“You are the type of woman who should have many children, Serena.” Freddie had told her on more than one occasion, most often when Serena was offering excuses or coming to the rescue of some student who had neither the ability nor enthusiasm to complete a project.
That might be true, but Gareth Lockheart was not a child, and she was not being paid to rescue or save him.
***
It was near dusk when their coach rolled down the long drive that led to Rushton Park.
Oliver had woken up a short time earlier and they’d been staring out the window together. He’d been properly impressed by the mansion.
“Il n'est pas si vieux que la maison du grand-père?”
“No, this is a far newer house than your grandfather’s.” Serena glanced from Nounou to her son. “I think it would be best if you spoke English with me while we are here, Oliver. You may continue to speak French with Nounou when you are in private. However, it is quite rude to speak a language those around you do not speak.”
“Hurray!” he yelled, as if speaking English was a treat.
Nounou, a cranky old woman who had come to England with a family of refugees who had not been able to continue paying her, had no patience for the language of the country that gave her asylum. She snorted and rolled her eyes at Serena’s dictum, clearly determined to continue on in any manner she chose.
The carriage rumbled smoothly over cobblestones and Serena looked up to see they had arrived. To her surprise, a long row of servants stood waiting. And, she squinted through the gloom, there was Jessup at the head of them.
“What is he doing here?” Nounou demanded, her eyes fastened to the butler as the carriage came to a halt.
“In English, Nounou. He works for Mr. Lockheart now.” She cut her willful, surly servant a sly smile. “I’m sure you will enjoy becoming reacquainted with him.” She couldn’t help the gentle teasing. Jessup and Nounou had been at loggerheads since the first time they’d met years ago, at Keeting Hall. Serena thought they behaved like lovers. Well, now they would get to spend months in the same house together and be something to entertain her of an evening.
“Gather your things, Oliver,” Serena said as the carriage shifted, indicating the groom had disembarked. The coach was the same massive, luxurious thing Mr. Lockheart had sent her home in three weeks earlier. Serena worried she was now spoiled for any other kind of vehicle.
Jessup stood outside the door, waiting. “Welcome back, Mrs. Lombard, and Master Oliver, I have not seen you since you were just a—” He stopped, his face turning to stone. “Ah, you are still in England, Madame Petit.”
“And so are you, Monsieur Jessup.” Nounou’s posture was regal as she allowed the handsome footman to assist her from the carriage. The two older servants surveyed each other like cats with twitching tails before Jessup turned to the line of waiting people and began to make introductions.
Once Jessup had led her down the long line of servants and Serena had greeted each of them, aware she would forget half the names already, he turned to her. “I’ve taken the liberty of having the schoolroom equipped and two rooms made ready. Would you care to see them before I show you to your quarters, ma’am?”
Serena looked down at her son. Oliver’s eyes were heavy, no matter how excited he was. “Yes, I shall see he is situated and perhaps take a light supper with him in the schoolroom.”
Although Serena had not been to the schoolroom during her last visit it was easy enough to guess where it was located. Like the rest of the house, the rooms had been furnished and decorated. Unlike the rest of the house, somebody had done so with sense and good judgment. The furniture was all of good quality and sturdy. Oliver’s room had large windows that would let in a nice amount of light, as did the schoolroom itself.
“And this is Madame Petit’s room,” Jessup opened a door that led out of Oliver’s small dressing room.
Both Serena and Nounou paused in the doorway. The room was small but cozy, luxuriously decorated in shades of rose, gold, and rich chocolate brown. The bed’s canopy was a lovely garden tapestry and the entire suite was far beyond what a nurse or governess could expect.
Nounou remained uncharacteristically silent so Serena spoke. “Why, this is a charming room, Jessup.”
Jessup’s heavy lids were too low to see the direction of his gaze, but Serena would have sworn he was watching his French nemesis.
Serena left Nounou and Oliver to settle in and followed Jessup back to a suite of rooms not far from the ones she had occupied before. Her trunks already awaited her and a young girl was unpacking them.
“Susan will see to your personal needs while you are here, Mrs. Lombard.”
Serena could tell by the infinitesimal tightening of Jessup’s mouth that he’d noticed her lack of a lady’s maid and would not permit such a thing to stand while he was in charge.
“Thank you, Jessup. Hello, Susan.”
The girl flushed and bobbed a curtsy.
“Would you care to have a bath before you eat, madam?”
“I’ll just change and freshen up. I don’t think Oliver will be awake much longer, so perhaps I will bathe after we have eaten our evening meal.”
Jessup bowed and took his leave.
***
Later that night Serena realized she was far too anxious and excited to sleep. After tucking in Oliver and reading him a story she decided to do a little exploring. In spite of the house’s rather fantastical external appearance the layout was quite logical: a central section containing a grand entryway, a wing with kitchens, laundry, and servant quarters, and another wing for family.
Every part of the house she had seen was scrupulously clean and ridiculously well-lighted. When she had asked Jessup about the excess of candles, he’d said it was on Mr. Lockheart’s explicit instructions.
