by Kelly Bowen
“I heard it,” Henry said, moving up the bank closer to the mill.
“By the wheel,” Maeve said, trying to stay calm. The decaying wheel seemed to be tilting away from the mill more each minute, the water buffeting it mercilessly. If Graham and Owen were anywhere near it when it came apart and crashed into the water, they’d be killed instantly.
The three of them splashed into the channel, battling the tumbling water. It wasn’t deep – only up to her waist— but the water was moving swiftly and it dragged at Maeve’s skirts. She pushed on, trying to keep her footing on the rocky bottom, as the tortured wood of the waterwheel beside her shook.
They reached the far side of the wheel and Maeve swore. Graham was standing in the water, the froth at his chest, his spindly arms around the shoulders of his brother, keeping Owen’s head above the surface.
“His l-leg is stuck un-under the wheel,” Graham said, his face devoid of color in the torchlight. “He c-can’t get out. An’ I c-can’t l-let him go.” He sounded like he might be crying through his chattering teeth.
Isaac and Henry tried vainly to lift the wheel, but it refused to budge.
“Jesus.” Maeve reached the boys and slipped her arms around Owen. The little boy’s body was icy-cold and his eyes were barely open.
“W-we jus’ w-wanted to h-help.” Graham was sobbing openly now. “D-don’t b-be m-mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Isaac said, his face almost as pale as his son’s.
“Take Graham out of the water,” she shouted at Isaac. “Get him on the bank. I’ve got Owen.”
Isaac hesitated for a second before swinging Graham into his arms and heading back toward the bank. She turned to find Henry only to see him vanish beneath the surface of the water. He popped back up a few seconds later.
“It’s just his foot that’s caught. But we need to get him out of here before that wheel comes down. It’ll crush his leg if not his entire body.”
“How?” Maeve asked. “The wheel is too heavy for anyone to move.”
“I’m going to try and hollow out the channel beneath his foot. I need you to pull him free.”
“I understand.”
Henry vanished beneath the surface again. Beneath her touch she felt a tug on the boy and she gripped Owen more firmly. She took a careful step back and pulled as hard as she dared but the boy didn’t budge.
Henry surfaced, breathing hard. “You need to pull him sideways. I’m close.”
Maeve nodded and Henry submerged again. This time she pulled the boy toward the center of the channel, trying not panic as the wheel popped and groaned, and then suddenly Owen was free. She scrambled back, hampered by her heavy skirts that were wrapped around her legs, stumbling and falling over the uneven ground but still managing to keep Owen’s face above the surface.
Strong arms caught her waist, steadying her and guiding her back just as the wood gave way with a sound like a gunshot and the entire waterwheel tore from the side of the mill and crashed into the channel.
They stood frozen for a moment, the water swirling around their bodies.
“You’re all right?” Henry asked her.
Maeve nodded, realizing that she was shivering violently though she didn’t remember feeling cold. “I will be.” She glanced up at him. “You?”
“I will be.” He wiped water from his face with a hand that was a little less than steady.
In her arms, Owen stirred feebly.
“And so will Owen,” said Henry.
“He could have died.”
“But he didn’t.”
“Thanks to you.”
Henry only bent and extracted the boy from her grip, heaving him up against his chest. “Let’s get him home so that his mother can kill him.”
Chapter Twelve
Henry had tried to sleep but had failed utterly.
He had retreated to the tiny servants’ room he was using, changed into dry clothes, and laid on the bed, staring at the black nothingness of the ceiling. And kept staring, the events of the evening playing over and over again in his head.
Miraculously, Owen had emerged almost unscathed from his ordeal save for a badly bruised foot. When Henry and Maeve had left the Dunlop’s cottage, both boys had been tucked under blankets next to a roaring fire, both sleeping soundly with the resilience of the young.
It was unfortunate that Henry could not do the same, but all he could think about was how tragically wrong everything might have gone.
He sat up, too restless to stay trapped in his room any longer. He pulled on his boots and slipped from his room out into the narrow hallway. The pearly light of dawn was just now creeping through the small window at the end of the hall. He stopped in front of Maeve’s door, his hand resting against the cool wood. He wanted to see her, to touch her, to simply be with her, to reassure himself that all was well. He wanted to pull her into his arms and remind himself that this time they had triumphed over tragedy. He wanted to hold her and kiss her and never let her go.
Which was a foolish notion. There was no future that lay ahead that would allow him to make her belong to him in the way he wanted to belong to her.
He sighed and dropped his hand, turning away from her door. He set out down the hallway with no destination in mind, knowing only that he couldn’t linger here. Perhaps he would fetch a shovel. Mindlessly digging a drainage ditch until his body dropped with exhaustion seemed like a very good way to treat what was ailing him—
He stopped in the middle of the great hall, soft candlelight coming from the library catching his eye. Henry eased forward, silently peering around the doorway.
