by Kelly Bowen
“Yes.”
“My father will not sell anything that is making him money.”
“I would certainly advise him against it,” Carruthers agreed pleasantly.
Henry stood. “I give the steward of Greybourne full access and full authority to use the capital at her discretion. She may make any and all decisions regarding the repair and redevelopment of the estate without my approval unless she wishes it.”
“Very good.”
“You may draw your fees from this as well. Additionally, I would like to request that you dismiss the current estate agents and hire a competent, knowledgeable agent who will have Greybourne’s best interests at heart. You may be certain that I will be requesting a report from him on a regular basis.”
“Of course.” Carruthers was already reaching for a clean sheet of paper. “I’ll have the documents drawn up immediately.” He paused. “Does this mean that you will not be returning to Greybourne, Mr. Blackmore?”
“That’s correct.”
“May I ask what it is you intend to do?”
“I intend to find a building to restore, Carruthers. And then I intend to finish what I started in Brighton. And after that…” Henry shrugged. “I can’t quite say.”
“Do you have any leads yet, Mr. Blackmore?”
“Not yet. But I’ll find a way.”
Chapter Fourteen
Maeve was coming in from the mews when she saw the knot of men standing in front of the manor. She immediately recognized the tall, angular frame of Donald Byrd, Henry’s foreman, and the masons and builders that had only recently come from London.
“Mr. Byrd,” she said approaching. She frowned at the horses and wagons waiting on the uneven drive. It looked more like they were getting packed up to leave than packed up to work.
“Miss Murray.” Byrd doffed his hat before settling it back on his head. “Just the person I was hoping to see.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The foreman rooted around in the inside of his coat and withdrew two creased letters. He selected the one with the seal that was still unbroken and passed it to Maeve. “Just arrived by post this morning. This one is for you.”
Maeve took the letter, recognizing the angular writing across the front. It was from Henry. She glanced up, frowning. “Are you leaving?”
“We are.” He held up the second letter, also addressed with Henry’s handwriting. “Mr. Blackmore has suspended repairs on the manor indefinitely. We’ll be departing for London immediately to find alternate work.”
Maeve felt her stomach drop to her toes. “He’s not coming back?”
The foreman turned his letter over. “No.”
“But the plans for the manor—”
“Don’t look so stricken, Miss Murray. Such is the nature of our business. Some jobs don’t get finished and some don’t even get started. People change their minds or money runs out.” He shrugged. “Mr. Blackmore was good enough to compensate us for our time and travel, which is more than I can say for most employers. And he says he’s looking for a different restoration project in the city. Says he needs it promptly, so I suspect we’ll be working again ‘afore long.” He tipped his hat. “Our thanks for your kind hospitality, as brief as it was. Good day to you.”
Maeve stared after him, feeling as though she might be ill. She’d replayed Henry’s strange, cryptic words he’d uttered in the library a million times and until now, they had made no sense. Until now, she hadn’t recognized them as what they had truly been— goodbye.
If Henry had abandoned all work on the manor and was looking for a different project in the city, then it seemed obvious that he had no intention of returning. She didn’t know why that cut as deeply as it did.
That was a lie. She knew exactly why it hurt. She had gone and fallen in love with a man she should never have allowed herself to love. She had known better, yet she had done it anyway. Worse, she had allowed herself to think that perhaps he had felt the same way. She had understood that he couldn’t abandon his ambitions or his dreams but she hadn’t truly believed that he would abandon Greybourne—abandon her— so easily or so completely.
She glanced down at the letter that was now crushed in her fist. Dully she smoothed the paper flat, wondering just what Henry Blackmore could possibly have left to say. She broke the seal and opened the letter.
* * *
Maeve,
You told me once that there are two types of people in this world – those who find a way and those who find an excuse. I’ve found a way for Greybourne.
I have enclosed the direction for my solicitor, a man by the name of Mr. William Carruthers. Through him, at your immediate disposal, is the sum of five-thousand pounds (less the cost of a plow blade and new seed drill and team). It is yours to use to make Greybourne everything you ever imagined it to be. There is an additional thirty-thousand pounds that will be made available to you to expand the industry of the estate once Greybourne shows a profit. This money was always meant to restore lives, not a house, and I know that it is in the most capable hands possible. I apologize for not recognizing that sooner.
I believe in you, Maeve, and you’ve made me believe in myself. Follow your dreams, do what you’re good at, and love every minute. I will do the same.
Yours always,
Henry
* * *
Maeve’s legs seemed to give out and she plopped down right in the middle of the yard, not caring if she was sitting in the muck and the mud. This money that Henry spoke of was the money that he was supposed to have used to restore Greybourne House. This money was supposed to be used to impress the architect John Nash so that Henry might regain his rightful place on the Brighton project. But now, somehow, it was hers. Henry had sacrificed his future for hers and that of the people of Greybourne. She stared down at the letter, and it wasn’t until the ink started smudging that she realized that she was crying.
