Chapter Four
T he days following the first painting session, Gabriel snuck into the green drawing room every so often to inspect the canvas. Excitement fizzed in his veins. He was painting again. Why had he neglected it for ages when it brought him such joy?
He was thrilled to have the old skill re-emerge, to hone, test, and stretch it beyond its limits. Two years ago, he’d painted his portrait for the gallery because his father had wished it, but he hadn’t done any creative work since, not even sketches.
Delia’s portrait was the greater challenge.
His face and stature he knew well enough, and replicating them hadn’t cost him much effort.
She was new and interesting. He needed to observe, to analyze, and carefully translate her features onto the canvas.
She was so disciplined, still as a statue for long stretches.
A wave of guilt ambushed him; was he taking advantage of her kindness?
Six sessions were a lot of time to sacrifice for a scientist, who was presumably always busy with research and teaching.
But he couldn’t give it up, not now. They’d barely started, and he already felt better than he had since his father’s death.
‘You’re in the flow,’ she’d said, and she’d been right. Painting did get him into the flow and out of his head, away from his worries and grief, at least while she was there.
He turned his back on the canvas and made his way to his office. Plenty of pressing tasks awaited him, and he could only indulge in his re-found enthusiasm during stolen minutes here and there.
Right now, he needed to talk to the contractors scheduled to put up the scaffolding along the north-facing wall this afternoon.
Decades of rain and wind had washed out the pointing between the stones and allowed moisture to seep through.
Repointing the entire wall couldn’t be postponed any longer if he wanted to avoid serious water damage.
Thankfully, he could just about cover the rent of the scaffold. The repointing he’d do himself, together with his cousin Jem.
A phone call later, the contractors had confirmed the arrival of the scaffold for two o’clock. Jem promised to be there the following day at the crack of dawn to begin with the renovation.
Gabriel pored over client accounts for another hour, then snuck into the kitchen to throw together a quick lunch. After his meal, he prepared snacks and a thermos flask of tea for the scaffolding team, put everything into a basket, then headed outside.
The north-facing wall loomed over him, blocking out the sun.
A sharp breeze made him shiver. He set the basket down and pushed his hands into his pockets.
Head thrown back, he gazed at the expanse of masonry they needed to repoint—a herculean task, even for two people.
A heaviness settled in his gut. Was he foolish to try and restore the manor house on a shoestring budget?
He widened his stance and folded his arms across his chest. Renwood Hall, I’ll get you back in shape or perish in the attempt.
The rumble of an approaching truck put an end to his musings. The contractor’s team operated like a well-maintained machine, and within three hours, the wall was obscured top to bottom by a grid of wooden planks and metal poles.
True to his word, Jem arrived the next day, kitted out in steel-toed boots and a thick flannel shirt. He bounded over to Gabriel and gave him a bear hug. “Ready to save the ancestral pile from ruination?”
Gabriel patted his cousin’s back. “Damn sure I am.”
Jem squinted at the wall. “Give me a quick rundown. How are we going to tackle this?”
“We need to remove the loose bits of old pointing first before refilling the gaps with fresh mortar.”
“All right. Show me the tools.”
Gabriel smiled. “Follow me.”
Armed with a hammer, chisel, and wire brush, they climbed to the very top and began the monumental labor of making the Hall watertight.
“Here you go.” Gabriel handed Jem a mug of tea and poured one for himself before closing the thermos flask.
They sat side by side on a wooden plank, surrounded by scaffolding. The failing light chilled the air, and the warm drink was most welcome. They’d been working since sunrise with hardly any break.
“You’re such a star for helping me with this.” Gabriel gestured at the wall behind him.
“No problem, Gabe. I know how bloody expensive the scaffolds are to rent, and the Hall is no small cottage.”
“True. Thank God it’s only the north-facing wall that needs repointing.”
Jem leaned back and tilted his lightly freckled face toward the setting sun. “You know, I used to think I’d love to inherit Renwood Hall, but in recent years, I’ve changed my mind. Now I’m relieved I don’t have to sort out this mess.”
“Don’t blame you.” Gabriel rubbed a hand over his eyes.
