Chapter Four #2
James leaned in, bracing his hands on the table’s edge. Those hands. How strong and capable they were.
She arranged five squares of wallpaper across the scarred oak surface.
“This first is a damask in Prussian blue from Ackermann’s Repository.
Very fashionable in London this season.” Her fingers moved to the next sample.
“This is a more traditional striped pattern in forest green with gold accents, which would complement the existing woodwork.”
“Hmm.” He reached for the third sample. His touch was surprisingly delicate for such work-hardened fingers. “And this one?”
“A subtle tartan-inspired design in burgundy and navy. Less ornate than what’s currently favored in Town but elegantly masculine.” She glanced up to find him watching her rather than the paper. “It would pair well with mahogany furnishings.” And you.
The fourth sample was simpler—a textured paper in a warm cognac shade. “This would create a particularly inviting atmosphere for evening. The texture absorbs candlelight beautifully.” She presented the final sample, a rich crimson-flocked damask. “What do you think?
James leaned over them, studying each one. His finger absently traced a deep knife scar on the table, one of many that told stories of countless meals prepared for generations of the Ashford family.
Georgiana slid three paint samples from the portfolio. “If none of these appeal, we might consider a painted finish instead. A deep green-blue for elegance, this warm gold for brightness, or this terracotta for warmth.”
James straightened suddenly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, leaving it standing at odd angles. “You favor the burgundy.”
Georgiana blinked. “I… yes. How did you know?”
“Your voice softened when describing it.” His eyes met hers, unexpectedly perceptive. “Why that one?”
She hadn’t expected him to notice, much less care about her opinion. “It suits the manor’s character, in that it’s traditional but not outdated. And it would complement the eastern exposure without darkening the room.” She hesitated. “It also seems to suit you.”
His eyebrow rose. “Does it?”
“Dignified without ostentation.” The words escaped before she could reconsider them. “Masculine but elegant. Like you, my lord.”
“High praise.” Chuckling, he glanced down at his soiled shirt. “Though perhaps misplaced at the moment.”
“Clothes do not make the man. Your character remains, no matter what you’re wearing on the outside.”
He simply gazed at her for a moment, his eyes soft. “You’re kinder than I thought you’d be.”
She laughed. “What do you mean? And should I be insulted?”
“I don’t know. When we first met, you came in so fierce and determined, I was afraid we might be at odds. I’ve been known to be stubborn and fierce myself.”
“It was only that I was nervous. About the lie about my gender, mostly. I over-compensated, I suppose.”
“Well, the world’s not dealt us fair hands, but here we are just the same. Scrappers.”
She returned his smile, feeling shy but also understood. “Scrappers. Yes.”
James returned his attention to the samples, his fingertips resting on the burgundy paper. “What else? The bed, for example?” He glanced back at her, his eyes twinkling. Was he flirting with her?
A shiver went down the back of her spine.
She told herself to stay composed. Acting like a lovesick schoolgirl would not help her cause. “Dark walnut four-poster with navy wool for winter, something lighter for summer. White linens with this subtle pattern at the edges.” She pulled out a small fabric swatch.
“Yes, these are lovely. You’ve captured my taste very well. I’m not sure how.” Something unexpectedly gentle had entered his voice, at odds with his rough appearance. He tapped the blue sample once, leaving a faint smudge on its edge. “This one is right. As are the rest of your suggestions.”
“Very well.” Georgiana began gathering the samples, conscious of his gaze. “I’ll put the orders in tomorrow before I come out.”
“Mrs. Honeycutt will arrive tomorrow. Do you think she’ll approve of our work here in the kitchen?” James asked.
“You’ve done very well, my lord. I’m impressed.”
“Good. Because Mrs. Honeycutt’s not the type to suffer fools. She’s been known to make grown men cry.”
“Surely not?”
“You’ll see,” James said, grinning. “She’s marvelous.”
A boom of thunder rattled the pans hanging overhead.
“Goodness me,” Georgiana said, shivering. “I hate thunder and lightning.”
James nodded. “I am not fond of it either. The thunder reminds me of the war. Let’s go upstairs. I fear it may be difficult to get you back to the village if this keeps up.”
“Yes, my lord. Good idea.” She really hoped it wasn’t as bad as it sounded from down here.
*
By the time they reached the main floor, sheets of rain crashed against the windows, turning the drive to soup and the garden paths to rivers. Cecily stood in the front hall, looking worried and pale.
“How will we get back to the village in this?” Cecily asked. “And the lightning’s terrifying.”
Georgiana’s stomach clenched. Since Robert’s death, Cecily had been frightened of storms. It was no mystery as to why.
If the storm had not come that day, Robert would not have fallen from the scaffolding.
That day had changed everything for Georgiana and Cecily.
They’d thought they were safe but Robert’s death had been just another sad twist of fate in their lives.
