Although days had passed, although the doors of his workshop guarded against everything contrary to logic and reason and knowledge, Elliott could not free his mind from one barbed word and its invisible film of patronizing poison. The one Miss Bradbury had flung at him so casually, so carelessly. Fanciful. A very pretty term for imaginative foolishness.
Grinding his teeth, Elliott begged all his concentration to focus on the task at hand—increasing the mobility of the automaton wren’s neck. He examined the parts of gleaming brass. Tighten this here. Loosen this there. Another day’s work and he should have the mechanics of the preening action smoothed out and the wren completed. Then he could add it to his useless collection of mechanical accomplishments that remained unseen and unappreciated.
“Nephew, your little hobby is fanciful, not scientific.”
Elliott slammed his pliers on the desk. There was that word again. Sinking against the back of his chair, he cupped both hands over his chin and mouth. Miss Gwendolyn Bradbury was quite the play actress. For a few brief moments, she’d actually made him believe that she respected his work. That she cared enough to learn more about automata. That she was different than snide, belittling Aunt Agatha. Yet it was nothing but another veil. Another show that concluded in his humiliation.
Snatching up the rivet-extracting pliers again, Elliott delved into the wren’s neck. Work. That would clear his head. Pushing forward to new inventions, scientific advances, and discoveries. That was all that mattered. It certainly mattered more than Miss Bradbury’s estimation of him. Let the pretender think what she would. He did not care. He didn’t.
A crash resounded out in the hallway. Elliott’s gaze flew toward the door. Had Harrison dropped his dinner tray? Unlikely; it was early yet for dinner. Maybe Mrs. Nesbitt had taken a stumble? He strode across the workshop, flung open the door, and stepped into the hall. A hard object jabbed the instep of his slipper. Blast. Yanking away his foot, he discovered a fork from the tray he’d set in the corridor after luncheon. His plate, teacup, and the tray’s other contents also lay scattered about the floor along with a book and puddle of the remaining cream he’d not poured in his tea. What had happened here?
Young Molly from the kitchens returned the assaulting fork to the tray while a second woman assisted by mopping up the cream.
Miss Bradbury.
Elliott took a slow step backward. Kneeling on the carpeted runner, Miss Bradbury worked in all diligence with no apparent concern about soiling her dress. No concern about doing a menial task. She did not even seem bothered to be working alongside a kitchen maid. She was simply helping. Would Cynthia have done likewise?
Looking up from her task, Molly caught sight of him. A weak smile propped itself on her face with a crutch. “ ’ello, Lord Carlyle.”
One mention of his name and Miss Bradbury shot to her feet. “Lord Carlyle.” Her eyes widened to fill the circumference of her rounded spectacles. She motioned the damp rag in her hand toward the floor. “I take sole responsibility for this mess. If I’d possessed better sense than to have my face in a book while walking down the corridor, we wouldn’t have collided into each other. Please…do not punish Molly.”
Elliott scratched the nape of his neck. Never had he seen someone raised in the upper-class London scene demonstrate such concern for a servant’s welfare. Not even his sweet Cynthia. He looked at Molly then to the cracked teacup on the tray. Cynthia’s smile seemed to appear on the fractured porcelain, taut and disparaging. “I said Assam, not Darjeeling. The kitchen maid shouldn’t be so stupid as to confuse the two. Take this back immediately, and have someone competent brew a fresh pot. ” His jaw tightened.
How wrong he’d been about his sweet Cynthia even then.
“You all right, Lord Carlyle?” Molly hoisted the tray onto her hip. “I’ll ’ave this cleaned oop soon.”
Miss Bradbury nodded. “Indeed, we will, and again I must ask that any chastisement be directed toward myself, as the mess resulted solely from my clumsiness.”
Why did Miss Bradbury feel the need to beg for mercy? Did she think him so unfeeling? “There will be no punishment. It was obviously an accident, not an act of malice. As for chastisement, a simple ‘watch your footing’ is all I think necessary.” Elliott turned his gaze to Molly. “You were not hurt, I hope?”
“No, m’lord.”
