“Your accent is very slight, Mrs. Lombard.”
She gave him a look of such surprise he wondered if he’d erred once again. Were accents—like bodily functions—yet another taboo subject? But, no, she did not appear scandalized. More than likely she was stunned that he would generate a question of this sort.
“My father spoke English to me when I was growing up. He wanted me to be fluent in his mother tongue.”
“How long have you lived in England?”
“It will be ten years soon. I came just before my son was born, in 1807.”
Her answer spurred a new question, one that had not been on his list. “You told me the last time you were here that your father groomed you to become a sculptor? Is that not unusual in France?”
“It is just as unusual as it is here.” She smiled, the same genuine, open look she had given to her son. Gareth thought the expression transformed her face from merely pretty to beautiful. He was, by no means, immune to feminine beauty, but he’d never considered it quite so closely before. “My father, like most men, had wished for a son, but my mother died having me. I was perhaps five when he realized I had an aptitude for clay modeling as well as sketching. He began to take me into his studio. At first I only watched and played with my bits of wax or clay. I made my first piece from terracotta, and he was so pleased he purchased some rather fine marble—a softer grade of stone than he would normally use because I was still young and did not have the strength for the more durable types. When I was fourteen I began to help him in the studio at Monsieur Favel’s chateau. He was a very old sculptor who no longer worked but employed several sculptors and stone cutters to complete commissions he still received. It was a pleasant, if somewhat unconventional childhood,” her smiled wavered. “Or at least it was before the War took its toll.” She shrugged and cut a piece of ham. “So I am an artist by a fluke of nature. If my father had had a son, I would more than likely be married to a sculptor by now.”
He watched her lift the fork to her mouth and realized he possessed a rather unexpected desire to see her wield a hammer and chisel. Her hands were not beautiful in the accepted feminine sense, but they were shapely and dexterous.
“And you, Mr. Lockheart, how is it that you learned to do—” her hand fluttered as she sought the correct word. “Whatever it is you do?”
How to explain what he did? He had tried, once, to Dec, but had given up at his friend’s mystified look. Did she really want to know? Or was this polite conversation?
As if he had spoken the words aloud—which he knew he had not—she answered. “I am asking because I know you are knowledgeable about mathematics and its applications and my son seems to have taken an interest in those areas.”
Ah, so she was interested. “He does not wish to sculpt?”
She chuckled. “No, I’m afraid his talents lie elsewhere. He dislikes any form of artistic rendering but seems to enjoy drawing when it involves solving a problem, as with his automaton.”
Gareth could sympathize with the boy. Art often made him uncomfortable with too much emotionalism, or inexplicable tangents and lack of uniformity or logic. But machinery? Even something as simple as a toy? There was a certain type of poetry in things that worked. And numbers? Well, there was something about the precision and beauty of mathematics that made his soul—if humans indeed possessed such a thing—sing.
“I have always found patterns—mathematical patterns—in even the most mundane of things. They existed before I could understand them. And when I was exposed to my first lesson in the simplicity and power of numbers, I knew I would need to keep seeking until I could know the whole of it.” He paused, considering his foolish words. “Of course the more you learn the more you realize that is not possible.” He could not recall the last time he’d spoken so much to a stranger. Luckily, Mrs. Lombard did not seem to find his words odd.
“That is how you were able to look at the drawing and know there was a problem, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, if the drawing is properly to scale.”
She nodded, her eyes wandering back to her plans.
“Do you have a tutor for your son?” That was a question that had not come from his list, either.
“Not yet. I have been teaching him myself, but I have reached the end of what I can offer when it comes to many subjects. He is of an age where he should go off to school, but that is not,” she hesitated, “possible.”
Gareth wondered why that was. Money? Emotional attachment? Naturally he did not ask.
“He will meet us at the stables after finishing his breakfast in the schoolroom. I’ve told him this is not a holiday, but an opportunity to learn. I believe he will greatly appreciate the calculations that go into building a dam. Besides,” she smiled, “he was delirious with joy when he heard there was a horse waiting for him.”
Gareth looked down at his plate, his stomach tight. He was glad to have pleased the boy—he had liked his quiet, thoughtful way immediately. But he did not wish to be the recipient of effusive gratitude from either Oliver or his mother.
He pushed back his chair with a loud scrape. “If you will excuse me, I’ve forgotten something I meant to take care of.” He bowed. “I will meet you at the site.” He turned before she could answer, nodding to the footman who opened the door and facilitated his escape. He knew his behavior was rude, but he did not wish to be trapped in the stables and forced to endure an emotional scene. Just the thought of facing such a situation made him feel ill. He realized he hadn’t eaten much and knew that might be part of it. He tended to forget food when either immersed in thought or some other interesting activity. How interesting that he’d forgotten about eating in the woman’s presence. He could not recall that happening before.
