‘You do like it as much as me, don’t you?’ she asked, her expression becoming troubled. ‘You aren’t having second thoughts?’
‘Of course not, why would you think that?’
‘No reason. You’ve been a little distracted, that’s all.’
Owen had, once again, underestimated his wife’s powers of observation. ‘I’m not having second thoughts, Phoebe. I’ve not been sleeping very well, that’s all.’ Which was true. ‘There’s so much to think about, if we are to be up and running for the new Season,’ he added. Which was also true, but it was not what kept him awake. Or more accurately, prevented him from going back to sleep. Resolutely, he put the latest development in his asylum nightmare to the back of his mind, and smiled down reassuringly at his wife. ‘If you are happy with this place, then I am delighted.’
She wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘We’ll remember this moment in the future, when we are the toast of London, won’t we? We’ll remember the day when we first walked into this place and we just knew. Don’t you think?’
‘I don’t think, I know we will.’
‘Tomorrow is the first day of the new year. It’s an omen, isn’t it? Everything is falling into place. It’s going to be perfect.’
He couldn’t bear to disappoint her. He so desperately wanted her to be right. ‘Perfect,’ Owen said. And kissed her.
* * *
‘Good morning.’ Phoebe forced herself to remain seated as Owen walked into the room. It was better, she had learned these last three weeks, to gauge his mood before rushing into his arms for their first kiss of the day. Today, his smile was forced. Today, he kissed her cheek as he pulled out his chair. So instead of an embrace, the day began with her putting together a small plate of breakfast which she knew, with a sinking heart, that he would only pretend to eat.
She poured him a cup of coffee, trying to assess his mood. There were dark shadows under his eyes, but he hated her to ask him how he had slept and she hated this constant reminder that though they made love as frequently as ever and if anything even more passionately, they had never actually spent the night in the same bed.
‘There you are,’ she said, putting the plate of food down in front of him.
‘What is that?’
‘Smoked haddock and a poached egg.’
‘No, that noise.’
‘I can’t hear anything.’
Pushing his chair back, he threw open the door to the breakfast parlour, standing stock still in the doorway for several painful seconds before returning to his seat.
‘What did you hear?’ Phoebe asked.
‘Nothing.’ Owen picked up his fork, stared at his plate, then put his fork down again. ‘Has the kitchen cat had kittens?’
‘No. Did you think you heard...?’
‘Nothing!’ He sighed heavily, then reached over the table to cover her hand. ‘Sorry. I’m a little tired, that’s all. This looks lovely. Tell me what your plans are for the day while I eat it.’
She did so, pretending to concentrate on her own breakfast as Owen forced his down with grim determination, finishing with an equally grim smile. ‘So, what are your plans?’
They had not changed in the last ten minutes, but he clearly hadn’t heard a word she’d said. ‘The usual,’ Phoebe said brightly. ‘Check on progress at the café. Listen to our foreman’s reasons for why progress has once again failed to be as expected and as he predicted. Extract yet another promise that he will make up the time.’
Owen threw back the last of his coffee. When he smiled this time, the stranger who had been sitting beside her vanished, and she was once again breakfasting with her husband. ‘I’d offer to sort him out for you,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think the threat of a kick up the backside from me will be nearly as effective as one of those little smiles of yours. “Oh, Mr Gilligan, if you can see your way to making up time, it would make me so happy,”’ he teased, clasping his hands and assuming a saintly look.
Phoebe giggled. ‘I do not sound so pathetic.’
‘Tragic, not pathetic. And it works too, so I won’t interfere.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to come with me all the same? The new stoves are arriving.’
‘It’s a tempting offer, but I’ve a ton of paperwork to catch up on. I’ll see you at dinner.’
As he got to his feet, Phoebe with difficulty refrained from asking him yet again if he was worried about something or if she had offended him, knowing that he would either tell her to stop being foolish, or to have a little faith in herself. And if she asked him if he had a headache, he’d snap at her, though she was sure that his head had been paining him. He was drinking more. Could that be the cause? Could he be drinking because he’d taken on too much? But when she’d asked him that the other day, he’d barked at her. ‘I’m not an invalid,’ he’d said.
He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and she turned her face so that their lips met. He stilled and her heart skipped a beat as she silently pleaded with him to kiss her. Which he did, but only fleetingly, patting her shoulder as if she were a child needing reassurance.
* * *
It had taken another three weeks for the stoves to be delivered. Finally, they had arrived, and Phoebe had come to inspect them. It was Sunday, so she had the place to herself and was intent on assessing the true state of progress as opposed to the foreman’s version of it. Her first impression was that Mr Gilligan had indeed made up for lost time. Stepping inside, she was assailed by the smell of fresh paint. The sconces had been fitted in the freshly varnished wood panelling, the floor had received another coating of wax, and the shelves which would hold glasses, decanters and jugs fixed to the wall where the waiters’ station would be. The banquettes had been built and were awaiting the upholsterer.
Upstairs, the decor was also done, the walls painted red, the floor tiled black and white, just like the Procope, and the carpenters had begun work on the seating. But it was in the kitchen where the main transformation was taking place. The two huge stoves were in position waiting to be fitted. The scullery now had sinks, and the building work required for the various pantries, larders and storage cupboards was completed.