Jem faced him once more. “But if anyone is going to pull off this renovation, it’s you.”
Gabriel wrinkled his brow. “Let’s hope your confidence in me isn’t misplaced.”
“I’ll be here to lend a hand.” Jem took sip of tea. “Until the baby comes, that is.”
Gabriel grabbed his cousin’s shoulder. “Another six months and you’ll be a father. Hard to believe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jem gave him a look of mock-outrage. “I’ll be an excellent dad.”
“I have no doubt.” Gabriel beamed at his cousin. “How’s Suzette?”
“She’s fine, cared for beautifully by her devoted husband.” He paused for dramatic effect and pointed to his chest. “Me.”
“I should thank her for sparing you to climb about the scaffolding with me.” Gabriel uncapped the thermos and pointed to his cousin’s mug. “More tea?”
“No, I’m all good.” With a shrug, Jem returned to their original topic. “Suzette’s supportive. It’d be a crying shame to see Renwood Hall pass out of the family and have some cold-hearted investor convert it into a hotel.”
Gabriel poured some tea for himself and cradled the warm mug in his hands. “Your help is much appreciated. I commit myself to regular stints as your future babysitter to make up for it.”
Jem had a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. “We have a deal.” He drained his cup and got to his feet. “Same place, same time tomorrow?”
“No, not tomorrow.” Gabriel also rose.
“Why not? I thought we’re trying to get this finished as quickly as possible?”
“Maybe I’m being too self-indulgent, but tomorrow, an acquaintance of mine is coming over. I’m painting her portrait.” Gabriel averted his face to hide his traitorous expression.
Jem grinned from ear to ear. “What kind of acquaintance?”
“The scientist who came here to collect a DNA sample of our common ancestor. She offered, and I wanted to paint her because it keeps my mind off things.”
Jem boxed Gabriel’s shoulder. “The morbid scientist who made you break apart poor Edwin’s skull?”
“She’s not morbid, she’s—”
“Admit it, you fancy her,” Jem cut in.
Gabriel gnawed at his lower lip. “A bit, maybe.”
“Maybe, my ass. Why so coy? It’s been ages since you and Vanessa broke up. It’s about time you met someone else.” Jem took him by his shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye.
Gabriel blew out a breath. “I’m only painting her.”
Jem scoffed and let go of him. “Anyway, the day after tomorrow then?”
“Excellent. Thanks again, and give my regards to Suzette.”
“Will do.” An eyebrow quirked. “Enjoy the painting session.”
Gabriel elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “Eff off.”
Jem laughed, and together, they descended the scaffolding.
~ * ~
D elia parked her blue Fiat Riva in front of the manor house. She pulled the key from the ignition but didn’t move. Her stomach churned. This was going to be awful.
She peered at herself in the rear-view mirror and said aloud, “Hey, Gabriel, do you mind stepping into that creepy vault again where you just buried your dad to open yet another coffin and fiddle with another ancestor skull? Surely that’s no biggie.”
She laughed joylessly at her reflection. Out of the car. Now. Before she lost her nerve and drove home instead.
Minutes later, she stood, straight and rigid, encased in silk, hemmed in between side table and the marble slab of the windowsill.
There was never a good moment to bring this up.
She should at least give him a good run of painting before she dropped the bombshell.
Maybe he’d be so angry at the new request he’d abort their painting project then ask her to leave and never come back.
“Delia, are you tired? Should we postpone our sitting? Your posture is a little tense. You were more relaxed the other day.”
“Oh, no... It’s just that...” She hesitated and lowered her gaze, studying the folds of green and burgundy silk that flowed from her waist to the polished herringbone parquet. “I...hate to have to ask you but...”
He raised both eyebrows.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I...eh... My boss, Professor Winter, wants me to ask if we could get another sample...” The air between them froze. She swallowed. “I know we’re being terribly cheeky, and callous, and rude, and I’d never have agreed to ask...”
“If he didn’t have power over your career?”
She compressed her lips and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“He did not get enough teeth, no?”
“He did, but now he wants... He wants some of Lord Edwin’s wife...Emmy.” Oh, if the ground could swallow her.
