by Karen Ranney
He wanted to know a great deal about her, but he didn’t tell her that his curiosity surprised him. He’d gone for months without feeling a scintilla of interest in another human being. The fact he could admit to his insularity shamed him a little. He’d been too involved in himself.
One day, not too long ago, he’d awakened feeling a bone-deep fatigue. He didn’t want to think about himself, worry about himself, or even concern himself with any facet of Jordan Hamilton. It was the day he’d come back to the boathouse, immersing himself in his work.
It was also the day he’d finally read all the letters Martha had written him.
“Did you know that my father could make light follow a waterfall?”
He shook his head.
“He had one whole wall of inventions. Whenever I asked him why he didn’t finish one, it was because he’d gotten word someone else was working on a similar machine or process. You’re the only one with whom he ever corresponded. He didn’t seem to mind you were mirroring his work.”
“Not mirroring,” he said, then wondered why he was so quick to correct her.
Was his pride so great he had to be first? Perhaps it was, an answer that surprised him.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Some days I was behind him. Sometimes I was ahead.”
She nodded. “I think you were almost at the same place,” she said. “At least from his letters. I’m surprised he told you so much.”
He noted that she didn’t mention Matthew’s comments about his family. His remarks were always said in fondness, but Jordan realized now how correct they were. Josephine was described as being overly concerned with the world around her while Martha never seemed to notice. Josephine wanted pretty baubles. Martha wanted answers.
Matthew had also mentioned his mother often in his letters, but strangely rarely commented about his wife.
How odd that he could remember almost everything his mentor had said about Martha. He wished, however, that Matthew had explained her a little more. What was her favorite color, her most treasured book? What annoyed her—other than anyone who slighted her father in any way?
She sat half in shadow. Behind her sunlight beckoned through the boathouse window. He wanted to study her for a while, but how strange would the request sound?
Stay right where you are, Martha, while I marvel at the perfect oval of your face and the direct, penetrating look from your brown eyes. You have the faint beginnings of a frown line between your brows, as if you’ve often contemplated something difficult to comprehend. And there’s a small indentation at the right corner of your mouth leading me to think humor is not a stranger to you.
What would she say if he continued his thoughts aloud?
I like your curly mop of hair. I imagine it gives you fits and makes you long for something more fashionable. I like the dramatic arch of your brows that seem to convey your thoughts so easily. Right at the moment they’re slightly elevated as if you’re wondering at my interest.
I’m wondering, too.
I like that you cared so much for your father, that your grief is there in your eyes for anyone to see. I admire the patience you’ve demonstrated around your sister, but I suspect it’s hard-won and often lost. I also admire your love for your grandmother, the care and concern you have for an old woman with the skills of Machiavelli.
Martha, your grandmother is lying.
I also appreciate that you’re not wearing scent, other than what I suspect is your soap. A faint rose scent, if I’m not mistaken, but nothing else. Unlike your sister, who seems to drench herself in a perfume better worn by a mature woman of the world.
He wished he danced. He wished he could dance. He had the strangest wish to stand, take her hand, hum some waltz he’d heard, and whirl her around the boathouse. He wanted to see her smile, watch her cheeks blossom with color.
A sign of his incipient insanity. He should banish her from his presence.
He did no such thing.
“They’ve been together for almost the whole day?” Susan York asked her maid.
Amy nodded. “They seem to be quite companionable, Mrs. York. Of course, I heard raised voices, too.”
“Oh, dear. You mean Martha was shouting?”
“Not just her, Mrs. York. It was the duke, too.”
“Oh.”
Susan wondered what to make of this development.
In the great reckoning to come—which wasn’t, unfortunately, all that far off—she would be called upon to explain her actions. Namely, her numerous prevarications (her nature flinched at the word lies), her sloth in remaining in bed playing cards with her maid, and eating all sorts of delicious biscuits (she really must get the recipes from Sedgebrook’s cook).
There was a reason for her actions, but she doubted the Almighty would excuse her easily. Wasn’t there some parable about doing the right thing for the wrong reason? She wasn’t certain, but surely she would be forgiven.
Being at Sedgebrook was fortuitous; she couldn’t overlook the opportunity she’d been given. How many times had she heard her darling son talk about the Duke of Roth?
Yes, she’d been guilty of planning. Yes, she’d taken the future into her hands. Yes, she’d no doubt abused the Duke of Roth’s hospitality.
She’d arranged their meeting, just as Matthew had wanted. He’d often told her how alike Martha and the duke were.
“I am not the type to matchmake, Mother, but they have the same nature, the same kind of mind.”
She’d promised him, on his deathbed, to somehow arrange a meeting. When the moment had come, she’d acted on it. And, from what Amy had learned—bless the woman, she could ferret out anyone’s secrets—the duke and Martha were faring well.
Would it do any good to tell Martha about her father’s thoughts?