***
Serena half-expected Mr. Lockheart not to be at the dam when they arrived. She couldn’t help wondering if she had said something to drive him away. But she’d gone over her words a dozen times in the past half hour and had come up with nothing—at least nothing rude or offensive. And she knew he liked Oliver, so it couldn’t have been that he would be joining them. No, the man was an enigma.
The horses he’d brought for Serena and her son were by far some of the finest they’d ever ridden. Thanks to the generosity of his grandparents, Oliver had been riding since before he was breeched.
Serena had ridden a lot as a girl, mostly her mountain pony and astride. On a side saddle she was an adequate rider, but she took no great joy in the activity, only in the sense she was able to get from one point to another that much quicker.
And so they’d headed out, Serena and Oliver on their new mounts, followed by the nine young dogs they had found living in the stables on their arrival. The stable master, Horrocks, had told them Oliver was welcome to them—if he would train them. The dogs had gone from a half-mad hoard to reasonably obedient companions over the past five weeks and she was proud of her son. So when he’d asked this morning if he might bring them along, she had assented.
“You may take the dogs today, Oliver. But I want you to take them for a run and exhaust some of their enthusiasm before you come to watch the workers.”
Her son nodded, but she could tell his head was elsewhere—flying across the hillside on his new steed, which he had immediately named Starling because of his unusual mottled coat.
Her own horse, a pretty chestnut mare with a sweet disposition, suited Serena’s abilities to the ground. She must thank Jessup, who had apparently paid close attention to both her and Oliver to be able to make such a report.
Her son’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Mama?” Oliver was twisted sideways in his saddle, looking at her with a mournful expression.
Serena laughed. “Go on, already, and ride. But be careful.” He was gone before the second word left her mouth, his pack of hounds like a noisy tail to his comet. She had ceased worrying about his horsemanship several years ago, when she learned he raced the countryside unattended by adults with his
herd of cousins.
It took her only a few minutes on horseback to reach the worksite. At first she’d thought not to need a horse, but after two weeks of making five or more trips a day, she’d realized that was foolish—and not efficient.
She saw Mr. Lockheart’s horse before she saw him—that was because he had taken off his coat and was down in a ditch, using a stick to draw something for a group of men standing about watching.
She dismounted and left her horse beside his. He looked up as she approached.
“I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Lombard, but I have taken the liberty of showing the men how they might save part of this work and only re-dig a small section.”
“Of course I do not mind. I am only glad you came before we had positioned the entire berm.”
The foreman chuckled. “Aye, as much as we like the work, doing a job twice ain’t something to be wished for.”
Lockheart turned back to the drawing with his customary abruptness, not interested in banter. “The only problem I foresee with this new path is that boulder.”
“Aye, sir, that be why we thought to move the berm up here.” He looked at Serena, “Yon gent that walked the land with Mrs. Lombard argued it made no matter.”
The foreman, Mr. Flowers, was right. She had drawn her initial plans very near to where Mr. Lockheart was moving the berm. She was pleased that Flowers, a stout Kentish gentleman who worked with his group of laborers more than merely overseeing them, had pointed this out to their employer. Serena had earned his respect in the weeks since coming to begin the job and they had an excellent understanding and working relationship. And now, she realized, she had earned his loyalty, as well.
Not that Lockheart appeared to care. His mind seemed stuck on the boulder. “Do you have the necessary means to remove it?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I didn’t pursue the matter when it seemed it would not be an issue.” She cocked her head as she mentally measured the dimensions of the rock in question before turning to the foreman. “Have you moved something of this size before?”
Flowers scratched his head and then shook it. “Not this size. I suppose we could dig it out enough to roll it down into the lake.”
“That would be the easiest, but. . .” Serena bit her lip.
The two men waited.
Serena shook her head. “Never mind. That would be the easiest.”
“What were you going to say, Mrs. Lombard?” Lockheart sounded intrigued, rather than resigned or skeptical, as many men would do.
“It would make a lovely feature beside the lake. It just seems a pity to submerge it.”
He looked from her to the rock to the hillside. His stared at the rock again, but now Serena knew he wasn’t seeing it. Somehow, she knew this was one of those times where he saw the numbers and symbols he spoke of.
“I have read the great stones on Salisbury Plains come from many miles away.” He spoke the words to the rock.
Serena looked at Flowers, who looked back at her and gave a small shrug.
They waited.
Lockheart turned to Flowers, “Do you understand the changes to the grade?”
“Aye, sir.”
“How many days will the digging take, not including the area the rock occupies?”
“If the weather stays like this I’m thinking we’ll be done by the end of the week.”
Lockheart nodded. “I will have a way to move the stone by then.” He glanced at something over Serena’s shoulder and she turned to see Oliver dismounting. The dogs, she was pleased to see, were staying put at his command.
When she turned back it was to see Lockheart still staring, his brow furrowed.
Serena waited until the men had moved off toward the new dig site to speak. “I hope you do not mind, Mr. Lockheart, but there were these pups in the stables when we arrived. Horrocks seemed to think you were building a hunting pack, but as there was no kennel master, he said Oliver might train them.”
