“That makes my job easier,” Peter assured him. He moved to the front door and hefted the hammer, then swung it with all his might against the stone façade beside the door.
It cracked. The door shivered.
The workmen standing about whistled and cheered.
“Aye, well, have it,” James told them.
They picked up their crowbars and hammers and got to work.
The tearing down of a relatively new building took a satisfying amount of hard work. Peter dropped into his borrowed bed each night, falling asleep almost instantly, before waking and rising to start all over again.
It was exactly what he needed.
The days rolled on, the fine, hot weather holding. Dust lingered permanently over the site. Dozens of vehicles bumped their way across the old road and bridge, bringing supplies and experts.
Peter asked James to take care of the road and the bridge. A day later, he saw a haulage cart backing down the road. The horses were tethered facing the cart, to anchor it. Two men stood upon the open end and shoveled gravel on the road. The wide iron wheel at the back of the cart tamped down the gravel.
Shortly after, brick-layers waded into the river, stripped to the waist, and splashing at each other, with their mortar shovels and stands over their shoulders. They stood on either side of the bridge and re-mortared the bricks of the piers, which would be enough to keep the bridge together for another winter.
Next summer, a new bridge would be needed. Peter already had plans for a higher, wider bridge which would make rolling down to the river then climbing back up the slope unnecessary. That work was months away, though.
On the third day, the architect he had commissioned in London arrived in one of the local hacks, to inspect and measure and make notes. Peter ate his noontime sandwich beside him, while the man sat with a notebook on his knee and observed the workers tearing down the interior of the house and hauling away the stones.
“Where are the stones being put?” Mr. Townsend asked curiously, following with his gaze the creaking wagon with masonry piled upon the back, as it rolled away.
“There’s a small clearing inside the trees over there. To be honest, I couldn’t think what else to do with them,” Peter admitted.
“We could reuse them,” Townsend said.
“Reuse…?”
“That is good Welsh stone you have there,” Townsend said. “God knows what it cost to haul it here in the first place. It’s here now, though. The color is unique, here in Hertfordshire. With the white granite from Yorkshire, it will make a pleasing mix.”
Peter raised a brow. “That seems…fitting.”
Townsend nodded, and drained his tin cup of the tea he’d poured from a flask. “I have the preliminary designs for you to look at.” He pulled out rolls of blueprints from his briefcase and they went through the designs.
As Peter already had a good idea of what he wanted, the planning moved quickly. Townsend returned to London with a promise to have secondary plans ready to look at in two weeks’ time.
On the eighth day after he had arrived, Peter left the work of the day in James’ hands. He took the buggy to Cambridge, which was only a few miles north of Farleigh and was the nearest market town.
Peter knew Cambridge well, as he had studied there. He made his way to the smaller library on the campus and roamed the stacks. He had studied philosophy and history, so these stacks filled with treatises on design, construction and engineering were unfamiliar to him. He kept searching until he found the section containing volumes regarding garden design and the history of garden architecture. He selected a few titles and settled at a table to read the big volumes.
After several hours, he went outside for air. The university would not officially open for the new school year for weeks, yet. The campus was deserted. He studied the familiar buildings, digesting the information he had absorbed, his thoughts churning.
On his way back to Farleigh, Peter stopped at the new Cambridgeshire Times newspaper officers and scheduled an advertisement for a master gardener and grounds man.
Then he returned home. The fresh gravel made the road to the house much smoother. The team James had employed had done a good job.
The laborers were packing up and hoisting themselves into carts when Peter arrived back at the construction site. It was nearly six o’clock. The sun was lowering. James waved as Peter unhitched the mare. He came over to take the reins from Peter’s hands.
“There’s someone here to see you,” James said. “She’s been waiting all day.”
“She?” Peter’s heart slammed against his chest. He was surprised James hadn’t heard it or noticed the lurch in his belly.
James grinned, his weathered face creasing into a knowing smile. “Mrs. Gavin took her into the house, to give her tea and fuss over her. I think she was pleased to have a lady to cater for, instead of a pair of bachelors.” His eye flickered in an almost wink as he took the mare away.
Peter moved around the demolition area. Now the walls were coming down, the house didn’t seem as large as it had felt, standing inside. Yet it still took far too long to move around the perimeter of the house, until the old manor came into view through the perimeter trees.
It could be anyone, he reminded himself, and railed at the anticipation trying to build in his chest. He shouldn’t be pleased to see her at all. Not after last time.
Yet his feet moved faster and faster.
It was Annalies. When he spotted her, Peter came to halt on the worn path through the trees.
Annalies had trampled down the long grass to one side of the path. She sat in the resulting nest, her skirts around her like an island. She had removed her hat. Her golden hair glowed in the last of the sunlight as she bent over her sketchbook, her pencil moving rapidly over the page.
Every now and again, she looked up at the house she was capturing.
Peter cleared his throat, so he could speak. “Annalies.”