“Good. Then you best take the debris to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Nesbitt what can be done about the carpet.”
Nodding, Molly took her leave. Now with he and Miss Bradbury alone, the climate in the corridor altered, mimicking the environmental traits found at the peak of a mountain range—thin air, bitter cold, and overwhelming silence. Miss Bradbury stood, gaze darting about as if unsure where it belonged. Tension pulled the muscles in Elliott’s neck and shoulders. Should he say something? Take his leave to the safety of the workshop? The latter idea held far more appeal.
Harrison’s voice haunted his mind like a specter. “You can’t just cast the girl aside.”
Elliott sighed through clenched teeth. Blast, that Harrison. Fine, he would reach out. After all, Miss Bradbury had shown kindness in assisting Molly. But he refused to lower his guard. Her devious nature might reassert itself, accepting his offered hand only to yank him down from the precipice’s edge.
Clasping both hands behind his back, Elliott cleared his throat. “I hope you’re also unharmed. No injuries?”
Miss Bradbury’s jaw slackened. She fiddled with her glasses and averted her gaze to the cream-saturated carpet. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
The intense silence resumed, and his posture suffered under its oppressive weight. She did think him unfeeling. Is that how he came across? As a coldhearted louse who cared not if a lady was injured?
As if in answer, Miss Bradbury’s gaze remained fixed to the floor.
The burden for further conversation apparently rested on his incapable shoulders. What more could he say? He’d never possessed a talent for small talk. Should he do something, offer her tea?
Miss Bradbury shifted on her feet as if eager to flee.
Whatever Harrison said, the young lady before him did not desire his attentions. Nor did she hold him in very high regard. Not that her good opinion carried any value or importance. That fact had already been established. Hadn’t it?
Shaking his head, Elliott allowed his arms to fall relaxed at his sides. Of course it had. Now, better release Miss Bradbury from his company lest she suffer greater distress. And he, greater embarrassment. “You may leave the rag here and return to your book. Mrs. Nesbitt will tend to the carpet.”
Without a word or glance his way, Miss Bradbury placed the cloth on the floor, secured her fallen book, and escaped down the hallway. Posthaste.
Chapter 5
Warm light brushed against Elliott’s eyelids, inviting him to awaken and greet the day. An invitation that was becoming increasingly irritating. He must ask Mrs. Nesbitt to acquire curtains for the workshop window. With a groan, he opened his eyes and lifted his head off the worktable. Pain wrenched his neck, tightening the muscles. He rubbed a hand along his nape and arched in a stretch. Maybe he should request that a cot be brought into the workshop as well. He was sleeping here every night anyway. Might as well be comfortable.
Elliott rose to his feet and ambled over to the window. Instead of the usual dusting of dew, vast puddles of water had formed overnight in low-lying areas. Leaves and snapped branches of varying size and thickness littered the grounds. Had there been a storm?
A yawn escaped his lips. Yes, he vaguely recalled hearing the presence of a strong gale. Rumbling thunder. Howling wind. The slapping of rain against the window. Yet there’d been another sound as well. A crash? The wind must have hurled a stray branch through a window. Hopefully that was the extent of the damage.
Elliott rubbed sleep from his eyes. Although, come to think of it, the clatter had sounded quite severe. Loud enough to rouse him from a sound slumber, which was no small accomplishment. He’d best
locate Harrison and the groundskeeper to launch an investigation and evaluation of the damages.
After straightening his rumpled shirt and slipping on a waistcoat, Elliott ventured out into the corridor. Not long into his search he came upon a quick-striding Harrison. “I’m glad you’ve awakened, Lord Carlyle. You’re needed in the library.”
Blast, not the library. Of all the rooms to be damaged… “How bad?”
“Oftentimes things are not as bad as they seem.” Gray brows furrowing, Harrison embodied the definition of grave. “I’m afraid this is not one of those times.”
A sinking feeling weighted Elliott’s heart. The books. Sidestepping around Harrison, he rushed toward the library and then skidded to a halt in the open doorway. A tree. There was a tree in his library. In the midst of the storm, the giant tree he’d climbed on as a boy had sought shelter in his favorite chair—by toppling leaves-first straight through the window.