“They’d suit, Mother. Both of them are determined, focused, and have a mind for mechanics. Jordan is as reserved as Martha and, I think, as lonely.”
Had the duke known she was healthy as a horse? Susan suspected the doctor had, even though she’d acted faint and moaned more than once during his examination. She was not given to theatrics normally, but it seemed easy enough to emulate her dear mother-in-law. The poor woman had declared herself ill with so many different ailments that when she succumbed to heart problems it had been a true shock.
The only thing she hadn’t done was plan Martha’s wardrobe. The unfortunate lavender dress didn’t bring out her delightful coloring. But, that could be construed as an asset as well. If the duke found himself entranced with Martha, she’d know it wasn’t for her attire but despite it.
Should she hint at the fact that Martha was an heiress? No, she’d leave that little tidbit for later, just in case the duke needed some urging.
All she needed now was to give Martha and the duke a little time. And somehow curb Josephine’s curiosity and more acquisitive tendencies. The girl coveted. That was the word for it. Despite never having to worry about money she sometimes wanted what other people had. Heaven forbid someone has a prettier dress or a more accomplished horse.
Unfortunately, from what Amy said, Sedgebrook had captured her attention. Perhaps she should move up her plans for Josephine’s season. That would certainly keep her granddaughter occupied with thoughts of a new wardrobe and appropriate jewels.
As far as Martha, perhaps they should remain here a few more days than she’d originally scheduled. She could always relapse, feel faint again.
For now, she was content to allow nature to take its course.
She smiled and reached for her book and another biscuit.
Chapter 13
Martha slid from the stool and walked to where her father’s boxes and crates were stacked.
He stood. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, when she went to open the first of the boxes.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Who better? I packed them. I know what’s in each.”
He sat back down, watching her. She was looking for something. A
fter taking out a sheaf of papers from the first box, she put the top back on and moved to a coffin-like crate.
“You’ll have to help me with this one,” she said.
Grabbing his walking stick, he moved slowly to her side, taking the precaution of grabbing a length of iron from one of the vertical bins against the wall.
She nodded at him approvingly as he bent and used the iron as a pry bar, lifting the lid from the box.
“I wanted to make sure it wasn’t disturbed in the move,” she said, helping him lift the lid.
“It’s your father’s prototype.”
She nodded. “Bessie.”
Mounds of shaved wood were pillowed atop and on the sides of the torpedo ship. She gently pushed it away, revealing a bullet-shaped vessel four feet long. The metal had changed from a copper color to verdigris in several places, indicating that it had been used on more than one voyage.
At least Matthew hadn’t lost his in the bottom of a lake.
Placing the lid of the crate on the floor, she carefully lifted the ship from its nest.
When he moved to assist her, she shook her head.
“It’s not that heavy,” she said.
“I’m not an invalid, Martha,” he said his voice stiff.
She looked at him, her eyes widening at his comment.
“Of course you aren’t. I didn’t decline your assistance because I thought you were unable to give it.”
Her glance swept up his body and down again, leaving him to think he’d never been so thoroughly examined by a female.
“No,” she said. “I most certainly would not consider you an invalid. A man in his prime, perhaps.”
He felt the back of his neck warm.
“Besides, I’ve lifted Bessie myself numerous times.”
As Martha carried the vessel to the workbench, he grabbed his walking stick and followed, silently cursing his lurching gait.
Once seated at his workbench he reached out a hand and placed it on the curved copper snout.
“It looks like mine,” he said. “But that’s to be expected, since your father and I exchanged drawings.”
She nodded. “This is the one he was operating that last day. I still don’t know what he did that was different. I’ve examined it and tested it myself numerous times, but I haven’t discovered what changed. Perhaps you’ll be more successful.”
He didn’t say anything, merely moved his hand carefully over the body of the ship and the seams where the three sections of the ship were joined together. If the prototype was true to Matthew’s drawings, the engine run by compressed air was in the middle of the ship while the hydrostatic valve and pendulum were in the rear. At the bottom was the rudder keeping Bessie level and on course.
He wondered if it also controlled the depth at which the ship ran.
His fingers trailed over the copper vessel, hesitating on the spots of verdigris.
“Why didn’t Matthew tell you what he’d done?”
“At first he wanted to share the secret with you,” she said. “Later, when he realized you weren’t coming, he was too ill and delirious.”
He sometimes regretted what he’d done. This was one of the few cases where he wanted to make amends for an act he hadn’t performed. Yet he couldn’t have gone to Griffin House since he was in his own sickbed. Nor did he feel comfortable telling her that since it sounded as if he was begging for pity.
He reached out and touched her hand where it rested on the workbench, wordless comfort. Or perhaps an appeal for her understanding without him furnishing an explanation.
She turned her head and looked at him.
“Forgive me,” he said. Did she realize that it wasn’t the first time he said that to her?
She nodded, turning her hand over until their palms met. For a moment that’s how they remained: her standing, him sitting beside her, their hands and their gazes touching.