Phoebe tested the pump, giving a squeak of delight when water gurgled out of the tap. Perching on a stack of planks, she took off her soaking gloves, intending to check the list in her notebook, but the heart-shaped ring distracted her. She had been so sure it was the prelude to a declaration, but it was almost six weeks since Owen had placed it on her finger, and as her hopes faded, fear took their place.
Frowning down at the ruby-encrusted diamond, she tried to persuade herself that her fears were unfounded, the product of her own insecurities, but her instincts told her otherwise. Christmas day had not been the start of something between them but the beginning of the end. A slow, painful end, but she was coming to believe it was nevertheless an end.
Owen had changed that night. Whether he had had some sort of recurrence of his previous condition was the obvious question, but so far she hadn’t had the courage or the conviction to ask. His accident had made him morose and numb. He was neither of those things. They made love ever more frequently. She had only to touch him, hand him his plate at breakfast, press his shoulder when he was poring over papers, for him to pull her into his arms and kiss her—not gentle, teasing kisses, not affectionate kisses, but always kisses with intent. Sometimes she felt as if he were trying to devour her, his need was so insatiable. But then so was her own. She craved him, just as much as he craved her. As if a clock was counting down their time together.
Why would she think that? Owen was not Pascal. Owen admired her. He encouraged her. He understood her so well that he’d been able to make her see herself in a whole new light. He hadn’t told her he loved her, but he showed her he did, not only when they made love, but in a hundred different ways. He knew how to make her tea just the way she liked it. He knew that she nev
er added milk save to the first cup. He knew just how to rub her feet without tickling them. She had lost count of the number of excursions they had taken to London’s markets, all of them initiated by Owen, and though he claimed still to be a culinary philistine, though she knew he would happily have gone the rest of his life without being able to tell a chanterelle mushroom from a cep, he knew the difference now. He even had a book, Forest Flora and Fungi. Recalling the day he’d brought it home, flourishing it under her nose, Phoebe smiled. He had promised to take her foraging for mushrooms, but only when he could be sure that he wouldn’t inadvertently poison the pair of them.
He had not told her that he loved her, but he did love her. For all her flaws and her insecurities and her scandalous behaviour and her unconventional ambitions, he loved her. Why would he have given her this ring in the shape of a heart, save as a token of that love? He had married her partly to find a purpose in life, and he had found it. He was no longer a recluse. He had not returned to his old life, but that was because he didn’t want his old life. Or so he said. She had given him a purpose. He said that too. But he hadn’t told her he loved her. And she loved him so very, very much.
There, it was out in the open, no taking it back now. Not that she wanted to. She loved him. She pressed the diamond to her lips. She loved Owen in a way that made her feelings for Pascal seem utterly trite. She hadn’t loved Pascal, she’d loved what he represented, and the life she thought she was leading with him. But Owen—oh, for Owen she would live any kind of life, provided she could be with him. Though the sure and certain knowledge that he would never ask her to lead any kind of life other than the one she wanted, was one of the many reasons she loved him so very much. He had changed her—no, not changed, he’d made her a better version of herself. She hoped that was what she had done for him. She had almost come to believe it.
She must not get things out of proportion. This was an anxious time for both of them—and this place, this café-in-the-making, was the reason for it. That was why he was tired, had the headache, was short-tempered. Owen hadn’t told her he loved her simply because the time wasn’t right. And she hadn’t told him because—because she was just a little bit afraid. Quite a big bit, truth be told. Scared that she might be rejected. That Owen’s headaches and tiredness and short temper were caused by his not loving her, and he was feeling guilty about it. He could be regretting the change in their marriage, from platonic to passionate, and because he was such an honourable man, he was trying to steel himself to tell her.
No! Phoebe jumped to her feet, catching the notebook which had been sitting on her lap just before it fell on to the dusty floor. She was making a mountain out of a molehill. Owen loved her. She loved Owen. When the café was launched, the time would be right for them both to admit it. Until then, she would have to guard against these pointless and debilitating and destructive musings, and focus on making a success, first of this place, and then of her marriage.
Chapter Ten
‘No need to ask you where you’ve been,’ Owen said. ‘Your boots are dusty, there’s red paint on your cloak, you have soot on your nose and I’m pretty sure that’s a cobweb in your hair.’
‘I wouldn’t have disturbed you here, only Bremner told me you’d been asking for me. I’ll go and get cleaned up. I only wanted to let you know that I was back.’
‘Don’t go yet. Jasper called while you were out. That’s why I’ve only just finished my exercises. I was catching up on some reading while I cooled down before I take a bath. Come in, Phoebe, stop hovering at the door.’
She came in hesitantly, casting him sidelong glances before seating herself nearest the fire, clearly trying to assess his mood. It pained him to see her do this, for he’d half-convinced himself that she hadn’t noticed his erratic moods. Just thinking about his other new symptom made his heart begin to race. So the trick was not to dwell on it, Owen told himself, taking a couple of deep breaths.