Elliott blinked.
The tree and destruction remained.
He staggered into the library, struggling to absorb the surrounding chaos. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Smashed table and chair legs poked out amid the fallen tree’s mangled branches. Leaves skittered about the room chased by an invading breeze while water dripped from the bookcases nearest the window and gathered in puddles. And the books…
The important knowledge he’d collected and preserved, now strewn. Everywhere.
On the glass shards that cut through pages.
In the water that bled ink.
Everywhere.
Elliott crouched and picked up a sodden book, one of the few educational volumes written about automation and printed in an extremely limited quantity. Could it be repaired? Could any of them be repaired? He stood and took in the damage once more. How was he going to salvage everything? His sweeping gaze settled on the automation book—damp pages sticking, melding together; black ink bleeding, seeping into margins; words disappearing, erasing precious knowledge. Ruined.
Exhaling a long breath, he released the volume and let it fall to the floor. He couldn’t salvage everything. All he could do was refocus, rebuild, and replace the titles that weren’t one of a kind. Anything irreplaceable and beyond mending must be considered a loss.
“Harrison.” Elliott massaged his brow with all ten fingers, willing away the looming shadow of a migraine. He needed to think, clearly and quickly. They must waste no time. Options must be discussed, servants organized.
Harrison appeared to the right in his peripheral vision. “Ready to assist, my lord. How would you like us to begin?”
“Priority number one is to move all the volumes into another room. Select whichever room you deem suitable. Then instruct the servants to box up the books that are unscathed and set aside the ones in need of repair. Any with water damage must be tended to immed—”
Crunching glass drew Elliott’s gaze to the door where Miss Bradbury stood, mouth agape. He held back a groan. Blast and blazes. After weeks of successful avoidance, she would appear now. At the very moment when he most needed to be free of the mind-fogging emotions she dredged up. The migraine broke from the shadows and pulsed in his temples. He simply couldn’t deal with her now. Could. Not.
“Excuse me, Harrison.” Elliott marched in the direction of Miss Bradbury. Were those tears in her eyes or simply the light glaring off her spectacles? “I must ask that—”
“Anything. I’m ready to do whatever is needed.” An odd waver affected Miss Bradbury’s diction. “Simply tell me how I can be of service.”
Elliott’s headache worsened by the second. Normally he would welcome another pair of hands, but having Miss Bradbury working alongside would be more hindrance than help. A painful distraction. One he couldn’t afford to entertain. “Your assistance isn’t required. Please vacate the premises, and for the duration of reconstruction, stay out of the way.”
In the vacant corridor, Gwen leaned her back against the wall. Despite having seen the devastated library, her mind and senses still wrestled to process the sight. The library was destroyed. Her haven ruined. What was she to do with herself now? Without the reading nook, the books, she had nothing here. Nothing.
The brimming tears she’d suppressed in front of Lord Carlyle spilled over, one by one, first misting then completely fogging her spectacles. Why couldn’t Lord Carlyle refrain from pushing her away, just this once? She neither asked for, nor expected, his affections. She only desired to assist in minimizing the damage and make repairs to her—his—books. Something she was quite capable of doing. Even Mamma had acknowledged her ability. “You are quite skilled, my dear. Pity you’re not a son, for then it might be useful.” True, it wasn’t a compliment by any stretch of the definition, but for Mamma it was near enough.
Gwen sighed. If Lord Carlyle could only be made to listen. It might take days to get a professional bookbinder from London out to Briarcliff Park, which would be much too late for many of the waterlogged volumes. She could help now. Ought she to say something or do as she’d been told and stay out of the way?
Gwen took off her glasses and squinted in the direction of the library door. Although she had no desire for confrontation, if she was to have any happiness in this house, she needed the library and its books repaired as soon as yesterday. A deadline that required immediate action.
Withdrawing a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, Gwen cleaned the tear spots off her spectacles and then wiped the white linen over her face, drying each eye. Now somewhat presentable, she returned the spectacles and handkerchief to their former place. She faced the library and took a deep breath. Courage.