Maeve was at his desk, her head down, engrossed in what looked like a drawing. She lifted the corner, turning it over and setting it aside, and with a start, Henry realized that she was examining his collection of portfolio drawings that he kept in a large, square ledger. Her hair fell around her face as she studied the lines, and every once in a while she’d shove her curls away and tuck them behind her ear. She was dressed in her faded trousers and shirt but instead of a coat, she had a worn, knit shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Need and longing thrummed through him. He should walk away. Leave her in peace. Reassert a safe distance between them that would make both of their lives…safer. Easier. Less complicated.
“Good morning.”
Maeve jumped like she’d been scalded and slammed the cover of the ledger closed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He stepped into the room, trying to regret his weakness and lack of willpower and failing.
“No, no. I’m sorry.” Her face was scarlet. “I wasn’t… I didn’t intend to... I was just looking at the drawings.”
Henry meandered into the library as casually as he could. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She shoved herself to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep either.”
“Last night reminded you of Charlie.”
Henry stopped where he was. “That’s a very direct question.”
“It wasn’t really a question.” Her eyes were grey in the low light as she watched him. “You laid awake thinking about what might have happened if we’d been delayed. Or if we’d looked in the wrong place first. Or—”
“Yes.”
“So did I.”
“They were only trying to help. To do the right thing by fixing the mill.” Trying to do what Henry couldn’t.
God, he hated that.
Maeve adjusted her shawl around her shoulders. “We’ll find a way,” she said, and he heard the resignation in her voice.
He hated that too.
“Thank you for being there for me. For all of us. For Isaac. For Owen and Graham. It doesn’t change the past, I know, but you saved a life last night. And for that I am forever grateful.”
Henry held her gaze. He didn’t want her forever grateful. He simply wanted her forever.
Maeve had brought a light into his life that he didn’t want to lose
but trying to capture it for himself would be like trying to capture moonlight in a jar. He’d already asked her once to leave Greybourne with him.
She’d already given him her answer. And if he was any sort of man, he would respect her choice.
He cleared his throat and moved a little closer to the desk, searching for a safer topic of conversation. “You’re welcome to look through those drawings.” He gestured to the portfolio. “Anytime you like.”
Maeve glanced down, her fingers hovering uncertainly over the cover of the portfolio.
“Here,” he said, coming to stand beside her at the desk and reaching for the book. This close, he could feel her heat. This close, the urge to touch her again was overwhelming.
He kept his hands firmly on the ledger, opening the cover and revealing the drawing she’d been studying. “This is St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice.”
She leaned forward. “It’s huge. What holds it up?”
“See here? These are called flying buttresses. They have an arch that extends to a pier and bears the load. It’s one of my favourite cathedrals.”
She tipped her head. “I wish I could see it.”
“I wish I could show you.”
Her breath caught, loud enough for him to hear.
That had been a stupid, stupid thing to say. Even if it was the truth. To suggest impossibilities was unfair to both of them.
“I want to show you this one.” He put the drawing of the basilica to the side to reveal the design on the page underneath. The perfect drawing to remind them of those impossibilities.
Maeve reached out and ran her fingers over the lines, tracing the curves and swirls. “This is stunning. What is it?”
“The Royal Marine Pavilion in Brighton.”
“This is your design,” she whispered.
He was having a hard time looking away from her fingers as they caressed the page. He was having a hard time not remembering what her fingers had felt like on his skin.
“Partially, yes.”
“It’s…” She seemed to be searching for a word. “Extraordinary. This, more than anything, makes me understand why you need to see this project through.”
“Thank you.” Henry swallowed with difficulty. “It’s, ah, an example of Mughal architecture—”
“No, that’s not what I meant. When I said that this was extraordinary, I meant that in this drawing I can see your heart. I can see your love for your craft.” She closed the ledger carefully and lifted it to the side, revealing his drawings for Greybourne that had been resting on the desk under it. “There is no heart in these drawings.”
Henry frowned. “You can’t compare them. They are completely different. And the last time I checked you weren’t an architect, so you can’t possibly know that.” He wanted the words back as soon as he said them. She’d just forced him into an uncomfortable truth that had been lurking in the cellars of his mind since he’d first put ink to paper here. If Henry wasn’t impressed with what he’d accomplished thus far, then John Nash most certainly wouldn’t be.
Maeve didn’t say anything. Instead she simply looked at him for another heartbeat and then headed toward the library door.
“Don’t go,” he said. “Please.”
Maeve only glanced back at him. “I’m not going anywhere.” She stopped in front of a heavy, carved cabinet flanking the library door and opened it, withdrawing something from the interior. She returned and held the object out to him.
“I think this is yours.”
Henry stared down at the leather-bound book in her hands. The cover was deep red, a long strip of black ribbon tied around the center, the pressed pages thick and of the finest quality. Henry recognized it instantly.
“Where did you get that?” His voice was hoarse.
“Someone put it in here a long time ago. I found it when I was looking for things to se—when I was cleaning up.”
He made no move to take it from her.
