AWAKENING THE SHY MISS

by Scott, Bronwyn

  From across the site, Dimitri waved to them, beckoning them over. ‘Ah, there he is,’ her father remarked with a chuckle. ‘Good thing he spotted us. I might not have recognised him today.’ Evie privately disagreed. Dimitri might be dressed like everyone else in durable trousers tucked into dusty boots and a loose cotton shirt of off-white homespun, the clothes of a labourer, not a prince, but she’d know him anywhere. He couldn’t disguise those cheekbones or those eyes.

  ‘Sir Hollis, Miss Milham, welcome!’ He strode towards them, stripping off working gloves as he greeted them. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a patch of tanned skin, and already splotched with sweat and dirt. He’d not only been working, he’d been working hard.

  ‘You must pardon my appearance; we have great hopes for today. We’re excavating the dining room, or what we hope is the dining room.’ He smiled broadly and his enthusiasm was infectious. ‘Let me show you. We have something of a map to work from.’ He led them over to a table set off to the side, an informal work station where papers were weighted down with rocks.

  He picked up a book and turned to a well-marked page. ‘There’s a two-page description of a villa that matches this one in location and there’s a reference to a west-facing dining area to catch the setting sun. If we’re right, we’ve found the villa of General Lucius Artorious.’ The air around him fairly crackled with his excitement and Evie felt her own excitement rise, stoked to its own height by the prospect of the project and by his nearness.

  He passed the book to her father. ‘The account is short, but it’s very detailed. It even names some specific items that were in the home. If we could find them, it would ensure the authenticity of the site.’ He smiled at Evie. ‘We’ve already found some items—nothing that’s listed, of course, but items that suggest a man of social standing and his family were here. Are you ready to draw? I have a workspace set up for you in the cataloguing department.’ His wink was just for her. ‘We use the term “department” very loosely here. I hope our working conditions aren’t too rustic for you, just canvas and some tables, but my assistant, Stefon, is brilliant and he can show you anything you need.’ Some of her excitement defused. An assistant, of course. It wasn’t as if the Prince could work privately with her. It was probably for the best. However would she concentrate on drawing if he was hovering nearby with his smiles and touches? She really had to get over this silliness.

  He took them through the site, gesturing to points of interest as they went. ‘To the left are the cooking facilities. We feed the workers three meals a day. To the right is the “museum” where we keep the items that are already catalogued.’ The site was truly impressive. This place was a little self-contained city. She’d not realised all the services necessary to support such a project. He made an off-hand motion to the left. ‘That tent out there is my private quarters.’

  Tent? Evie stopped to gape. It looked more like a pavilion. It was big and white, and set back from the site, perhaps for privacy. ‘You live out here?’ She quickened her step to keep up with her father and the Prince.

  The Prince nodded. ‘It’s a necessity. One must be vigilant or sites like this are easily vandalised. I’ve found there’s nothing like human presence to deter unwanted attentions.’ He threw an entirely manly glance at her father. ‘It helps that I’m a pretty good shot.’ The two of them laughed together. They seemed to have established an instant rapport that transcended their stations.

  Vandalism? She was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact the Prince was camping like a soldier on campaign. No matter how large the tent, outdoor living required a certain amount of concessions, especially if a man was used to living amid royal luxuries.

  ‘This is your workspace, Miss Milham.’ The Prince ushered her under a wide triangular expanse of heavy canvas tied between three trees. Beneath it sat desks and tables with boxes next to them, writing and drawing supplies on them. One other clerk was already busy at work. The Prince held out her chair. ‘The items to draw are here in this box. There are notes attached, I can’t guarantee all the handwriting is legible. The information will have to be recopied with the drawings and we’ll need three copies of each drawing.’

  Evie nodded, sitting down in the chair and taking in her workspace, her mind already organising the task in her head. She was eager to begin. This was no different than the work she did for her father. She surveyed the supplies, assuring the Prince she had all she needed.

