Chapter Four
Georgiana
In the weeks since she’d first arrived at the manor, Georgiana had one thing to say about James Ashford.
He didn’t waste any time. Clearly, he was a man of action.
He knew what he wanted and was determined to make it all happen, sooner rather than later.
Although he made her nervous, what with the intense way he looked at her and his clear desire for speed and efficiency, she could see already that they made a good team.
She, too, was decisive by nature. If she was correct in assuming so, she thought James had come to respect her after seeing her extensive project plan and all the components laid out in a precise manner.
She’d been surprised to see him working physically as hard as any of the men and boys they hired.
Today, when she and Cecily had arrived, he was dressed in a rough cotton work shirt and a pair of wool trousers. He had the shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbow and his neck was bare of a cravat. The sight of his muscular arms and strong neck had made her stomach feel strange and her legs wobbly.
This was most certainly not good.
She’d not allowed herself to be attracted to any man while she was married.
It was silly, given that her husband hadn’t felt the need to keep his desires at bay.
Still, there was a part of her that respected her marriage vows, even if they were never to be man and wife in the usual ways.
After his death, she’d been too busy trying to figure out how they were going to stay off the streets to worry much about womanly yearnings.
Thus, she had been quite unprepared for the storm of desire that raged within her at the mere glimpse of James Ashford.
Despite all that, it was only late January and already the project was underway. Ben Thatcher had come straightaway after she’d written asking if he was available to help her with such a large project.
Georgiana had worked with Ben on many of Robert’s jobs.
She knew him to be competent and trustworthy, although slightly intimidating.
He was a large man, broad through the chest and shoulders, with a thatch of dark blond hair that never quite laid flat and low, booming voice that had scared more than one of his workers over the years.
James had offered his father’s former study for their temporary office space. When they arrived that morning, they found that James had cleared and scrubbed the desk and had a chimney sweep out to clear debris out of the fireplace so they could have heat while they worked.
She and Cecily were leaning over her blueprint of the manor when Ben arrived. He and his men had spent most of the day in what would be James’s bedchambers.
“Mrs. Fairfax, I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?” Ben grinned, stopping in front of the desk.
“Bad please,” Georgiana said.
“I found a family of mice living in the old wardrobe. They have been relocated.”
“By relocated, do you mean you’ve killed them?” Cecily asked, lower lip trembling.
Her sister never met an animal she didn’t love.
“No, Miss Cecily. I managed to get them into a crate and took them out to the stables where they will be safe and dry,” Ben said.
Georgiana wasn’t sure he was telling the truth but Cecily seemed placated.
“And the good news?” Georgiana asked.
“We are ready for his lordship to pick new wallpaper and paint. My woodworker has sanded down some of the furniture and will begin staining tomorrow. If we keep going at this rate, Lord Ashford will have a bedchamber in less than a week’s time.”
“I’ll meet with him straightaway,” Georgiana said. “We have samples and ideas for him.”
“Excellent. The boys and I are going to call it a day. Looks like it’s going to rain and I want to get back into the village before it grows dark.”
“That’s fine.”
“We’ll be back bright and early tomorrow,” Ben said.
He and his workers headed out just as a bolt of lightning lit up the sky.
Georgiana hoped the rain would hold long enough for her to meet with James about his bedchamber choices before she and Cecily headed back to the inn but at this rate it seemed unlikely.
James had provided them the use of his horses and carriage, hiring a young man from the village to drive them back and forth, but carriages were no match for muddy roads this time of year.
“I’m going down to speak with Lord Ashford before we head back to the inn,” Georgiana said to Cecily. “I’d like him to choose paint and wallpaper tonight so that I can order them in the morning.”
Cecily glanced up from their master ledger, nodding distractedly. Her little sister loved numbers and accounting. Thank goodness, because Georgiana didn’t care for that type of task. Nor was she good at it.
Georgiana ventured down the worn stone steps to the manor’s kitchen, portfolio clutched against her chest and a nervous flutter in her stomach.
She hoped Lord Ashford would like at least one of the choices she planned to propose for his bedchambers.