She untied the ribbon and opened the book. “I didn’t get rid of this because these drawings captured my imagination. They made me think of knights on great caparisoned destriers. Of pages and squires in brilliant livery and ladies with long flowing hair beneath their crowns. These drawings may be of a mere building but they tell a story. These drawings were made with heart.”
The drawing that lay open in front of Henry had been the one that Charlie had begged him for. In front of his vision for the restored chapel, he had drawn a knight, one hand holding the reins of a gleaming destrier, the other holding the hand of a beautiful maiden.
There were more drawings of the chapel in those pages, technical and precise illustrations that detailed his intentions for the restoration of the ancient structure. But this was the one he had drawn especially for Charlie.
“My brother asked if he could have a jousting tournament in the yards,” Henry said, his voice rough. He took the book from her, slowly turning the pages.
“Maybe Charlie was on to something,” Maeve replied with a gentle smile. “I might use his idea. Make a big enough spectacle, offer your hand in marriage to the winner, and maybe I could raise enough money to restore Greybourne.”
Henry shook his head, an answering smile creeping across his face despite himself. “I’m not sure I want to marry a knight.”
“I had intended that the ladies joust.”
He chuckled. “I think Charlie would have loved to have seen that—” Henry froze. “What did you say?”
Maeve looked at him quizzically. “Make a spectacle?”
He shook his head.
“Offer your hand in marriage to raise money to—”
“Restore Greybourne.”
“Are you all right?” Maeve was looking at him with concern.
Henry set the book of drawings aside and leaned on the desk, his mind racing. He closed his eyes briefly, trying desperately to see in his memory the contract that he’d signed in William Carruthers’ office. “I have to go,” he said.
“Go where?” Maeve was looking at him like he had sprouted a second head.
“London.”
“Now?”
Henry caught Maeve’s face in his hands and kissed her long and deep. When he pulled back, they were both breathless.
“You can do anything, Maeve,” he whispered. “I admire you, I care for you, and more than anything, I believe in you.”
“What? Henry—”
“I’ll write,” he said, already backing toward the door. “I promise.”
Chapter Thirteen
Henry crashed through the office door without bothering to knock.
William Carruthers jumped, nearly upsetting the inkpot at his elbow. An orange cat sitting on a stack of books near the door bristled and gave him a baleful stare.
“The commission,” Henry gasped. “I need to see it.”
Carruthers carefully righted the inkpot and gave Henry a worried frown. “Are you all right, Mr. Blackmore? You seem…agitated.”
“I’m fine. The contract. Let me see it.”
“You’re speaking of the contract for the restoration of Greybourne?”
“Yes,” Henry shouted. He took a deep breath. “Yes,” he repeated.
Carruthers unfolded himself from his chair and with measured steps, approached a cabinet. He slid open a deep drawer and withdrew a paper folder, bringing it over to the desk. With the same measured movements, he opened it.
Henry fought the urge to snatch it out of his hands.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Blackmore? I’m uncertain—”
Henry gave up and yanked the documents from the solicitor.
Carruthers made a sound of disapproval but Henry didn’t care. He spread the papers out on the surface of the desk, his fingers sliding down the paper until he found what he was looking for.
“Greybourne,” he breathed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This document is for the restoration of Greybourne.”
“Yes.” Carruthers straightened. “Are
you all right, Blackmore? Can I fetch you some tea? Something stronger, perhaps—”
“It doesn’t say Greybourne House, it says Greybourne. This contract offers five-thousand pounds for the restoration of Greybourne. Thirty-thousand once it is completed. But it doesn’t mention the house specifically.”
“Indeed?”
“The estate, Carruthers. I can restore the estate with the money. The mill, the roads, the cottages, the fields, the barns, the equipment. Not the house.”
The solicitor reached for the contract and Henry handed it back. Carruthers appeared to examine the document. “You’re right.”
“If the estate is repaired and refitted and can turn a profit, would that be considered restored?”
“I would think so,” Carruthers said.
“And once it turns a profit, could the rest of the money be released to the estate if I directed you to do so?”
“Yes.” Carruthers didn’t even blink.
Comprehension dawned. Henry sat down abruptly, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. “You knew this already.”
“I did. My client purposely left the verbiage rather…vague.”
“But you said earlier—”
“I said nothing. You assumed.”
Henry’s fists clenched at his sides. “You knew all of this, yet you would have let me restore the house?”
“I didn’t let you do anything, Mr. Blackmore. This was a choice for you and you alone to make.”
“Tell me that the entail on the estate has not yet been broken.”
Carruthers gazed at him, his dark eyes giving nothing away.
“I assume you are handling it.”
The solicitor shrugged elegantly. “The duke is quite busy, as is your eldest brother, and I can’t imagine that Greybourne is a priority for either of them. It might take…a long while before I find an opportunity to prepare and present them with documents for an official petition.”
“Five-thousand pounds will make Greybourne profitable. Thirty-thousand will make it extraordinary with money to spare.”