A sliver of time in which he had the curious thought that they communicated without words. He felt her pain and loss and wondered if she could sense his regret. Or understand his bruised pride that, even now, dictated that he offer no excuse.
She pulled her hand free and reached out to touch Bessie, her fingers smoothing over the copper as if she felt for tactile differences in the vessel.
He had a thought that had nothing to do with torpedoes, one that would have probably offended her had she known it.
What would her hands feel like on him?
“I suggest you install a wire to the stern,” she said, effectively cutting off his reverie. She pointed at the back of the ship where a small round circle had been welded. “I would have lost every single one of my vessels if I hadn’t.”
“A leash?”
“If you wish,” she said, smiling.
If he’d thought to do that, he wouldn’t have lost three of his ships and would’ve been able to reel it in when it sank. Nor would he have had to ask for volunteers among the footmen to dive for his vessel.
They treated the whole thing as a jest, which is probably how his entire staff viewed his preoccupation with a torpedo ship. The lame, penurious duke, attempting to recoup his family’s coffers by inventing a metal fish. Yet it was no more laughable than his brother traipsing through Italy armed with his brushes and his painting teacher.
He turned away, staring at the empty bays where his prototypes once rested.
By her competence she put his own incompetence into relief. He felt inept around her, an emotion he’d rarely experienced. He’d known failure before, but never this sudden need to explain his shortcomings.
He wanted her approval, a thought that startled him. He wanted Martha York to smile at him and say something in praise of his efforts or his thoughts or even his plans.
Matthew should have warned him.
My daughter is a treasure. He’d written those words more than once. He should have appended them. My daughter will befuddle you, Hamilton. She’ll make you laugh, shout, argue, and contemplate circumstances you have no business thinking.
Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t return to the boathouse. He’d muddle on without her. He’d examine Bessie at his leisure—alone—without her comments or constructive remarks. He’d done very well without Martha before. He could certainly do so again.
Why, then, did the idea of working by himself annoy him?
A pain streaking through his right side effectively silenced any contemplation of tomorrow. Smoothing his face of any expression, he moved his leg to stand. The knife had grown teeth over the past hour, gnawing into the muscles and bone.
He should have stopped working earlier. Hopefully, he hadn’t left it for too long. If he didn’t seek out Henry soon the pain was going to get worse.
Standing, he grabbed his walking stick, prayed that his leg would hold up, and looked at her.
“Shall we go?” he said.
He was being too abrupt, almost rude, but thankfully, she only nodded. Nor did she remark on the fact that his passage to the door of the boathouse was slower and more lumbering than before.
He didn’t want to look lame in front of her, damn it.
Once outside the boathouse, he realized that the day was more advanced than he’d thought. The sky was darkening to the east, a blaze of orange and red streaking across the western sky.
“It’s gotten later than I thought,” he said.
She didn’t look away, making him realize there wasn’t any compassion in her gaze. Nor was there pity. Instead, she regarded him the way a friend might look at another, without judgment.
“I’ll take you through the Duchess’s Garden,” he said. “It cuts down the distance back to the house.”
She didn’t say anything, merely joined him on the path.
The back wall of the garden was brick, with hornbeam hedges forming the other three walls. The entrance to the Duchess’s Garden was through an intricate trellis arch. He stepped aside for her to precede him.
“This is one of the gardens featured in
the prints in the Morning Parlor,” she said.
He was surprised she knew that. Most people didn’t notice what was around them, but he should have known Martha wasn’t like most people.
“The garden was begun in the late seventeenth century as a kitchen garden, but now we grow our vegetables in the Potager.”
At her look, he explained. “It’s an ornamental vegetable garden closer to the kitchen. Here the area is set aside for roses, in honor of my mother. She was fond of roses, I believe.”
She glanced at him and he answered her unspoken question.
“She died when I was three months old,” he said.
“I always thought bringing you into the world led to her death,” his father stated once. His offhanded remark had been like a weight around Jordan’s neck for years, until he learned his mother had died of influenza. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced his father’s casual cruelties and unconscious insults.
“It’s like a separate world,” she said, looking around her. “All these colors. And the scent of roses is almost intoxicating.”
“It clings to you,” he said. “If I spend any time here I can smell roses on my clothes hours later.”
“How many types are there?” she asked, walking slowly down the path.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Once, there were over a thousand. I don’t know if my brother added or subtracted from the number.”
“Was he duke for long?”
“Ten years.” Long enough to do his damage to the family coffers.
His father and brother evidently believed money was a natural province of a dukedom. Inherit one and the other magically appeared. It didn’t.
“My mother died when I was a baby,” she said.
Another commonality between them. He wanted to ask, but didn’t, if she often found herself feeling adrift in her own family.
“Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?” she asked.
Had she noted his difficulty in walking? Or had his face revealed the degree of his pain?