She glanced over her shoulder, a frown marring her brow, as if she resented the interruption. Then she saw it was him and the frown smoothed away. A radiant smile replaced it. Annalies dropped the notebook and jumped to her feet and hurried toward him, holding her skirts up out of the way of the long grass. She ran toward him, her face glowing.
“Oh, Peter! Such a marvelous house! Why didn’t you tell me about it? I’ve been drawing and drawing and drawing and there’s always something more…” She threw her arms around his neck, her face turned up to his.
Peter’s heart had already been working too hard. Now it creaked and ached. He got his hands around her waist, to push her away. The touch of soft muslin beneath his fingers and her scent curling through his mind fought better sense. He had spent his adult life taking advantage of such moments, even engineering them. He had always indulged himself, for what finer pastime was there but the pursuit of feminine affection?
Only, he could not do that with Annalies. To do so would reduce her to the same level as every other woman he had dallied with. That would be…well, he didn’t know what it would be, but he refused to do it.
He pushed her away from him. He did it gently, for little strength was left in his arms. He needed all his strength to fight his base instincts.
The glow of her smile faded. She smoothed her hair self-consciously.
“What are you doing here, Annalies?” He kept his tone neutral.
A glimmer of her smile returned. “If your original wager still stood, then you would owe me…” She paused, her gaze moving inward. “One hundred and sixty-seven pounds.”
For a moment, he had no idea what she meant. He had to force his thoughts away from her curves and her flesh and the line of her neck where it turned into her shoulder. The modest muslin did nothing to disguise it.
Then he remembered. “You’ve completed ten pictures since I last saw you?”
“It might have been eleven, or even twelve,” she said, “only I took two days to travel to Marblethorpe for the evening.”
“That was brave of you.” Peter thrust his hands into his pockets, where his fists would not be seen. “A whole evening of questions you cannot answer truthfully.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. It was an impish expression. A rude one. Peter found himself laughing in shocked surprise.
Annalies turned and took his arm. “I brought you something. It’s in the house.” She shepherded him toward the opening in the split-rail fence, and the path to the front door.
Peter let her lead him, curious to know what could possibly have pulled Annalies away from her easel, now she was painting again.
A small table sat in the bow of the window in the front room, laid with a dark tablecloth. Used teacups, spoons, plates with cake crumbs and the big, worn teapot were scattered across it.
Annalies reached between the table and the window and lifted a frame wrapped in brown paper.
Understanding dawned. “You painted a picture for me.”
“I painted it for myself,” Annalies admitted as she pulled at the knot of the string holding the paper over the frame. “I saw something at Marblethorpe…” She frowned. “When I had finished it, I knew you must have it.” She pulled the string away and lifted the top flap of paper. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.
Peter closed his eyes and listened to the rustle of the paper as she unwrapped the picture.
“It occurred to me that I could give you this picture in lieu of the money I owe you…or some of it, at least,” she added.
He realized he was smiling. “You’ve learned to think of your pictures as assets,” he murmured. “Well done.”
“Is that what I did?” She sounded surprised, and the paper stopped rattling. “I was only thinking that there is some value in my pictures, or they would not sell. If you were to sell this one, then you could get your money back.”
The paper scrunched once more.
“Now you may look.”
Peter opened his eyes.
Annalies gripped his arm and turned him.
She had propped the picture against the back of one of the pair of armchairs by the fire and turned the chair so the last of the daylight fell upon the canvas.
Peter took in the picture in one all-encompassing sweep. This time, his heart hurt with a different pain. He sank onto the chair beside the table, staring at the picture, absorbing the details one at a time.
It was the southern garden at Marblethorpe, from where one could spot the sea on a fine day. In the picture, it was late summer, just as it was here. The oaks which marched along the perimeter were in full leaf, casting deep, dappled shade. The courtyard behind the house benefited from the shade in the afternoon and was a cool place to pass the heat of the day. Peter had enjoyed lingering afternoons there, himself, and knew it well.
The focus of the picture was Mama Elisa. Annalies had captured her perfectly. She sat in a cane chair, in the deepest part of the shade. Despite the heat, she had a tartan blanket over her knees. She had been reading. The volume had fallen to the paving stones and laid with pages bent beneath the weight of the open covers.
Elisa had listed to one side, and almost lying in the chair, her head propped upon one weary arm. Her posture spoke of great tiredness, not just physically, but of the spirit.
It was not the greatest revelation of the picture, though. The hurt jelled and increased as Peter’s gaze was pulled back over and over to the image of his father sitting in another of the cane chairs, a few feet away from Elisa. He, too, had been reading. The closed book rested upon his knee. He watched Elisa, with his hands gripped together into a combined fist, which he pressed against his mouth, as if he was holding words inside him.
The agony in his eyes was terrible to behold.
Peter looked from Elisa to Vaughn, as an echo of Vaughn’s pain grew in his own chest. The truth wasn’t a hammer blow. It was the swift, silvered cut of a razor, through his heart.
“Oh, God…” he whispered, his eyes aching.
Annalies pressed her hand against his shoulder, making him tear his gaze away from the painting to look up at her. Her eyes glittered with tears and as he looked, they spilled down her cheeks. Her chin wobbled.
