Page 32

Thirty-One

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 17, 1816

TOM

Xander was astonishingly helpful in splitting the wood into usable quarters and in helping me get the posts into the ground. By the time we’d managed that, Lock and Godfrey returned with more timber and a guest.

A young lady hopped off the back of the wagon. A female carpenter? That was interesting.

Xander and I approached her, keeping a conspicuous distance between us. Much as we needed her assistance, I couldn’t help but lament the reduction of privacy.

Lock rounded the wagon to perform the introductions. “This here is Miss Isobel Gillan. Her pa is the best carpenter in the city.”

“Pleased to meet ye,” she mumbled, gaze cast on the ground. She was small, with delicate, freckled features and red curls. Her dress was simple, with a serviceable leather apron overtop.

“Thank you for coming,” Xander said, struggling to keep his hands still. “Could I speak to you for a moment, Lock?”

Xander’s fingers finally escaped his tenuous control and he snatched the man around the elbow to drag him behind a tree. I suspected the conversation would be an intriguing one. While I could guess his concerns, I also knew that beggars could not be choosers.

The girl was left behind, looking askance at the hole in the house’s facade.

“I’m Tom Grayson. I’m just a friend of His Grace’s.”

“What happened to the door?” Miss Gillan asked, ignoring my introduction entirely.

“No idea. It was like that when I arrived. They keep blaming the sheep, but that seems unlikely. It’s propped on the side of the house if you’d like to take a look.”

She disappeared in a flurry of practical cotton skirts, pausing only to heave a toolbox off the back of the wagon. It seemed she was not one for small talk.

Xander’s mutterings grew more shrill behind the tree, and I abandoned Miss Gillan to her inspection. I rounded the elm to find Xander in a state.

“—and she’ll be horrifically injured. She should be at home in front of a fire, not lifting heavy boards and sawing things.” His hands danced around searching for words.

“She is the only one available, Yer Grace. It’s her or none at all.”

I reached for Xander’s wrist, catching myself not a moment too soon. “Xander, come now. At the very least, she must have knowledge. She can direct us”—at his glare I immediately corrected—“ me on how to do the work.”

A loud clang came from the direction of the house, and we rounded the tree to see Miss Gillan bracing the door in the frame and adjusting something in the corner.

“What the—” Xander muttered before stomping over. I trailed after him, though I rather suspected I knew what we would find. It seemed Miss Gillan had a strategy to ensure her hire—prove indispensable within ten minutes of arrival.

She was bent over, fussing with the final hinge when I caught up to Xander. No sooner had we reached her side, than she rose and swung the door open and closed once or twice, testing her work.

“You fixed it.”

“Rusted pins,” she said simply and held her hand out, waiting for him to line his palm underneath. She opened it to reveal several remnants of what I assumed were hinge pins. “The entire hinge needs replaced, but I dinnae have the right size. Can have someone make them for ye in yer forge.”

“I do not have a forge,” Xander said

“Yes, ye do.”

“What? No, I don’t.”

“But ye do.”

“I think I would know if I had a forge.” His hand gestures grew larger in his frustration and, as they did, her eyes grew wider and unseeing, her lips thinner.

“Xander,” I interrupted.

He turned to me, flustered.

“Why don’t we make sure Miss Gillan will have enough to eat?”

“What?”

“I’ll help her get settled in. Why don’t you see about some luncheon and after, we’ll make a list of what needs done.”

“But… Fine.”

He pressed open the door and turned to stare at it in astonishment before making his way down the hall.

The girl still wore an unsettled look.

“Thank you. For fixing the door. You did nice work.”

“Needs a new hinge.”

“I’m certain you’re right.”

“There is a forge.”

“All right. Do you want to show me, and we can see what it needs to be functional?”

She nodded, her gaze somewhere over my ear. Before I realized she’d agreed, she began to wander off in the direction of where I assumed the stables were.

“The door looks nice,” I added, still trying to smooth over any upset.

She shrugged.

“I’m certain His Grace is deeply appreciative.”

Her pace increased and I was left to keep up.

