Chapter Six Respectability Calls #2
Benedict smiled.
“I shall accept the improvement.”
He released her hand and turned toward Ambrose.
“Mr. Tavener.”
“My lord.”
The door closed behind him.
Silence followed.
Mary Beth waited.
Ambrose looked at the closed door for another second, then unfolded his measurements.
“The quarry stone is sound.”
“Good morning to you too.”
His jaw shifted.
“Good morning.”
“You have mud on the carpet.”
“I noticed.”
“I was not complaining.”
“I know.”
That irritated her more than if he had misunderstood.
Ambrose crossed to the table and placed the sheet beside the tea tray. He smelled faintly of rain and limestone.
“We opened a test face in the old cutting. The stone matches the original wall closely enough for structural work. We will still need dressed stone for the visible upper course, but using Blackthorn material below should reduce transport and purchase costs considerably.”
Mary Beth examined the figures.
“How considerably?”
“Possibly a fifth of the stone budget.”
“That is worth muddying the carpet.”
“I thought so.”
She studied him rather than the measurements.
He would not meet her eyes for more than a moment at a time.
“How long were you standing at the door?” she asked.
“Long enough to realize I had entered the wrong room.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
Mary Beth folded the paper carefully.
“What exactly was wrong with it?”
Ambrose finally looked at her.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
His expression hardened.
“Do you want the estimate or an argument?”
“An honest answer.”
“They are not always the same thing.”
“Today they are.”
Ambrose picked up the sheet.
“Lord Sablehurst came to call. That is neither remarkable nor my business.”
“You knew who he was.”
“Everyone in the county knows who he is.”
“Everyone in Leeds too?”
“Men who build railway approaches and municipal works learn the names of landowners.”
“And women with reputations?”
“That is cheap.”
The words landed sharply.
Mary Beth went still.
Ambrose’s face changed at once.
“I did not mean you were cheap.”
“I understood you perfectly.”
“I meant the question.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” He shoved the folded measurements beneath his arm. “You told me the truth about your past. I am not going to use it as a weapon every time I dislike another man standing near you.”
“You dislike him.”
“I have known him four minutes.”
“You disliked him in two.”
Ambrose stared at her.
Mary Beth felt a dangerous flicker of satisfaction.
“You find this amusing,” he said.
“Somewhat.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“For whom?”
“For me, apparently.”
He turned toward the door.
Mary Beth spoke before he reached it.
“Benedict invited me to dinner.”
Ambrose stopped.
His back remained toward her.
“And?”
“I may go.”
“That seems sensible.”
The satisfaction vanished.
Mary Beth’s voice cooled.
“Sensible.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He turned then.
“Because he can give you something you have said you lost.”
“What?”
“Your place among your own people.”
The phrase offended her in more ways than she could count.
“My own people.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I am beginning to wish I did not.”
Ambrose ran one hand over his damp hair.
“He walks into this house as though he belongs here.”
“So do you.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Mary Beth’s brows rose.
Ambrose seemed to regret saying it, but not enough to take it back.
“I am here because a wall failed,” he said. “He is here because a woman he may very well marry lives in the house.”
Benedict had not proposed.
Mary Beth almost said so.
Instead she heard the rest.
“A woman he may very well marry.”
Ambrose looked away.
“Thursday’s dinner is good for you.”
“You have become surprisingly interested in my social rehabilitation.”
“I am interested in not being the reason you refuse it.”
Something inside her tightened.
“Is that what you think you are?”
“I do not know what I am.”
The honesty of it stopped her.
Ambrose’s voice dropped.
“I know what happened under the bridge. I also know what this house looks like when a man like Sablehurst walks into it.”
“What does it look like?”
“Like his world.”
“And yours?”
“Like a contract.”
He left before she could answer.
Mary Beth remained beside the tea table for several minutes after the door shut.
Then she became angry.
It was not the elegant anger she knew how to manage in public.
Nor was it the cool displeasure she could deploy at dinner tables and county meetings.
This was hotter, less disciplined, and attached to several contradictory impulses, one of which involved throwing Benedict’s untouched teacup into the fire.
She left the cup where it was.
Good china did not deserve Benedict’s sins.
By late afternoon the rain had stopped.
Mary Beth spent two hours with estate accounts, answered three letters, inspected the temporary bypass from a safe distance, and failed to stop thinking about Ambrose Tavener.
He had removed himself from the house after luncheon and established a temporary worktable in the old carriage room off the stable courtyard. Mary Beth knew this because she had asked where he was.
She told herself the question had been practical.
At five, she stopped pretending.
The carriage room smelled of leather, damp timber, lamp oil, and stone dust. Two long-unused harness racks lined one wall. Ambrose had spread plans across a scarred table beneath the window and weighted the corners with a hammer, a measuring rule, and a small piece of quarry stone.
He looked up when Mary Beth entered.
His expression suggested he had expected trouble and was annoyed to be proved correct.
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes.”
He waited.
“You.”