  ‘Very well, I will leave you to it, Miss Milham. Again, let me tell you how very grateful I am to have someone of your skills assisting on the project.’ He turned to her father. ‘If I might borrow your expertise as well, Sir Hollis? I have a few questions.’ She watched them go with a smile. When Dimitri had visited, Evie had worried her family would be too casual for him, but now that she’d witnessed on two occasions just how hard he worked to put others at ease, to help them forget he was a prince, she was glad for her father’s easy-going nature. Dimitri seemed to like that her father extended that easy companionship to him. Her father enjoyed a quiet life and offered his hospitality and friendship to all those around him regardless of status. It seemed Dimitri responded to that. Just as she’d responded to his genuine appreciation of her work. Evie shook her head as if to refocus her thoughts. She needed to prove herself, she needed to show Dimitri his confidence in her hadn’t been misplaced. She couldn’t do that if she spent the day staring after him.

  It only took a few minutes to become entirely immersed in the task. There were pencils to sharpen and the pages of fresh journals to cut. Then all was ready. Evie took a deep breath. This was peaceful work, work that was both useful and relaxing. She could lose herself in the drawing just as she did with sewing, her mind absorbed by the process of bringing something to life with a stitch of thread, the shading of a pencil. The first item was a jewelled comb. Evie laid it on her table and began.

  Sketching in the morning was pleasant. There was a light breeze that filtered in regularly, enough to keep the workspace cool without ruffling the papers. Drawing in the afternoon, however, was less pleasant. The breeze had stopped and the heat had increased. So too had the flies. Nothing horrendous, she told herself, swiping at the pesky fly for the hundredth time, merely inconvenient. This wasn’t the desert after all. And she had only to look across the work site to appreciate the comforts of her space. Out in the direct August sun, men laboured with carts and rocks, brushing, sifting, hauling, while they strained and sweated, the Prince among them. Archaeology was dirty labour. His hair had come loose, his shirt untucked. He didn’t look terribly royal at the moment, just a man. Perhaps that was why he liked his work so much...

  ‘Evie!’ A shadow fell across her table, startling her. ‘What are you doing here? I would have thought you’d have left by now.’ Andrew moved some papers aside so he could sit on the table’s edge.

  ‘Careful! The ink isn’t quite dry!’ she squawked, appalled at his thoughtlessness.

  Andrew jumped up and stepped back, glancing down at his trousers. ‘Thanks for the warning, I wouldn’t have wanted to stain these trousers. They’re new.’

  ‘I was thinking about the paintings,’ Evie said crossly, still alarmed at how close she’d come to losing the afternoon’s work to a careless gesture. ‘They took hours to complete.’ His trousers! Hah! The drawings were much more important. Andrew had at least twenty pairs of trousers. The man was a clotheshorse. Usually she admired that.

  ‘Why, Evie,’ Andrew drawled, looking at her with more careful consideration than he’d given the drawings. ‘I do believe you’re put out with me.’ A boyish grin teased at his mouth and he looked devilishly handsome in his clean, creased buff trousers and coat of blue summer superfine.

  He looked immaculate and cool, not a speck of dust on him. Quite the opposite of herself. Suddenly self-conscious, Evie pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, hoping she didn’t look as hot as she felt
. Of course Andrew would see her now when she wasn’t looking her best or apparently acting it.

  She really had behaved like a shrew and to Andrew of all people. Surely that wasn’t how one got a man’s attention. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that these drawings are one of a kind and they took hours.’ Andrew wasn’t an artist. He couldn’t be expected to appreciate things like wet ink.

  Andrew studied the drawings, seeing them for the first time. He held a few of them up, while she cringed and hoped they’d dried sufficiently to be touched without smudging. ‘Evie, these are good, really good.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She could feel herself blush. When had Andrew ever complimented her? This was a first.

  ‘We should be thanking you.’ Andrew put the drawings back down on the pile. ‘Dimitri will be pleased. Speaking of which, did he find anything of interest today?’ He gave her a wide smile, his blue eyes twinkling.

