He’d make it right. He’d come home to do just that before moving on to the next country, the next journey.
He jerked away from the room and found his own, focused on the problem he could solve. He could not resurrect his parents, change the past or his own past actions, but he could find his father’s manuscript and complete his work, an excellent distraction from his Gwendolyn problems.
She’d put a hand on his shoulder. Did it mean something? Her words about wanting to help… a siren’s song that would lead to destruction or the bit of hope he’d been waiting for?
Six
Gwendolyn stood alone in the middle of a very pretty room. Behind her closed door, the sounds of children exploring bounced about. She smiled and pushed the pink curtains aside to view the garden. A renaissance herb garden just below, then rows of fragrant winter blooms, then simple, symmetrical knots that paved the way to a glassed greenhouse.
A sole gardener dug in the dirt. She ached to explore it all, discover its hidden treasures. Easy to imagine belonging here, in all the sunlight and cheerfulness. A dream only, and a much more difficult one to envision once she told Lord Eaden of her plans to find new employment. She should have told him before now, but the part of her that liked to pretend she belonged with his family had clung to them a little longer. Once she told him, all would be changed.
But she must. It felt dishonest not to. Tomorrow. She’d rise early and speak with him before Jackson dragged himself out of bed, late as usual. She’d make sure he knew, too, how grateful she was. For a brief moment, she’d let down her walls and show him her softness so he knew,knew,how utterly wonderful he was.
There. She liked a good decision made. Felt like solid footing.
She looked about the room, as much of a delight as the rest of the manor was proving to be. She had never seen a house she liked as much as this one. Everything new and modern but calling out for a second look with details from the past. Clearly, Jackson’s parents had put great passion and attention into the creation of their home. Henry had told her a bit about it on the journey here, and she’d expected it to seem a hodgepodge of eclectic taste, a confusing chaos of different styles and eras, but much like the garden she looked down at, the house had lovingly balanced all these things. The Renaissance and Classical eras, French and British styles. And everything comfortable.
Her own room especially. The pale-pink curtains glowed in the sunlight streaming through the window, and the friendly fire low in the grate cast cheerful shadows on the walls. Someone had painted a garden all around her, an apple tree in a meadow that rolled toward blooming roses. Made her itch to pull out her own paints. Later. Tonight. When she couldn’t sleep. This place was no tower, though, it was a fairy castle. She’d draw the winged creatures hidden in corners and dancing on the breeze, a pleasant distraction from several hard truths.
She would leave Henry’s employ soon, and Jackson had done what he’d threatened to do in the nighttime garden in London—give her the distance she pretended to desire. He’d remained charming as usual since then, as they’d packed and prepared to depart, during the journey, and on their arrival. But there had been no secret shared smiles or whispered jokes, no long discussions or amiable arguments. He’d been… friendly. Plainly so. He’d warned her in the garden. She’d not believed his words a real threat. Until he’d taken away his sun.
It used to be any move she made toward him brightened him like that life-giving star. If she’d laid a hand on him as she had a mere half hour ago, he would have folded it between his, pulled her closer, looked at her lips as if he had a right to do so with such passion and desire, with that little hint of irresistible humor.
Today, he’d shrugged her off, pulled away, shut her out. No insult given. But no interest, either.
For the best. But oh, how she hated it. How it made her want to kick his shins and kiss him senseless to remind him… to remind him he washers. And she his, and… and… useless. Pointless desires.
Bah.
Yet, somehow… this lovely room made her feel a bit better, made it easier to breathe. She wanted to see more of the house it belonged to.
A scratch at the door.
“Come in,” Gwendolyn said.
A maid entered with a bobbing curtsy, precise and agile despite her arms full of packages.
Gwendolyn rushed toward her. “Here. Let me help.”
“Oh no, miss.” The maid bustled by her and began arranging the parcels on the dressing table. “They should have been unwrapped and in place before you arrived, but you came much sooner than we expected. By more than an hour.”
Another maid bustled in carrying a vase of flowers, fragrant and blooming despite the February gloom. “Good day, miss. I’ll set these right here.” She placed them atop an armoire, gave a curtsy, and disappeared.
Gwendolyn lingered over the blooms, inhaling deep, taking the misplaced spring deep into her lungs. “Beautiful.”
“From the greenhouse, miss,” the first maid said. “Mr. Cavendish requested you have fresh flowers every day.” She stood back from the table, gathering the brown paper in her arms. “There. Do you need anything else?”
Gwendolyn peered at the now unwrapped packages. “Soap?”
“Rose-scented. Mr. Cavendish had a whole box of the stuff shipped here.”
Gwendolyn picked up a small box carved from rosewood and opened it with a gasp. Mints. Her favorite kind.
“There’s more of those in the kitchen, miss, but Mr. Cavendish suggested you would like some up here for your personal use.”
“Of course he did.” She smiled at the maid. “Thank you. Everything is perfect.” And perfect because Mr. Cavendish had designed it to be that way. And after he’d told her he was done chasing after her. He’d taken away her sun, but it still existed behind the clouds of his hurt. She tamed the grin nipping at the corners of her lips.
“Dinner will be in an hour, Miss Smith. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