“Miss Murray?” Donald Byrd was hurrying back to her, a worried expression on his face. “Are you ill?”
Maeve waved her hand, trying to find words.
“Should I fetch Mrs. Thorpe?” He was crouched beside her.
Behind him, the rest of his crew was staring at her. Maeve didn’t care much about that either.
“I’m fine,” she managed. She was crying in earnest now, great gasping breaths punctuated with artless hiccups.
Byrd was patting her awkwardly on her shoulder, looking terribly uncomfortable. “Is there something you need? Something I can get you?”
“No,” Maeve breathed.
“Miss Murray, there must be something I can do.” He looked behind him at his men as if pleading for help.
Maeve caught her breath and wiped her face with her sleeve. She got to her feet, the foreman standing with her.
“Actually, Mr. Byrd, there is something you can do.”
“What?”
“If I wanted you to restore something for me, what would you need?”
“Something?”
“A building.”
He eyed her warily. “Sketches. A set of detailed drawings would be best.”
Maeve nodded. “Then Mr. Byrd, before you return to London, I’d like to hire you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Henry stood in front of the St. James townhouse, his hand hovering over the knocker.
It had been nearly two months and he had not been able to secure a commission for a restoration project. He’d been offered multiple commissions for new builds, starting with the Earl of Chattonham, who still wished to have Henry’s design for a new manor house. The earl had even gone so far as to purchase a parcel of land in Essex, a dozen miles to the east of Greybourne for the new building.
Henry’s beloved Brighton project might be on the brink of slipping from his grasp, but it was somewhat gratifying to know that he would not be destitute. But he wasn’t ready to give up on Brighton altogether just yet. This was his last resort, his very last chance, and Henry would swallow all of his p
ride because it was worth it.
If Maeve could ask for a plough from a man who believed that she should never have become a steward, then Henry could ask for a favour from a man who believed he never should have become an architect.
He would simply find a way and stop hiding behind excuses.
Henry raised the knocker but before he could let it fall, the door swung open. He took a hasty step back in startled surprise.
“Henry.” His father paused in the doorway. Though his hair was more white than brown now, he was still as imposing and unyielding as Henry remembered, and his dark eyes just as sharp. The duke wore a familiar expression of brooding annoyance, as if he had just discovered something unpleasant on the bottom of his shoe as opposed to the son he hadn’t seen in years on his doorstep.
“Hello, Father. It’s been a long time.”
The duke was pulling on his gloves as he moved down the step toward a waiting carriage. “I was just leaving and I’m in a bit of a rush, Henry. Will this take long?” his father said over his shoulder.
Not how have you been these last ten years, Henry or it’s good to see you, Henry, but will this take long? Some things never changed.
“No,” said Henry, falling into step behind the duke. “This won’t take long.”
“I thought you were in Brighton,” his father told him, a footman moving smartly to the side to pull open the carriage door. “At least, that was what I told Nash when he showed up here yesterday looking for you. He indicated it was quite urgent.”
That brought Henry up short. “Why was Nash here? And how would you know about Brighton?”
His father gave him a cursory glance. “I keep track of all the accomplishments of all my sons.”
“What?”
The duke scowled. “You heard me. Besides, I can’t get away from yours. The Earl of Chattonham won’t stop droning on and on about the Essex manor you’ve designed for him. He made a point to tell me that he was quite annoyed that you will not be available until you’re finished with Prinny’s little seaside retreat in Brighton. And the prince was standing right there. Honestly, for all the power and wealth the earl wields, he can be utterly bottle-headed at times.”
Henry winced. “About that.”
His father stepped into the carriage and made himself comfortable. “About what, Henry?” He waved the footman away impatiently.
“I will not be working on the Brighton project. I need…” he stopped. I need your help was on the tip of his tongue but saying it was proving harder than he ever imagined—
“Good Christ, Henry, what do you mean, you won’t be working on the Brighton project?” the duke demanded. “Did you manage to insult Prinny as well?”
Henry blinked. “What?”
“When I attended the prince an hour ago, he told me that you were one of the leading architects on that monstrosity he calls a palace.” The brooding look of distaste was back. “Please tell me you haven’t ruined that opportunity.”
Henry was trying to understand what was happening. “But John Nash—”
“Spoke very highly of you. And I suppose he must be good at what he does given the attention Prinny lavishes upon him. It’s good to have allies like that — ones who have the ear of royalty.”
“I…” Henry was at a loss.
“If you’ve come to gloat, get it over with.” The duke brushed non-existent dust from his trousers before pinning Henry with his gaze.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have managed to achieve considerable renown and exemplary connections through your chosen…profession.” The duke said profession like he had bitten into a lemon. “And I am willing to acknowledge that a position within the Church may not have been as advantageous.”
Henry’s jaw slackened. In his own cynical way, was his father apologizing?
