found Demers had already called for a bath.
“I have also taken your dog for four walks, the last at half past six, and have seen to her numerous requests for play.” Demers held up a cricket ball, his thin face serene in the absurd. “She accepts this as a suitable substitute for your hosiery and drawers.”
Demers flicked the ball under the bed and Ollie hurtled after it with a bark.
“Who’d have thought?” Julian said, straight-faced. “Good work, man.”
“Thank you, sir. It is a recent discovery. I can only hope I find more methods in which to keep her occupied.”
Julian scrubbed the sweat and grime from his tired flesh and ate dinner in his room with Ollie. He climbed into his bed alone, his arms folded under his head, and stared at the fire making shadows on the gold canopy.
Did Kitty think on him or was Georgiana assisting his wife in forgetting him? If ever there had been a side to take, his cousin never failed to position herself with Kitty.
Well past midnight, with the fire dead and the cold worming into him, he fell asleep.
He dreamed of Kitty, the sweet and steely essence of her.
And her body pressed to his, her curves beneath his palms, and her taste on his tongue.
When he awakened on Christmas Eve with a cold sun glaring through the drapery, he dragged himself from bed, gathered Ollie for a walk, and found Anthony Philips on his doorstep.