Oliver arrived beside her. “Good morning, Mr. Lockheart.”
Lockheart looked from Oliver to Serena and back to her son. “I am pleased to see you have taken care of the dogs. I’m afraid I did not take care of hiring a kennel master, so I’m glad to see they have found somebody who wants them. I daresay they are quite ruined for hunting now?”
Serena nodded. “Horrocks seemed to think so. But Oliver has been training them to behave.”
He looked at her son. “Have you?”
Oliver nodded. “They are good dogs, sir. But Mama says they must live in the stables. They have a stall, where they sleep and stay when I cannot be outside with them.” He hesitated. “Mama says they may not live in the house.”
Lockheart appeared intrigued by this piece of information and Serena could see the man did not realize he was in the process of being manipulated by a master at the art. He looked at Serena.
“You do not approve of animals in the house, Mrs. Lombard?”
“It is not that.”
Lockheart took his coat off the handle of a shovel which was jammed upright into a pile of dirt, and shrugged into it, his perfect cravat disheveled and his lovely, expensive boots covered in mud.
“What is the reason?”
In the sunlight she could see his eyes had a dark gray ring around the paler gray of his iris. His lashes were dark brown like his hair and were unfairly long.
“It is not my house, Mr. Lockheart.”
He merely looked at her.
“I would not wish to take such liberties with bringing pets into the house,” she explained.
“I have never had a pet. Do most other people keep them in the house?” As was usual with this man, he managed to say words she was not quite expecting.
“Well—”
“My grandpapa, His Grace of Remington has over twenty dogs. And they all live in his chambers, some even sleep on his bed,” Oliver offered, pointedly avoiding Serena’s glare.
Lockheart appeared to find this intriguing. “Is that so?”
“They are not, however, hunting dogs, Oliver.”
“Neither are these, Mama.”
Serena sighed.
“I have no objection to dogs in the house, Mrs. Lombard, but the decision is yours.” He continued with hardly a pause. “I have something in mind to move this stone and also to position it where you would like it. It will take me a few days to assemble the necessary materials. I hope you will not mind if we extend our visit a few days more?”
Serena was about to remind him that it was his house when her son took the issue out of her hands.
“You mean you will stay, Mr. Lockheart?”
He gave Oliver his characteristic blank stare. “Until the stone had been moved.”
“Will you show me how to build an automaton?”
This time Serena got the first word in. “Mr. Lockheart is here to work, Oliver, not play.” She spoke gently, but with the firmness she knew he required once his high spirits had taken charge. Because Oliver had been raised in so much love and showered with so much affection that he believed everyone wished to spend their time with him. Serena usually allowed him the comfort of his assumptions. After all, life would come along soon enough and deal him its share of pain. She wanted him to know only joy for as long as she could contrive.
“When are your studies over for the day?” Lockheart asked, walking up the hill with them.
“Three o’clock. Except Sunday, which is a day of rest. Except we have to go to church.”
“Come to the library at three every day and we will work on it.” His lips twitched. “Except Sunday, of course.”
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” Luckily Oliver was already halfway up the hill when he began shouting, the dogs leaped and danced around him, not caring what they were celebrating.
She smiled up at her employer. “That was very kind, Mr. Lockheart, but you don’t need to indulge him.”
“It is something I will
enjoy.”
Before she could thank him, he asked a question about the position of the pavilion. It wasn’t until they were riding home that she realized he’d once again deflected any words of thanks or gratitude.
Chapter Nine
Gareth was in the cellar again. The darkness was total; not even a pinprick of light. The floor was damp, cold, and slimy and the sound of things skittering and slithering around him was deafening in the suffocating closeness. He screamed, but he knew nobody would come; they never came. His voice was gone, his throat hurt and his mouth was flooded with the metallic taste of blood. Something heavy and furry brushed past his naked ankle and teeth like needles sank into his big toe.
He screamed.
The hoarse, terror-filled yell was like a catapult flinging Gareth upright in his bed. He couldn’t get enough air; it was like breathing water. His hands fisted the covers on both sides and the darkness that had shrouded his eyes cleared, burned away by the single candle he always kept burning, no matter where he slept. It was across the room, hidden by a blue glass shield, but it provided enough light to keep him from drowning in the terrifying blackness.
Afraid of the dark; he was afraid of the dark. The taunting voices of children floated through his mind like fragments of clouds across the moon. Children liked to find and exploit weakness, and none knew that better than Gareth.
His heart ceased its mad flapping against his ribcage and his breathing slowed. The fine Irish sheeting was twisted and wrapped around his torso, soaked with sweat and telling him the dream had been of long duration.
He untangled his legs and swung his feet to the floor, more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed—and he’d been plenty tired then, having spent the day either in a carriage or examining a brewery that had been run into near ruin by the current owner’s feckless speculation on the ’Change.
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