This was excruciating. She was exploiting Gabriel in some way; she wasn’t sure how exactly, but that was what it felt like.
“I’ll do it, Delia.” He turned his attention to the painting. “I’ll do it for you because you’re sacrificing your afternoons for me so I can play at being an artist again.”
“Thank you. I’m mortified, and I’m sorry.” She blinked unexpected moisture from her eyes. He was an angel and she up to her neck in his debt.
“Don’t be. Let’s forget about it for now.”
“I’ll help you,” she blurted out. “It’s the least I can do.”
He gave her an evaluating stare. “Are you sure? It’s not the most...ah...pleasant of activities.”
“That’s why I want to accompany you; it’ll make me feel less bad about the whole thing.”
“All right then.” Gabriel’s expression was calm and polite. “Do you mind if we continue?” He lifted his paintbrush.
Delia swallowed hard. Every muscle in her body was taut. She’d pissed him off, and now their budding friendship was down the drain.
“Shall I put on some music?” he asked after a while.
She curved her lips and tried to project cheeriness. “Sure. Classical if you have it. I find it too distracting to have the lyrics of some random song rolling around my brain for hours.”
“Any preferences?” He fixed her with an inquiring gaze.
Her breath hitched. Those blue eyes were as unsettling as ever. “Baroque music?” She steadied. “Bach?”
“Yes.” He scrolled through the music on his phone.
“Bach is such an anarchist,” she said, her voice rushed and high-pitched. “It mostly starts off lovely and melodic before he goes off-piste, and it gets a bit crazy only to eventually return to a recognizable pattern. It’s what makes his music all the more powerful.”
“If I’m honest, where Baroque music is concerned, I prefer Telemann.”
“Amateur.” She smirked. “Telemann’s sugar-coated Bach.”
He chuckled. “Very well, then, here are the Brandenburg Concertos for you.” He connected his phone to the Bluetooth speaker, and the room filled with an intricate tapestry of sound.
He returned to the canvas and took up brush and palette.
She closed her eyes for a mere second and soaked up the music. Her shoulders dropped and her breath deepened.
“It’s funny,” he peeked past the canvas and smiled at her, “you resemble one of those Pre-Raphaelite maidens, stretching her swan-like neck to inhale the scent of a rose, but you’re such a level-headed, no-nonsense scientist.”
She gave a small puff of protest. “But what do we know of those Pre-Raphaelite maidens other than what we see in the paintings? What were their passions, and how were they to even find out since they, unlike their brothers, weren’t sent to posh, expensive schools let alone universities?
” She lifted her face in a show of dreamy sensuality, her voice climbing an octave higher.
“Let me wander around this garden, picturesque and demure, until my dad marries me off to some man he deems suitable, whose property I’ll then become, and who can cheat on me like a rabbit.
If I ever so much as raise my eyelids to gaze at another man, I’ll be hung, drawn, and quartered. Ahh, but this rose sure is nice.”
He laughed. “Now you’ve single-handedly ruined the Pre-Raphaelites for me.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. He was playful again. What a relief. “Did you not already consider them pretty kitsch before? You, the artist?”
He beamed at her. “Yes, I did, but I’m also a man and not unreceptive to beautifully painted women. Sorry. That sounded stupid.”
She chuckled. “Just basic biology.”
“But I think your view of the past is a little bleak. Surely some Victorian women must have loved their husbands and been loved in return.”
“I don’t know. How can you properly love a person who holds such sway over you? As for the husband, power corrupts, and if you own your wife, you’d have to be a bloody saint to not abuse that fact every now and then.”
“So, no love ever between man and woman until recently?”
“Maybe sometimes, but that would’ve been pot luck because in those days you had to get married before you could even discover whether your betrothed was any good in bed, or, come to think of it, a decent human being.
Lovely gowns and roses notwithstanding, I’d much rather live in the present day, thanks. ”
His laugh turned into a cough, and he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “Oh, man, this is so much fun. Delia, thank you.”
“I love our chats,” she replied.
Painting and conversation went on for another hour before the fading light and her aching neck muscles put an end to the day’s session.
The zip was uncooperative again, but their new-found easy companionship made the whole procedure of getting out of the dress a lot less awkward.