His quarters must be just right for the lord of the manor and she didn’t feel as if she had his aesthetic fully figured out as of yet.
What she found at the bottom of the stairs stopped her momentarily. They’d drastically improved the kitchen since this morning. In fact, she believed it would be ready for the cook when she arrived tomorrow.
Stone-flagged floors had been scrubbed to a honey color. The massive hearth dominated the far wall, its blackened stones now revealed as warm russet where the village boys had scraped away years of accumulated soot. A small fire crackled there now, warming the air and scenting it with woodsmoke.
Copper pots hung from the overhead beam, most showing fresh polish though some still bore tarnish too stubborn for a single day’s attention.
The deep sink beneath one window remained stained by a hundred years of use, but the brass tap gleamed with unexpected warmth.
A stack of wooden spoons and paddles dripped onto a cloth nearby, their grain raised by recent washing.
The enormous oak worktable anchoring the center of the room showed the honorable scars of a century of chopping, kneading, and rolling. Its surface had been scrubbed to a clean paleness that spoke of lemon and sand and considerable muscle.
In the midst of this transformation stood James, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms glistening with perspiration as he worked at a stubborn hinge from one of the pantry doors.
He looked up at her footsteps, a streak of grime across one cheekbone, making him look more like a blacksmith than a lord. Regardless, he was beautiful.
“Mrs. Fairfax, is everything all right?” He straightened, though not apologizing for his disheveled state.
“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”
He smiled, his expression soft. “You have a worried look in your eyes.”
“Ah, yes. I mean, no, nothing’s wrong. I’m amazed by how much you’ve accomplished. I’d not expected you to do any of the work yourself.”
“For now, I remain more of a tavern owner than lord, Mrs. Fairfax. Until the manor is restored, I fear I will be unable to show much improvement.”
“None is necessary, my lord.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You’re too kind. But I fear society would not agree.’
“I have some proposals for your bedchambers, my lord,” she said, stepping fully into the kitchen. “If you’ve a moment.”
He gave the hinge a final twist before setting it aside. “I can hardly wait.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do. Very much so. I care deeply about every inch of this house. It’s a way to honor my father.”
Her eyes pricked with sudden emotion. “This is a home. One that will hold happy times again.”
He nodded and for a second their gazes locked and an understanding passed between them. She’d felt it with him several times since they’d met. A kinship of sensibilities, perhaps?
“Shall we gather at the table?”
“Yes, please.” He set aside his tool and joined her at the table that surely had fed countless staff over the decades. Not the last one, sadly. But the one to come, surely.
A faint scent of lye and soap lingered in the air, almost but not quite masking the deeper notes of old woodsmoke and herbs that had permeated the walls over decades.
The kitchen range nearby, a massive iron affair with multiple ovens and hotplates, had been blackened with stove polish, though rust still peeked through in places where the neglect had bitten too deeply to remedy in a single day’s work.
“I find myself unsure if you’ll like any of them now that I’m here to show you what I’ve gathered.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” James asked. “If I don’t like them, then we’ll try again.”
“My husband used to tell me something similar when I was fretting about this or that.”
“He sounds like a wise man.”
“He was. And he certainly didn’t suffer from any feelings of insecurity when it came to his work.”
“You must borrow some of his confidence. Just as I will have to learn to be a gentleman.”
From somewhere in the depths of the kitchen came the scrape of a boot on stone as one of the village boys continued his work in the scullery or cellars below.
Three doors led off from the main kitchen.
The first revealed what must be the pantry, its wooden shelves visible through the partially open door and mostly barren save for a few lonely jars and sacks.
The second door presumably connected to the scullery, where faint sounds of clattering dishes and running water could be heard.
The third and narrowest door, with its weathered handle and ancient hinges, likely concealed a steep staircase winding down to the damp cellars beneath the house.
Georgiana set her portfolio on one end of the table. “All right, then. Here’s what I have.” She opened the portfolio to reveal her selections. “These are the options I believe would suit the east-facing master chambers.”