“Xand— His Grace has had an eventful few days. We all have.”

No response, beyond her breezy breaths as I panted beside her, desperate to keep up.

We rounded a bend and the stables appeared behind a copse of trees. They could use a few repairs as well but, astonishingly, were in better condition than the house itself. I suspected the use of sturdier, less ornate woods and materials left the structure more prepared to withstand the elements. The last remnants of a path continued over a small hill.

As we crested the hill, a small forge came into view below. It was open on the sides, with a massive hearth, long cold.

Miss Gillan finally slowed as we approached, then reached to drag a hand along the smooth metal of the anvil before inspecting the tools I knew neither the name or use of.

She nodded, mid-toned curls bouncing along her forehead. “This’ll do.”

“All right…”

We set off back up the hill, the morning’s events catching up with me. I couldn’t lament last night’s lack of rest, not after the events of the morning, but both my body and head had been through a great deal.

Rather than slow as we neared the house, Miss Gillan strode right over to my approximation of a sheepfold. She made a critical tut before grasping my post and yanking it from the earth in one smooth motion.

“What are you?—”

“Ye responsible for this?”

“Yes…”

“Is it intended to actually hold the sheep?”

“Ideally… Is it very wrong?”

“Yes,” she said, then snatched up the postholer and thrust it into the ground with surprising force for having such a small frame. She increased my depth by nearly half a foot.

“So, not deep enough?” My hand crept behind my head, scratching the hair there uncomfortably.

“Nae. Ye cut the wood too?”

“Yes… Can I— Would you like help fixing it?”

“Not from ye.” Her statement wasn’t intended to be cruel—it was simply fact to her—even though the reality of it left something uncomfortable curling in my chest.

Dismissed, and with no other obvious task, I wandered back to the kitchens.

Miss McAllen was seated at a table shelling peas into a bowl. No one else was to be found.

“So we have a carpenter?” she asked as I sat across from her. Without looking up, she slid the bowl between us and moved the peas beside it—she didn’t provide instruction, instead raising a dark brow pointedly.

I snagged a pea and, watching her as she returned to her work, followed suit in shelling it.

“It’s not my decision. But I don’t see why not.”

“Then why do ye look like someone shot yer dog?”

“I do not.”

“Ye do, though.”

“Just feeling a little… superfluous.”

Her head tipped to one side as she studied me. “Didnae think ye came here to build a sheep fold.”

“I didn’t.”

“So leave that to her. What is her name?”

“Miss Gillan. And I suppose.”

“Leaves ye free to do whatever it was ye came here to do—presumably whatever you’se did in the shed this morning.”

“I— You—” My mouth hinged open as I gaped at the woman.

“He didnae look at ye the way he did when ye arrived because ye were good at building sheep folds. Or doors. Or whatever other tasks ye assigned yerself to ensure he’d let ye stay. Nor yer pea shelling, to be sure.” She tipped her forehead to the peapod I’d thoroughly mangled quite without my notice. The little beads scattered across the table and onto the floor.

“Right… I’ll just see if there’s anything else I can muck up.”

“Try upstairs. I dinnae believe even ye can ruin anything up there.”

The stairs were in a sorry state and I hope those made it high on Xander’s repair list. It was good that I wouldn’t be responsible for mending them—I’d probably have someone falling through within a day.

This place was smaller by far than his London house, and I expected his other properties would astonish me. When I reached the top of the stairs, there were seven rooms. The door at the very end of the hall was ajar. I peered inside, only slightly fearing I’d find that Fenella had snuck passed.

Instead, I found the lord’s chambers. The walls were dark and peeling, and the room gave off a musty, petrichor scent. The room opened to a massive bed with an ornately carved frame—mahogany, perhaps, though I couldn’t make out the precise shade. The bed linens were worse for wear, but the rest of the furnishings were also carved with delicate leaves. A large wingback chair in an unknown color called the stone fireplace home. Overall, the room was only probably the work of a day or two before it could be used. Though we should probably check the chimney if the chirping sounds coming from it were any indication.