  ‘Nothing from the dining room yet, they’re still working.’

  ‘That’s too bad. I know he has high hopes for it.’ Andrew reached for the box of catalogued artefacts. ‘What’s in here?’

  ‘There is a jewelled comb.’ Evie flipped through the pages of her drawings. ‘It was the first one I did today.’ She handed it to Andrew, pleased that his eyes lit up. She’d thought it the best she’d done all day. It had been a challenge to portray the tiny pieces of emerald that were still embedded on the comb’s edge.

  ‘Lovely. Museums are always interested in pieces like this.’ Andrew considered the drawing thoughtfully. ‘Where’s the comb itself?’

  ‘It’s already been taken over to the “museum”.’ Evie gestured towards the canvas collection centre, where Dimitri planned to store the artefacts.

  ‘Hmm.’ Andrew muttered more to himself. ‘Do you think you could make me a copy of the drawing? I’d love to have it for myself, a souvenir of this project.’

  ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ Evie beamed, pleased.

  The Prince strode up and Andrew stepped away from the table. ‘Ah, there you are. It’s about time you showed up now that it’s nearly supper,’ the Prince joked, slapping Andrew on the back before turning to more serious business. ‘How did it go today? Were you able to secure the supplies we need?’

  ‘Yes. Your small army of workers will have food, starting tomorrow. Plenty of vegetables, just how you like,’ Andrew assured him. He winked at Evie and explained. ‘While you have all been playing in the dirt here today, I’ve been in negotiations for food supplies.’ He picked up a drawing. ‘Evie has outdone herself on these.’ He handed one to the Prince and Evie found herself anxious. It was rather disconcerting to have someone look over her work right in front of her. She would have preferred Dimitri look at her work privately once she was home. She hardly dared to breathe while she waited for him to pass judgement.

  ‘Excellent,’ the Prince declared with a smile. ‘You’ve earned the right to go home.’ He shot a glance at Andrew. ‘Perhaps you might be so good as to escort her home?’ Her heart began to pound. This was almost too good to be true; Andrew had acknowledged her talent and now he was going to drive her home. So why was she spending more time staring at Dimitri, who was hot, dirty and tired from a day’s hard work, when there was immaculate, charming Andrew to stare at?

  ‘I would like nothing better.’ Andrew offered her his arm, drawing her attention through the effort. ‘I am parked just over here, Evie.’

  ‘Miss Milham,’ the Prince called after them, ‘we’ll see you in the morning?’ He had the manners to make it a question, not a command.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Evie called back, cheerfully. Today had been one of the best days she’d had in a long while and that wasn’t even counting the carriage ride to come.

  Chapter Six

  Which was just as well, Evie reflected, the curricle jolting to a halt outside her house in the summer twilight. The drive wasn’t nearly as exciting as it should have been. It was, in fact, something of a disappointment. Perhaps it was simply that the rest of the day had been far more exciting than it should have been and all else paled by comparison. After all, it wasn’t every day a girl got to catalogue and draw items that were a thousand years old. A few centuries old, that was one thing. She’d done that plenty of times for her father, even for herself when she drew her tapestry patterns. But a thousand? That was incredible and she had the ink stains to prove it. She clenched her hands into fists, hoping Andrew wouldn’t notice, not when he looked like perfection itself handling the reins on the seat beside her, his hair burning gold in the sinking sunlight, his clothes the height of summer fashion, straight from London. He, like most gentlemen of her acquaintance, would find it odd for a girl to get excited about artefacts and ink.

  Andrew set the brake and she let herself engage in a moment of fantasy. Would this be what life would be like with Andrew? What if they were pulling up to their house after a day spent engaged in the pursuit of history? Would they go inside and sip cool lemonade before dinner? Would they talk through the finds of the day on a back veranda, a candlelit dinner laid before them? Would they watch the sun sink together before he took her hand and led her up to the bedroom?

