Chapter 17 #2
“How much would a new roof cost?” he asked.
“Forty pounds. Perhaps fifty.”
“Send me the direction.”
“Oliver, I was not asking—”
“You were not asking. I am offering. There is a difference.” He nodded toward the lavender. “Direct your pride elsewhere. The bees are better listeners.”
The laugh broke free. It rose from her stomach, shook her shoulders, stole the air from her lungs. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the book in her lap. The movement unbalanced her on the narrow bench. Her weight shifted, and the book slid from her knees.
His hand caught her arm. Fingers closed around her elbow, pulling her upright before she had time to register the fall.
The book tumbled into the grass. Her shoulder pressed against his chest. His face was very close, so close that she could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.
She could smell cedar, clean linen, sun-warmed skin.
He did not let go.
“Steady,” he said. His breath grazed her temple.
Her pulse hammered in her throat. His thumb rested against the inside of her arm where the muslin was thin, and the warmth of his touch spread upward through her shoulder, her neck, the backs of her ears.
“Thank you,” she managed.
He released her. He retrieved the book from the grass, brushed a blade from the spine, and handed it back. Their fingers met around the cover. He let go first.
The distance returned. He leaned against his end of the bench.
“Otranto or Udolpho?” he asked.
“What?”
“Gothic castles. If you were trapped in one, which would you choose?”
“Otranto.”
“Dreadful choice. Udolpho has superior scenery.”
“Otranto has a giant helmet that falls from the sky and crushes people. I find that more compelling than scenery.”
His laugh rang across the garden and startled the thrush into flight.
“Tell me about Mrs. Hewitt,” he said, once the thrush had resettled on the far wall. “The school. How did you come to know her?”
“She taught me needlework when I was nine.” Louisa turned the book over in her hands. “My mother could not afford a governess that year, so Mrs. Hewitt took me on alongside her village girls. She has fifteen pupils now. They walk two miles each morning to learn their letters.”
“Two miles.”
“Some of them have no shoes.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And the building?”
“The walls are sound. But the roof has needed replacing for three years, and every time it rains they lose a full day because the water comes through above the reading corner.” She caught herself. “I am boring you.”
“You are not boring me. Go on.”
“There are not enough slates. The girls write on the backs of old handbills.” She looked at her hands. “It is a small school. Nobody important cares about it.”
“You care about it.”
Louisa shrugged. “I am nobody important.”
“That is the most absurd thing you have ever said.”
She laughed. Her shoulders dropped an inch.
“What about Ashford Hall?” she asked. “Frederick describes Langley Park as though reading from a catalogue. The acreage, the trout, the morning room facing east. Do you speak about your home like that?”
Oliver stretched his arms behind his head.
“Ashford Hall would resist a catalogue. The second-floor corridor whistles in winter no matter how many times we patch the casements. Mrs. Aldridge, my housekeeper, has a kitchen garden she would fight a duel to protect. Last autumn she chased a footman across the yard with a wooden spoon because he stepped on her cabbages.”
Louisa gasped. “She did not!”
“She absolutely did. He resigned the following morning. She was not sorry.”
Louisa pulled her knees up onto the bench. “What is your favorite room?”
“The library.” He picked a blade of grass from his knee and turned it between his fingers. “There is a window seat that overlooks the south lawn. When it rains, the sound against the glass is better company than most people.”
“That sounds rather lovely,” she sighed, turning her head towards him.
He looked at her. The grin was gone. “It is the only room in the house that was never his. My father used the study, the drawing room, the dining room. He never once set foot in the library. Considered reading a waste of a man’s time.
” He flicked the blade of grass into the lavender.
“So I claimed it. Filled it with books he would have hated. Poetry, philosophy, every novel I could find. My own rebellion, bound in leather.”
“You love it,” she said.
“I do.” His voice was barely above the bees. “It was not always a place worth loving. I have spent years making it one.”
The sound of hooves carried from the front of the house, and Oliver stood. He brushed grass from his trousers, offering his hand. She took it without hesitation, and he pulled her to her feet. For a moment they stood in the garden, the pear tree overhead, late sun turning the brick wall to gold.
“Frederick is back,” he said. “He will be looking for you.”
“Yes.”
She did not move.
“Louisa.” The teasing had gone from his voice. “Are you happy?”
Her pulse kicked beneath her collarbone. “Of course. Frederick has been very attentive.”
He held her gaze. He did not push. He looked at her with those hazel eyes that never missed a single thing about her, then nodded once.
“Enjoy the aspic at dinner,” he said over his shoulder. “Cook has prepared an ambitious one.”
She watched him go through the arch. She stood alone with the book against her chest, the lavender buzzing, the sun on her face.
At dinner, Frederick sat beside her. He recounted the hunt with relish. The coverts, the dogs, Lord Ashton’s impressive shot.
“How was your afternoon?” he asked.
“I read in the garden.”
“How restful.” He turned to Lord Ashton. “As I was saying, the second drive—”
Across the table, Oliver caught her eye. He glanced at the aspic, then at her. One brow lifted. She pressed her napkin to her mouth.
Frederick reached for her hand. “You look well this evening, Miss Fairchild. The country air suits you.”
She turned to him. His smile was warm, sincere, full of a future he was already constructing.
She remembered the wildflower behind her ear.
She remembered his hand covering hers at breakfast, dry, careful, claiming.
She remembered four years of watching him across crowded rooms, hoping he would turn his head.
He had turned it. He was looking straight at her.
“Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind.”
“You are quiet this evening,” he said, turning back to her.
“I am enjoying the consommé.”
“It is excellent, is it not? Lord Ashton’s cook trained in Paris.” He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “I am glad you are here, Miss Fairchild.”
She smiled at him. He smiled back. Across the table, Oliver was telling Lady Ashton about Mrs. Aldridge’s wooden spoon. Lady Ashton nearly choked on her wine.
Frederick did not notice. He squeezed her hand and returned to Lord Ashton.
Louisa was almost relieved when the ladies withdrew, though she could not explain this for the life of her.
She climbed the stairs, her fingers trailing along the banister, and closed her bedroom door behind her.
Her maid was waiting. The pins came out one by one.
The jasmine from the day before sat in a glass of water on the vanity, its petals soft at the edges, fading.
She picked it up. The scent was still sweet, a little faded, a little tired.
She pressed it to her lips. She set it back down and climbed into bed, closing her eyes.
Frederick had held her hand at breakfast. He had walked with her at the lake. He had tucked a wildflower behind her ear. He was doing all she had ever dreamed of and more.
Her fingers drifted to the inside of her arm, where Oliver had caught her that afternoon. The skin was cool. The ghost of his grip remained beneath it for a while, but it vanished before she was ready for it to go.