Peter caught her hand and held it. “You saw this?” His voice was a croak.
She nodded, her chin wobbling. “It was just a moment, the merest second. Then your father saw me and wiped his expression clean…” She drew in a wobbly breath. “Peter, I’m so sorry.” Her voice was strained. Weak.
Peter’s gaze was pulled back to the picture. He was already adjusting to the truth. Even though his eyes ached and his heart tripped along unhappily, he could not stop himself from studying the painting. “Your work is perfect, Anna.” His voice was still strained.
“It is barely work at all,” she whispered. “I don’t notice what my brush is doing. I don’t remember picking colors or even composing the picture. It is there in my mind and I watch the same image appear on the canvas. Then I saw what I had put on this one, and knew you must see it, too.”
Her fingers tightened on his.
“Thank you,” Peter said. “I’m glad I saw it. Only, you know I will never sell it. You knew it before you unwrapped it.” He looked up at her.
Annalies nodded. A small movement. “That is why there is a second picture on the floor behind the table,” she said, her smile small.
His laugh caught him by surprised. It emerged choked, as his eyes stung. Peter closed them, mortified that he had been brought to tears, and that they were overwhelming him.
“No, no, no…” Annalies breathed. “It’s alright,” she added. “Shh….” Her arms came around him, soothing and warm. Her weight settled on his knees and she pressed his aching head against her shoulder.
Peter wrapped his arms around her and held her, helpless to do anything else. He shivered, letting the truth of her painting properly register. Accepting it.
Long minutes passed, and he sought a measure of calm. Finally, he lifted his head and gave a great, gusty sigh. “I’m sorry—”
Annalies pressed her fingers to his mouth. “No. No apologies for a natural emotion, Peter. You like to appear a proper Englishman, stiff upper lip and all. I know you better than that.”
He shook his head. “If you did know me properly, you would not be sitting on my knee.”
Her smile was warm and heated. “Then you do not know me as well as I know you.” She pressed her lips to his.
Peter stiffened, holding back the wave of wanting the touch of her lips built in his chest and his nether regions. His instant response should have felt shocking or wrong, so close on the heels of viewing the painting and for the first time seeing what he should have noticed months ago. Yet it felt merely inevitable and natural.
And that was wrong, too.
Peter beat his desire back. He stood and put her on her feet and moved away from her, over to the fireplace. His entire body throbbed and surged, warning him to put as much distance between them as possible. “You must stop doing that, Anna.” It was of no surprise to him that his voice was hoarse. “There is a name for teasing of that kind, one you wouldn’t like.”
Annalies gripped her hands together. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she admitted. “You are right, of course. I’m sorry, Peter.”
He leaned against the mantel and rubbed his temple. “Why does the man not marry you?” he demanded, irritation flaring. “It is cruelty to force you to live this way, without honor.”
Annalies shook her head. “Tobias has asked me to marry him. More than once.”
He dropped his hand. “And you refused him? For god’s sake, Anna. You are living in sin! If anyone were to learn of your situation, you would be utterly ruined and the family along with you!” Fear make his chest tighten. “You risk disaster every day you linger in his house.”
Annalies didn’t move. She didn’t flinch or show surprise.
She knew this as well as Peter did, then.
Instead, she tilted her head. “Would you find it
easier to push me away if I was married to him?” Her tone was not challenging. It was simply a question.
Was that what he was doing? Railing at her to resolve her situation so she would be so far beyond temptation he could find peace?
“And how many married ladies have you taken to your bed, over the years?” she added softly.
He flinched, for her observation was both direct and truthful.
Annalies turned back to the table and picked up the little reticule sitting there. “You are more of a Bohemian than any artist I have ever met, and I include myself in that circle. You are right, Peter. I must settle my affairs once and for all, if only so you can look me in the eye once more.”
Startled, his gaze met hers. He had been avoiding looking at her directly and she had noticed. Of course she had. She was practiced at observation, and as he had learned, had a keener eye for human emotions than he. The painting sitting on the sofa was proof of that.
“Is it all right for me to ask Mr. Scott to take me to the station?” Anna asked.
“I will take you,” he ground out, straightening.
“No.” She shook her head. “I would not tease you any further. You were right about that. Goodnight, Peter.”
As she left, she squared her shoulders, and walked out with her chin lifted.
His admiration for her soared, even as the emptiness she left behind settled into his heart.
Chapter Nine
It was not a comfortable train ride back to London. Annalies squirmed upon the seat every time she reacquainted herself with the unfairness of her actions. She had been despicable, kissing Peter in that way, when she already knew he could not—would not respond in kind.
Only, it had felt so natural to kiss him!
She had spent the last eight days doing what was natural, what felt right, and she had never painted so much in her life. Even Tobias’ cold silence did not suppress her energy, when before, his mildest irritation could halt her painting for an entire day.
Kissing Peter had been a natural progression of her behavior in the last few days. Yet it was wrong…and it would remain wrong for as long as she lived in Tobias’ house.
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