The bed was set between two large windows that spanned floor to ceiling. They were in need of a good wash but otherwise appeared unharmed. The curtains lining them had not fared as well. The ceiling angled, higher by the door than the windows, by five or so feet.

A large trunk was set at the foot of the bed, carved from a different wood with roses and the initials AJH etched into the locked plate. Unlike the rest of the room, it was free from dust. A glance around showed a few other personal effects. Whether Xander had instructed them brought up, or Godfrey had taken it upon himself to settle them here was anyone’s guess.

A second trunk, unadorned, rested on the floor near the door. Beside it was a stack of cylindrical leather tubes of varying lengths. Curiosity piqued, I knelt to open one.

The lid popped off at one end and a rolled canvas slid out.

It was a breathtaking landscape captured in watercolor, the details so soft and intricate I could hardly believe they were captured with a brush. A stone fence framed a series of rolling hills, dotted with various trees. The color was a mystery to me, one that was a frustration. And then, in the bottom right-hand corner, I caught a signature X Hasket .

I hadn’t known, wouldn’t, couldn’t have guessed at such talent. My heart beamed with pride even as it cursed the knowledge that I could never appreciate it the way he intended.

With more care than I had ever taken, I rolled it back up and reached for another. What I saw stopped my heart. It was a portrait of a young man, kissed by firelight. Half of the man’s face was hidden behind a domino, but his eyes sparkled with mischief, framed by impossibly long lashes. His lips were pressed together in a suppressed smile. I felt my own mimic the position at the sight. Dark hair spilled over his ears in too-long waves, with a lock teasing his forehead.

I’d never seen myself in such a way. Mysterious and mirthful and absolutely fascinating. I was beautiful. And Xander had thought of me—remembered me in enough detail to capture the embroidery of my waistcoat and the freckle on my cheek—the one I often forgot entirely.

And his name was scrawled right where it belonged. Across my heart.

Breathless, I rolled that one back up with even more care before delving into another.

This one was different still. A rose garden at night lit by the moon, the stars, and distant torches. Two lovers embraced unashamedly on a wrought iron bench. The shading on this one was unusual. Somehow, I knew. He’d painted this in shades of brown, grey, and inky black. He’d painted the world the way I saw it, except instead of dull, it was awe-inspiring. How could I have ever considered it anything else?

“There you are.” Xander’s warm words washed over me. Not even he was enough to distract me from the sight in my hands. And wasn’t that incomprehensible? I was holding such beauty.

“Oh, you can put those anywhere. The valuable pieces are all in the drawing room.”

“What?” I croaked, finally glancing his way.

“I know they’re not particularly impressive. But I do enjoy myself.”

“Xander, these are?—”

“As I said, the valuable pieces are downstairs.”

“Perfect.”

He tucked his chin in like a disgruntled turtle before examining the canvas in my hands. “Ah, that one. I was rather pleased with how that one came out. Instead of packing away my things, I spent all night on it. It’d barely dried before we set off,” he said before snatching it out of my hands and rolling it roughly to return to its tube.

I was left with nothing but staccato wordless sounds of protest.

“You’ll be pleased to know I hired Miss Gillan. And at what I hope is an appropriate price.”

Desperate, I reached for the tube in his hands and yanked it open again before pulling it out with more care. After confirming it had not been damaged in its poor treatment, I rolled it carefully, and slid it back into the cylinder.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—and you’ve just manhandled it like a drunkard fondling a three-penny upright.”

“It’s just a painting, Tom, and not a particularly impressive one. Besides, even if it was impressive, it’s not as though I can display it.”

“You could, somewhere private.”

“Someplace where no maids or footmen will ever stumble upon it?”

“Even if it must be kept secret, it still shouldn’t be handled without care,” I insisted.

His point might have been valid, but mine was as well.

Something about my tone must have caught his attention because he paused, his dark eyes dancing along my form. “You’re right. You’re right.” He caught my cheek in a wide palm, pulling my forehead to his. “It is precious.”

The tension poured out of me. I hadn’t understood what my agitation stemmed from until that moment, but Xander had.

He saw me.