Now, it was up to Georgiana to make sure her baby sister was well taken care of.
Doing well on this project was important in so many ways.
Creating a reputation as being one of the best in her field was the only way she could continue working.
There were only so many times she could trick a client into thinking he was signing with a male architect.
James stepped back from the window. “I don’t want you out in this. It won’t be safe. You’ll have to stay the night. I’ll find cots and set them up for you in the study. I have bread and cheese from the shops in town and ale. We’ll make it a party.”
“I don’t know,” Georgiana said. “We hate to put you out.”
“It would put me out worse to have you perish in a carriage accident,” James said.
A sudden, sharp knock echoed through the manor.
Then a louder one.
“Who could that be?” James crossed the hall to the front door, brow furrowed. “No carriage could make it up that road in this mess.” His voice was tight, wary. “It may be trouble. Stand aside until I assess the situation.”
Another knock thumped—this time with a string of muttered curses audible behind it, colorful enough to make a sailor blush. But if she weren’t mistaken, the voice belonged to a woman.
James opened the door, one hand resting near the small of his back where Georgiana suspected a pistol might be concealed. “Mrs. Honeycutt? What in God’s name are you doing out in this weather?”
“Took you long enough to open the door, young man. I could catch my death out there.” In stepped a woman shaped like a pot-bellied stove, round in the middle with twiggy limbs.
Her soaked cloak clung to her like seaweed, unruly copper-red curls escaping from a dozen metal pins, cheeks bright red from the wind.
Water pooled instantly around her mismatched, mud-caked boots, creating a small lake on the once-fine marble floor.
“I’ve come to save you from starvation and by the looks of you, I’ve come too late.
You look awful.” The woman’s voice was like a market bell, booming yet musical, as if she were always halfway through a story worth hearing.
She sniffed the air. “This place is a wreck. I hope the architect you’ve hired knows what he’s doing. ”
James tugged at the collar of his shirt, making him look momentarily boyish. “Mrs. Honeycutt, this is Mrs. Fairfax, my architect, and her assistant, Miss Cecily.”
Mrs. Honeycutt turned her attention toward them, her sharp blue eyes taking in every detail as laugh lines crinkled at their corners. She seemed not to have realized they were in the room until just that moment. “She’s a she?”
“Correct.” James’s tone left little room for further questioning. “You’re not supposed to arrive until tomorrow.”
Mrs. Honeycutt scowled for a second, her broad shoulders squaring beneath her patterned gown—at least two decades out of fashion and looking suspiciously like repurposed tavern drapery.
Then she grinned, transforming her round, ruddy face.
“Well, I’ll be. A woman architect. I never knew such a thing was possible. ”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Georgiana said, catching the distinct scent of rosemary, roasted garlic, and rain that seemed to emanate from the woman’s very being.
Cecily stepped forward to greet the robust woman. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Honeycutt.”
“Mrs. Fairfax. Miss Cecily. The pleasure’s mine,” Mrs. Honeycutt said.
“Why are you here a day early?” James asked, holding out his hands for her drenched cloak.
Mrs. Honeycutt dropped her basket with a dramatic thump.
“I had a little trouble back home that made the need for my departure somewhat hasty.” Her sharp eyes turned to Georgiana, then Cecily, assessing them with the practiced gaze of someone who had spent decades determining who needed feeding and how much.
“You’re both as skinny as one of those whippet dogs.
You need some meat on your bones. Thank goodness I’m here.
I may not look fancy but I know how to cook.
” She smirked and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I’ll say it’s a real step up in the world to be cooking for a Lord.
I won’t miss kicking drunks out of the tavern, now will I? ”
“Why are you on foot?” James asked, his tone a mixture of disbelief and admiration.
“Well, let me tell you, I’m lucky to be alive.
” Mrs. Honeycutt shook out her skirts, sending droplets flying across the entryway like a dog after a swim.
“Carriage went sideways on our way here and I told the useless driver I would find my own way on foot.” She paused to catch her breath, wild wisps of silver and copper hair dancing around her face.
“I’m not afraid of much, but the man was reckless and incompetent.
Not a good combination, if you know what I mean? I could’ve been killed.”
Cecily coughed behind her hand, clearly trying to contain her laughter.
“I’m glad no such tragedy has occurred,” James said, his eyes sparkling with humor. “As luck would have it, some boys from the village and I have just finished cleaning the kitchen. In preparation for your arrival, Mrs. Honeycutt.”
“I must see it at once.” Without waiting for permission, Mrs. Honeycutt swept past them, water dripping from the hem of her dress.
“Shall we all go?” James asked. “It’s nearly time for supper. We can eat downstairs, if that suits you ladies?”
“Absolutely fine,” Georgiana said, stifling a laugh.
What an evening this had turned into.