  It occurred to her that when she’d thought of Andrew in the past, it had never been with an eye to finding any intellectual fulfilment with him. Andrew drew a woman with his looks, with the way he carried himself. Those were always the things she noticed about him first. She wasn’t alone. They were the things every girl in the parish talked about when they talked about handsome Andrew Adair. But now that she knew he loved history too, it seemed more important than ever that she win him. They would have so much in common, so much to build a life on. It proved her instincts had been right all these years of gazing at him from afar. She and Andrew belonged together, no matter what reservations Beatrice might hold.

  Andrew came around to her side, reaching to help her down. His hands were at her waist, swinging her to the ground and breaking her out of her daydream. She stumbled a little as he set her down. Andrew laughed as he steadied her. ‘Evie, where are you? You’re miles from here.’ She loved his blue eyes when he laughed, all sparks and lights. Today, they were laughing for her. That should be a victory of sorts. How long had she waited for such a reaction?

  ‘Just enjoying the scenery.’ Evie dared the flirtatious line before she could think better of it. She smiled up at him. He was tall, nearly as tall as the Prince, who was more than six feet. She got a beaming smile in return, but nothing more. What had she expected? Andrew was a gentleman.

  Andrew ushered her up the steps to the front door, his hand skimming the small of her back, a gesture her body and mind barely registered. She waited for more: for heat, for recognition. Nothing came. Perhaps the touch was too insignificant. It wasn’t as if the front steps of her home was a setting designed to coax any intimacy. But the lack of any registration left her strangely let down. She felt as if she was waiting for something that had not yet arrived and she was loath to let Andrew leave on such a low note because of it.

  ‘Would you like to come in? I’m sure my father would love to talk about the project. The Prince gave him a thorough tour this morning.’ She tried not to hold her breath, tried not to appear too wistful. It was just a casual invitation issued to a long-time neighbour.

  Andrew gave her another broad smile. For a moment she thought he’d say yes. Then he shook his head. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I must decline. I’ve had a long day and another early start tomorrow. You do too. The Prince is lucky to have you assisting us in this endeavour.’ He held her eyes for an extended moment. ‘I will look forward to my drawing, Evie.’

  He strode back down the steps and drove away, leaving her still waiting. Still wanting something.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until the end of dinner with her parents, over the cheese and fruit course, that she understood what she
’d been waiting for and why. She’d wanted her body to register his touch as it had registered the Prince’s; with a rush of heat and sharp awareness.

  Evie nearly choked on a slice of pear. What did she think she was doing? Comparing the Prince and Andrew? That was a piece of wanton madness if ever there was one. She tried to rationalise the direction of her thoughts. Was it too much to expect that she feel something at Andrew’s touch? And why not? After all, the Prince had only touched her amid a crowd in a public venue. His touch had been nothing more than what politeness demanded, yet she’d come alive at it. Both times. It had been much the same when he’d come to view the tapestry.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, dear?’ Her mother gave her a concerned look. She had to be careful here or her high-strung mother would pester her all night if she thought anything was wrong.

  Evie answered with a sip of her water. She couldn’t plausibly conceive of answering that question with any amount of truth. It would give her mother a fit if she knew what Evie had spent dinner thinking about. Evie had learned long ago to keep her imagination to herself.

  Her mother rose from the table and smiled at her father. ‘Why don’t we all move into the sitting room? Mrs Brooks has left the doors open to catch the breeze.’ To Evie, she said, ‘I have a letter from one of your sisters.’ She retrieved a letter from a pocket in her skirt and smiled as if she held a great prize. If it was from Diana, maybe she did. Diana had married two years ago to an earl in Cornwall and promptly popped out an heir. Evie would bet money the contents of the letter held news of a spare arriving in the spring. If the letter was from her other sister, Gwen, perhaps the letter was less of a prize. Gwen had married a baronet’s second son who aspired to be a don at Oxford. Evie had sewn both of their wedding gowns.