Chapter Nine Morning #3
The cottages nearest the failed wall were still empty, though the danger had eased. Mary Beth and Ambrose inspected them before dusk with the steward trailing far enough behind to preserve the appearance of business.
The first cottage had a cracked pantry wall caused by the ground movement. The second needed a chimney joint repointed. Neither defect was dramatic, which was precisely why Mary Beth insisted on repairing both before the families returned.
“They would move back tomorrow if you allowed it,” Ambrose said.
“Of course they would. Their furniture is here.”
“You could also reasonably say the houses are safe enough.”
Mary Beth crouched beside the pantry crack and pressed one gloved finger to the plaster.
“Safe enough is a phrase owners use when they do not sleep in the building.”
Ambrose was quiet.
She glanced at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are terrible at nothing.”
“I was remembering the first day I arrived.”
“When you assumed I could not read an estate plan?”
“I did not assume that.”
“You nearly asked to speak to the man in charge.”
“I have apologized.”
“Not enough.”
“How many years will this sentence last?”
“I have not yet decided.”
He smiled, then ran his hand over the cracked plaster.
“Two days for this. Three if the chimney is worse than it appears. Then I would let them back.”
“Good.”
“You already knew what I would say.”
“I hoped.”
They stepped outside. Evening light had broken beneath the clouds, turning the wet grass almost gold. The steward had gone ahead toward the lane. For perhaps thirty seconds, Mary Beth and Ambrose were alone between the empty cottages and the slope.
Ambrose touched two fingers to the back of her hand.
Nothing more.
The gesture was almost invisible.
Mary Beth felt it everywhere.
Then voices carried from the worksite and they separated before anyone rounded the bend.
Secrecy, she was learning, did not always make desire smaller. Sometimes it compressed it until the slightest touch contained an entire night.
* * *
That evening they ate privately in the morning room.
It had not been planned as an intimate dinner. Rain delayed the crew’s return to the village, Ambrose remained at Blackthorn to review measurements, and Mary Beth told the kitchen to send enough food for two.
The result was roast chicken, potatoes, a dish of peas, and a bottle of claret that Ambrose regarded with suspicion.
“What?” Mary Beth asked.
“Nothing.”
“You are judging my wine.”
“I am calculating what it costs.”
“That is judging with arithmetic.”
“I grew up in a house where wine entered only when someone married or died. Sometimes both seemed equally expensive.”
Mary Beth poured his glass herself.
“Then tonight you may regard it as an engineering expense.”
“What am I engineering?”
“My patience.”
“A difficult site. Poor drainage. Unstable foundation.”
She threw a pea at him.
It struck his waistcoat and fell to the carpet.
They both stared at it.
Ambrose set down his fork.
“Mrs. Blackthorn.”
“Mr. Tavener.”
“You have assaulted a contractor at dinner.”
“There were witnesses to your provocation.”
“There are no witnesses at all.”
The truth settled differently than the joke.
No servant remained in the room. The door was closed. Rain touched the windows softly enough to make the rest of Blackthorn feel distant.
Mary Beth reached across the table and took his hand.
Ambrose’s fingers closed around hers.
For once, neither of them made the moment clever.
“I like this,” she said.
“The chicken?”
She gave him a warning glance.
“This. You here. Dinner. Work. The ridiculous arguments.”
Ambrose rubbed his thumb across her knuckles.
“So do I.”
“That is inconvenient.”
“Most good construction is.”
She smiled and let him see it.
“Do you ever stop being an engineer?”
“I did last night for approximately forty minutes.”
Heat moved through her before she could prevent it.
“Forty?”
“I was not timing it.”
“You just gave me a number.”
“An estimate.”
“Dangerous profession.”
Ambrose rose and came around the table.
Mary Beth tilted her face up toward him.
His kiss was brief at first.
Then less brief.
She caught his coat and pulled him closer.
The rain continued beyond the windows. Somewhere deeper in the house a door closed.
Ambrose drew back first.
“Your staff believes we are discussing drainage.”
“We are.”
“Are we?”
“You keep interrupting.”
He laughed against her mouth.
His laughter broke softly against her mouth, and the kiss became warmer for it.
* * *
Later, when Ambrose had gone upstairs by the respectable route and Mary Beth remained alone in the morning room, she found the pea beneath the table.
She picked it up and began laughing again.
There was no audience to scandalize, no rival to provoke, and no man left in the room to impress. She simply felt absurdly, unexpectedly well.
Blackthorn had spent years as the place where Mary Beth defended the life she had chosen. That evening she found, almost belatedly, that she had gone hours without preparing a defense for anyone.
She carried the ridiculous pea to the sideboard, dropped it beside her empty glass, and went upstairs still smiling.