“But there are even candles in the rooms people rarely use.”
“Yes, madam. And they are to remain lighted all night when he is here. He has indicated I might extinguish whatever candles I choose in his absence. His London house is lighted thus at all times—in case he might make an unexpected appearance.” He’d hesitated a moment before continuing. “Mr. Lockheart is a very easy master, but there are a few areas in which he is rigid. He is excessively fastidious about his person and surroundings. I have found it best to always leave any items exactly where he places them.”
Serena had understood his meaning. She was to live here, but not to treat it as her own property.
As if he had heard her thoughts Jessup added, “He is only so precise about his own quarters and the area in the library he uses as his study.”
Yes, Serena had seen his desk and the area around it; it had been an oasis of calm. So, his own tastes were naturally elegant. Serena thought his house would have been far more appropriately decorated if he had trusted his own neat and simple style rather than Sandy’s.
She decided to explore the common rooms first and then investigate the family quarters.
The library she had seen and would explore in far greater detail in the months to come. Her heart actually palpitated when she thought about Leonardo’s journal and all the other treasures yet to be discovered.
In addition to the library there were three sitting rooms, although one was small enough to deserve the name parlor. Serena decided it would be the room where she would spend her evenings with Oliver. The thick carpets and fireplaces at both ends of the room ensured it would be warm and cozy in the fall and winter months.
There was a music room with a piano her friend Portia would salivate to play and Serena made a note to herself to mention it in her next letter to her friend.
The dining and breakfast rooms she had already seen. To the rear of the house was a billiard room, compete with untouched accouterments. Serena had a difficult time imagining Mr. Lockheart engaging in anything so frivolous as billiards.
On the upper floor were only bedchambers. The first four Serena looked
were pristine and untouched in appearance. The fifth door opened to a room different from all the others. This could have been the cell of a monk. She closed the door behind her and lighted three of the candles on a large branch beside the door. The room was utterly stark, no artwork, no tapestries such as hung in her room and even in Nounou’s.
The room’s only furniture was a bed and two nightstands. The bed was a massive four-poster with no canopy, its four posts giant squares with no decoration other than inset metal rings. The bedding was white linen. The floor was entirely without rugs, the wood so dark it was almost black. In the dressing room the clothes were stored with such precision it looked as if a person had measured the gaps and spaces with a ruler. Footwear and folded garments were likewise exactly placed. The room seemed to contain an entire wardrobe and Serena realized he probably did the same thing in all his houses, eliminating the need to do a great deal of packing other than nights he might be forced to spend in hotels or inns.
Every item was flawless and new-looking, four pairs of top boots, two pairs of Hessians, all polished to a blinding shine, not so much as a speck of dust to be found.
She fingered the exquisite silk of a dull pewter banyan, easily imagining him garbed in such a garment. Either he or his valet had impeccable taste, and every waistcoat and coat had been chosen to complement his coloring and physique.
The massive dressing room had an adjacent bathing chamber, as did hers, but the floor was a black marble shot through with striking bolts of white, the tub a dull gray metal in front of a fireplace whose mantelpiece matched the bold, stark lines of the rest of the room. The walls were hung with the same pale, patternless silk as the rest of the chamber, their pristine surface not disturbed by art of any kind.
There was another door off the other side of the main chamber which Serena assumed would be a sitting room. But she opened the door to find the strangest room she had ever seen. There were no pieces of furniture—at least not of a sort she recognized. Instead there were leather and canvas bags hanging from different heights, a few vertical circular wooden bars, perhaps the diameter of a handrail, and thick padding covering all about the perimeter of the room’s floor. Serena went to one of the bags, this one slightly above the level of her head, pear-shaped and made from leather. When she tapped it, it swung back and forth. The other bag was far larger, perhaps the size of a human torso.
Ah, so that’s what it was: this was a room to train for pugilism, a violent, ugly pastime which men of all ages and classes seemed to adore. She pushed the big bag and it swung pendulously, hard to the touch, as if filled with sand.
So, Mr. Lockheart had at least one pastime besides reading obscure mathematical texts and making money. Such exercise would account for his trim physique.
On her way back into the main chamber she stopped to examine the contents of the dressing table: a brush and a comb.
On each side of the bed were heavy, squat nightstands that matched the design of the dark bed. Each had two drawers, all four were empty of even a stray hair.
Serena stood in the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. This was undoubtedly Mr. Lockheart’s room. She knew she should feel a twinge of shame for prying, but what had she seen? Nothing. Although perhaps the stark nature of his living quarters told her more than a peek into a journal. She told herself he spent so little time here it was unlikely he would have many possessions. Yet something told her she would find the same arrangement in any place he inhabited. He was a solitary man, a man who appeared to enjoy his own thoughts and company better than any other. He was, she believed, the most self-contained person she had ever met.
It was a good thing he would not be here often. Such a man was exactly the kind of puzzling enigma Serena was drawn to—a man with secrets.