Gwen opened the door.
Near the shattered window, Lord Carlyle and Harrison stood together, conversing. She walked straight to their sides and spoke without introduction. “Lord Carlyle, I don’t wish to blatantly defy your orders, but I must insist that I be allowed to utilize my skill and tend to the damaged books before they are lost.”
Lord Carlyle raised an eyebrow. “Skill?”
“Yes, skill.” Burning under his and Harrison’s fixed gazes, Gwen forced herself not to look away or look down. She had better push through without pause lest she be interrupted or worse: lose her nerve. “As a child, I taught myself the trade of bookbinding by reading copious instructional texts and asking questions of bookbinders in Papa’s employ. Eventually, Papa dispensed with sending for professionals and began coming to me for binding and repair work. Loose pages resewn onto bands, torn ones pasted, et cetera. Point being that whether or not you require my capable assistance, the damaged books here do.”
Harrison smirked as if impressed.
Meanwhile Lord Carlyle eyed her with an illegible expression.
She waited, breath held. Please, please, say yes.
After exhaling a long, slow breath, Lord Carlyle nodded in consent.
For once, allowing her to stay.
Chapter 6
Lemuel Gulliver would live to see another day.
Tucked in a dry corner of the library, far from the devastated window, Gwen mended a copy of Gulliver’s Travels. More books lay on a table before her in neat rows. A sliver of bare space divided the books into two sections—the right section needing light, eventual repair and the left needing significant, immediate repair. She still couldn’t believe Lord Carlyle had granted her request to station a literary triage in the library. From here she could reach and treat her paper patients faster. As well as keep an eye on the library’s reconstruction.
Across the way, Lord Carlyle attended to his automaton inventions while male servants removed debris. Three days now and still they worked. Hauling away furniture and branches. Sweeping up tricky glass shards that hid in plain sight. Cutting the tree into smaller pieces to be removed, stored, and used for firewood. She shook her head. Who knew one storm could wreak so much havoc?
A young footman approached, carrying a book in each hand. “Here you go, Lady Carlyle.”
Gwen forced herself not to cringe as she received
the volumes. Would she ever be able to hear that name without envisioning Cynthia? “Thank you, Tomlin. These books on the right may join the other lightly battered volumes in the dining room. Gently, now.”
With a nod, Tomlin gathered the indicated books and departed. Gwen turned her attention to the new finds in her hands. Let’s see. A text entitled The Mechanics of Clockworks, suffering a broken spine and complete page detachment. This would require urgent pasting lest any pages be lost amid the shuffle of workers. She placed it on the left side of the table. Next to the copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, which was in fact a first printing and, thankfully, still in near-mint condition. One of the few that had managed to come through the gale unscathed. She placed the book in a crate beside the table and then wiped her hands on her apron. Now back to Gulliver.
As Gwen worked, a faint clank alerted her that Lord Carlyle had placed yet another invention on the table situated to her left, his automata triage. The whole morning long he had gone by her, back and forth. First, gathering his inventions on the table and assessing the damage. Then transporting the ones in need of repair to his workshop and boxing the remainder to be stored until the library’s restoration. All in complete silence.
Lord Carlyle had yet to grace her with even a glance since she had marched in the other day proclaiming her skill and demanding to help. A reaction she’d quite expected. After all, working in the same room did not equate working together.
A lowering crate entered Gwen’s line of view as it touched the floor in front of the table. More patients, no doubt. “Thank you, Tomlin.” She raised her head. “I will see to those—”
Lord Carlyle stood behind the crate, staring at her dead-on.
“I…I th–thought you were Tomlin.” Her cheeks warmed to a scalding temperature. Brilliant, Gwen. Care to mumble any more statements of the obvious?
A small smile broke through the corner of Lord Carlyle’s mouth but was quickly boarded over and secured with the cold spikes of indifference. He began to open the crate. “These are the books Mr. Bradbury sent from London. I want to inspect them myself, so you may be properly compensated for any damage.”
The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection Page 3