‘There’s a new piece in the Town Crier this week,’ he told Phoebe, handing her the copy of the rag. ‘Jasper brought it, though apparently it was Olivia who spotted it in the first place.’
‘Miss Braidwood reads this!’
‘Everyone reads it, Phoebe. They dread finding their name in it, and are disappointed when they don’t.’
‘I would be delighted if our name never featured again.’
‘Nonsense. Read what it says and tell your clever husband that he was right.’
She smiled at that, no longer wary but simply amused. He could not resist that smile of hers—no one could, male or female—and the most charming thing of all about it was that Phoebe was blissfully unaware of the fact. He’d watched her with the tradesmen at the café. She didn’t flirt, she didn’t play the simpering miss though he teased her about it. In fact she had no airs and graces at all, she simply told them what she wanted done. And smiled. And then gave him the credit when what she wanted was done in double-quick time!
‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked, seeing that she had finished reading.
‘My husband is a genius. “Mixed dining comes to London for the first time. London is set to loosen its stays and mimic the Continental way, with the opening of Mrs Harrington’s exciting new venture. Following their landmark appearance in Crockford’s dining room, the Harringtons are enhancing their ground-breaking reputation by opening a restaurant whose exclusivity will be determined by the limited number of dining tables rather than the cost, or the gender of the diners,”’ Phoebe read. ‘I bet I know where they got that from. I told Mr Gilligan that he and his wife could command a table any time. He said they wouldn’t be able to afford it and I said that my intention was to serve a menu that any tradesman could afford.’
‘By the sounds of it, your Mr Gilligan will have his dinner paid for him by the Town Crier. Jasper has asked me to make sure he has a table at the opening night.’
‘Of course. I wonder if he’ll bring Miss Braidwood as a guest. He seems to be seeing rather a lot of her.’
Owen shrugged. ‘Their mothers are school friends.’
‘You don’t think that it could be more a case of Jasper and Miss Braidwood becoming friends?’
‘They are friends—at least they’ve known each other all their lives. You know, as children, their mothers visiting each other, that kind of thing.’
‘I didn’t mean that kind of thing,’ Phoebe said drily. ‘Never mind.’
‘Good grief, you don’t mean Jasper and Olivia are becoming an item?’
‘Would you be upset?’
‘Why on earth would I be upset?’
‘No reason,’ Phoebe said, in a way that meant there was every reason but she didn’t want to tell him.
‘You can’t possibly imagine that I’d be jealous?’
She shook her head, but she wouldn’t look at him, pretending to flick through the scandal sheet.
Appalled that his moods had caused her even a moment’s doubt, Owen leaned over to pull the newspaper from her grasp, forcing her to look up. ‘I’m married to you,’ he said firmly. ‘Provided it makes Olivia happy, I don’t give a damn who she marries.’
‘Do I—are you happy, being married to me, Owen? Only these last few weeks—since the start of this year, you’ve been—’
‘I’ve been like a bear with a sore head,’ he interrupted hastily. ‘I know, and I’m sorry for it. After two years of inaction, I may have been overdoing it somewhat.’
It was the only believable lie he could think of, but he regretted it the moment he saw Phoebe’s face fall, guessing before she spoke that she was about to blame herself.
‘It’s my fault,’ she said, and Owen groaned inwardly.
‘No, it’s mine. After two years of wrapping myself in cotton wool, I’ve allowed my new-found enthusiasm to get the better of me. I’ve overstretched myself, it’s as simple as that.’
‘So if you rein back a bit,
you’ll be perfectly well again, won’t you?’
He hated lying to her. But was it really a lie, to say what he fervently hoped? ‘It’s what I intend to do.’
‘In that case I won’t burden you by reporting the latest progress.’
‘I didn’t mean I wanted to return to doing nothing.’
‘It’s Sunday. It should be a day of rest. I’ll go...’
‘Stay. Please. We should both have a day of rest, you’ve been working all hours.’
‘I’m enjoying it so much, it doesn’t feel like work.’
If nothing else, Owen thought, he had given her this. ‘Have you given any thought to a name for your exclusive establishment?’
‘What about Café Phoebe? Simple and to the point.’
‘And a bit too obvious, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘The London Procope Café, then?’
‘We could have a little brass plaque put on our upstairs table: Here, in this exact seat, in the Procope Café Paris in August 1828, Owen met Phoebe.’
‘The Town Crier would love that.’
‘I’m rather fond of it myself.’
‘Who would have thought that meeting would turn out to be so momentous?’
‘I always had a sense that it might. I would have turned up for our planned reunion if it had been humanly possible,’ Owen said.
‘I went. And I waited. And you didn’t come. But eventually I came to you.’
‘And that was the second-best day of my life. The best being our wedding day, in case you were wondering, though it’s pretty obvious to me.’
‘It was the best day of my life too, Owen. I—I’ve been worried that you were regret—’
‘Don’t even say it. I haven’t. Not once. And I won’t. Not ever. I promise.’
She blinked away a tear, and Owen cursed himself again. He would get over what was currently tormenting him. And if he didn’t, he’d make a better job of keeping it hidden. ‘So, if not Café Phoebe, or the London Procope Café, what is it to be then?’
A Wife Worth Investing In Page 18