Chapter Six
Serena’s mind was still on the work at the dam when she came around the corner into the stable block and almost collided with a stranger on a horse. A rather magnificent horse, she noticed right away, not to mention its rider, who was quite magnificent in his own way.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am!” The man said, deftly sidling his mount out of her way and touching his whip to his hat, which sat at a jaunty angle on his vivid auburn curls. He looked her up and down in a manner that made her face heat, his expression of surprise quickly shifting into a grin. “You must be Mrs. Lombard,” he said in a voice that had more than a trace of an Irish burr.
Serena couldn’t help smiling back at him. “And you must be Mr. McElroy.”
He feigned a look of surprise. “And how did you guess that I wonder?”
Serena ignored his question and guided her job horse toward the stables. The Irishman fell in beside her.
“That’s a rather nice hack you’ve got, Mr. McElroy.”
He glanced down, as if surprised to find himself mounted. “Is it?”
Serena laughed and gave her reins to the groom before dismounting. “Mad for horses, are you?”
He slid from his horse and handed the groom his reins as well.
Serena raised her eyebrows. “I thought you were heading out for a ride?”
He fell into step beside her, his broad, heavily muscled shoulders only a few inches above her own. “I was going down to the lake site, but it was you I was in a fever to see, Mrs. Lombard, not a load of sweaty blokes shoveling dirt.”
“Me? Whyever would you be in a,” she hesitated, “fever to see me.”
“’Cause Lockheart hasn’t stopped talking about ye these past five weeks.”
Serena stopped and turned to him. His eyes sparkled as they looked down into hers.
“Mr. McElroy, I find that very difficult to believe. Would you perhaps be spreading a bit of the, er, blarney?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Ach, ye caught me all right.”
She shook her head and resumed walking. “Tell me why you’ve really come all this way, Mr. McElroy.”
“We’ve come to bring you some decent horseflesh, since Jessup complained you’d hired a horse fit for the knackers.” His Irish accent had miraculously departed. “Lockheart himself picked out old Kestrel.” He jerked his chin back toward the stables.
“Jessup misspoke. I am quite satisfied with Honey. I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for naught.”
He reached in front of her to open the door to the sunroom, which was the most convenient entrance to the house when coming from the stables.
“Oh, we’ve come to look at a brewery down south of here.”
Serena halted by the double doors to the great hall. “We?”
McElroy leaned unnecessarily close to reach for the door. “Aye, me and Gareth, both.” He opened the door and there was the man in question, crouched low in the middle of the black and white tile looking at something with her son.
***
Gareth had wanted to merely send the horses along, but Declan had convinced him it was his duty to check on the progress at Rushton Park.
“You don’t want another incident like Featherstone, Gare. The way to avoid that is to have some oversight.”
Gareth had shaken his head. “You just want to see this woman sculptor, Declan. You couldn’t give two pins about the progress of my park.”
The Irishman had laughed, not denying his curiosity.
“We need to see to Kennelworth’s Brewery and it’s only a short ride from Rushton.”
“Yes, but hardly direct.”
“Humor me, Gare.”
So Gareth had let himself be talked into an unnecessary journey. He’d left Declan to whatever schemes he had devised about the horses and had gone to the library, only to find a boy spread out in the middle of the smaller reading room, several large books open on the floor, along with an automaton in half a dozen pieces. He had looked up at Gareth, his eyes vague as his mind was obviously still on his work. Of course Gareth knew who he was: the sculptor’s child. He looked like a miniature of his mother, his complexion rosy,
his cheeks round, and his golden-brown hair a riot of unkempt curls. Only his eyes were a different shade than his mother’s, a calm blue gray rather than hazel.
“Who are you?” the boy asked, quite justifiably, in Gareth’s opinion.
“I am Gareth Lockheart.”
The boy’s jaw dropped and he scrambled to his feet and executed a hasty bow. “Oh, Mr. Lockheart. I’m sorry, sir. Mama did not tell me you were coming. I am Oliver Lombard.”
Gareth was momentarily nonplussed by the lad’s pronunciation of his name, which he’d spoken in the French style. He remembered the boy’s name, of course. He never forgot anything, an ability that was sometimes helpful, sometimes not.
Oliver Lombard shifted from foot to foot. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mama told me I might use the library if I were to treat the books kindly and return them to their places. It will take me only a moment to put them back and—"
“You have taken apart your automaton?” Gareth asked as the boy’s nervousness and embarrassment began to settle over him like the faint, difficult to remove threads of a spider’s web. Society and its strictures made Gareth restless, as did apologies for things that weren’t bad or wrong. Gareth did not care if the boy used the library. In fact, it quite pleased him to have somebody using it.
The lad pushed a tangle of hair off his forehead, his expression becoming perplexed as he looked at the pile of tiny metal pieces scattered on a white handkerchief. “There is a problem with the tension in the spring, but I do not know how to fix it. I have rewound it, to tighten it, but that does not seem to work.”
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