“Thank you, Father,” he managed. “But I didn’t become an architect for exemplary connections.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody needs connections. I’d like to think I taught you something. It’s how the world works.” The duke reached to close the carriage door, the conversation clearly at an end. He paused, his gloved fingers on the edge. “What did you need, Henry?”
“I…” Henry trailed off.
“Speak up,” the duke snapped.
“I need you not to sell Greybourne.”
His father’s hand tightened on the door. “Indeed.”
“Indeed?”
“You should have told me what you did at Greybourne.”
Henry nodded. “You’re right. But I have every confidence that it can be made profitable under the guidance of—”
“What are you talking about?”
“The estate.” Henry looked at his father in confusion. “I’m talking about investing in the estate.”
“Who?”
“Me.” This conversation was getting more backwards by the second. “Wait, what are you talking about?”
“The chapel. What you did with the chapel.” His father had a strange expression on his face. “It was John Nash who told me what you did. He described it in detail.”
Henry could only stare.
“It’s…fitting. And it should have been done a long time ago.” The duke cleared his throat. “You knew Charles better than all of us. And you did a fine thing in his memory.” He cleared his throat again and snapped the door shut with jerky movements. “It was good to see you, Henry. I look forward to viewing the Pavilion when it’s completed.”
And with that, the carriage lurched into motion, leaving Henry standing on the pavement.
And wondering exactly what had just happened.
Chapter Sixteen
The chapel had become her new favourite place.
The evening sun slanted in through the two narrow windows, the new colored glass casting a kaleidoscope of light across the stone floor and up the pale stone walls opposite. Dust motes danced in the beams, swirling as Maeve left the door behind her open to let in the warm, late-summer air. She ran a hand over the back of one of the four short pews, the carved oak woodgrain polished to a soft sheen. It was a simple space of air and light and imagination, and if Maeve listened hard enough, she could hear the chink of armour and the sound of hooves as kings approached with their fair queens seeking a quiet sanctuary.
She walked further into the small space, stopping in front of the little raised dais, covered in an indigo cloth of fine wool. And realized that the sound of hooves was not imagined at all.
She didn’t turn when she heard him enter. Nor did she turn when he came to a stop behind her. It had only been a matter of time, she knew, since she had written that letter to John Nash. Since the architect had arrived and sat in this space as she had many evenings, alone with whatever thoughts he harboured within. He had departed after two days with a quiet thank you and Maeve had waited.
“What did you do?” Henry whispered behind her.
“What needed to be done.” She turned to look at him then and her heart contracted.
He was staring at the carving that sat on the raised dais, the little boy with the angel wings crouching on the base, his face turned up to the heavens. One of the boy’s hands was outstretched, and a tiny frog sat in the center of his palm.
Henry stood rooted where he was, his breathing uneven. Maeve stepped into his arms, his hands coming around her back to hold her against him.
“It’s perfect,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t…I can’t…”
“I’m glad you like it. It seemed like the right place for an angel.”
Henry’s arms tightened around her and he pressed a kiss to her temple.
Maeve rested her head against his chest and listened to his heart beat steadily. They stood like that for a long time in the quiet of the space, Maeve trying to imprint every second of this waning time she had with him to memory.
She had missed Henry. More than she had thought possible. It was going to be awful when he left again. But this was all worth it.
“Tell me what he said to you,” Maeve whispered. “Nash.”
“He said that he had not seen such inspired work in a very long time. That I had captured the very essence of history in the redesign and restoration of a thirteenth-century chapel.”
“Did he give you Brighton?”
“And Regent’s Park and Langham Place and the Theatre Royal Haymarket.”
Maeve closed her eyes, bittersweet emotion lancing through her. “I’m happy for you.”
“I haven’t accepted yet.”
She drew back to look at him. “Why?”
“Because I’m not sure if that is what I want anymore.”
“Henry, I saw your drawings of Brighton—”
“I’ll finish Brighton,” he said. “Because I wish to finish what I started. But I’ve been offered other commissions too. One not even a dozen miles from here.”
Maeve felt her heart constrict with hope. It was terrifying.
“Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?” he asked.
“Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?” she asked back. “Before you fled from the library like a side of beef with a pack of ravenous wolves after it.”
He pushed the hair back from her face with a rueful smile. “A side of beef can’t flee, Maeve.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I did tell you. I wrote you a letter. To tell you that I found a way for Greybourne. And to tell you that I was looking for my own way.”
“And I wrote John Nash a letter to tell him that I had also found a way.”
“But you didn’t write a letter to me.” Henry shook his head. “This would all have cost money, Maeve. Money that I wanted you to use for the estate—”
“Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you. But it was money that you gave me full authority to use at my discretion. And my discretion made sure that I would not see you sacrifice everything that you had worked so hard for.”
“You make me sound like a martyr. I’m not. The restoration of the estate was the right thing to do.”