by Linda Banche
Drat, separated again. Ellen reversed course to the only remaining seat, which put her opposite Laurence. Well, everyone always talked over the table, so she could still speak to him.
Mr. Palmer, his lips pursed, took his position on Laurence’s other side. “Tom…” He drew out the word.
Tom popped up. “Oh, sorry. Ladies first.”
Ellen and her mother seated themselves, the men following suit, as the maid entered with a large tureen of leek soup and then served.
Mama dipped her spoon into the fragrant pottage. “And where do you hail from, Laurence?”
“Essex, ma’am. My father has an estate there.”
“Oh, a real estate.” Tom drummed his spoon on the edge of his bowl until Mama instructed him to stop the rattling. “Like with horses and cows and hunting?”
“Yes, with horses and cows. Although my father is not much of a hunter. In some ways, he likes to be contrary. He says he sides with the fox. Drives the other landowners crazy.”
Ellen’s lips lifted in an involuntary smile. His father sounded charming. Just like his son. “What does your estate look like?” An image of him clad in breeches and top boots, a dog frolicking at his heels as he strode over hill and dale, seized her mind.
“Oh, we have a home farm, and my father has several tenants. Not a very large estate, as estates go, but prosperous, thanks to Father’s good management. But I suppose he is a bit behind the times. I think he would benefit from your steam engine, sir, to power the grist mill when the river runs low.”
Papa set his spoon down. “Perhaps you can convince him, now that you know something about steam engines. Steam engines are the wave of the future!”
Mama laughed. “Yes, dear. But we are already converted. No need to read us a sermon.”
Papa grumbled, but tucked into his soup.
Ellen suppressed an inner sigh. How long until could she talk to Laurence without an audience? The meal already dragged, and they were only at the soup course. Oh, well, she would have to wait until after dinner.
“Laurence, what does your father think of your foray into mechanics?” Mama lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips.
“Well, I have not told him yet. But, as I explained to Ellen, he does not think gentlemen should work with their hands.” He released a long drawn-out exhale. “I fear he may disinherit me. I shall wind up homeless, walking the streets to stay warm and sleeping in the park.”
“Nonsense, lad. We could always take you in here.” Papa’s voice was gruff. “And I think you underestimate your father. I know I would be happy to have Tom settled on something useful that he likes, steam engines or whatever. Can your father be much different?”
Laurence blinked. “Mayhap you are right, sir.”
“I would like to have you live here.” Tom bounced in his seat. Again. “You could sleep with me.”
Laurence’s gaze arrowed to her, and then that same sinful smile that had blinded her at the Society for the Arts curled his lips.
Her breath froze. What delightful, forbidden invitation lurked behind that smile? The spoon she held clattered to the floor. “Oh, excuse me.”
His grin widened.
Face burning, she fetched herself another spoon, and with a clinking of spoons on bowls, the soup course ended. Bearing a large tray, the maid entered with the main meal of ham, peas and new potatoes.
“I tend to order lighter fare in the summer heat, Laurence.” Mama gestured at the filled plates. “If anything is not to your liking, please say so.”
“Oh, no, everything is most delicious.”
“Tell us about the pocket watch!” Tom tugged at Laurence’s sleeve.
Papa waved his fork at the boy. “Tom, do not insist. Laurence is our guest.”
“I do not mind, sir. But, Tom, you do want to embarrass me.” He set his fork down and then folded his hands on the table. “When I was a boy, younger than you, lad, I discovered my fascination with anything that had moving parts. The mill wheel, the axles for the carriage wheels, the pump in the kitchen. But the object that intrigued me the most was my father’s pocket watch. His father handed down the watch to him, and his father before him.” He sighed. “Ah, that mechanism is a thing of beauty, my father’s pride and joy. Gold case, etched on the front and back with scenes of prancing horses. I especially liked the ticking, and always wondered what made the sound. Now, I had taken apart several of my toys and put them back together again. Why not a watch?”
Tom groaned. “Oh, we know the answer to that one.”
“Just so. One day when my father was out, I took the watch from his bed chamber and pried the back open. So many gears and wheels and springs! All in motion, too, and all so small. I was in alt. I took everything out and neatly lined up the pieces so I could admire them. Then I put the parts back together. Everything fit. I was so proud of myself.”
Holding his sides, Papa fell against the back of his chair. “Everything fit! Not that everything fit correctly!”
Laurence waggled his eyebrows. “As you say. I took everything out again, and put the components back in a slightly different arrangement. The watch still did not work. At that point my father returned and found me.”
He shuddered. “I have never seen him so angry. I thought he would have an apoplexy right there. He snatched the watch out of my hands and directed a servant to hie posthaste to the clockmaker in the village. Then he dragged me by my ear to his study, where he pulled the birch rod out of his desk drawer.” He spread his arms wide. “Alas, I was not able to escape. I spent the next week standing. I ate my meals standing. I did my lessons standing. I would have slept standing, too, like a horse, if I could have.”
Everyone roared. Ellen wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “A very funny story, indeed, although I doubt you thought so at the time.”
“No, but the experience put me off mechanics for a while. Although, after a few years, I did start reading up on steam engines and other machines.”
Tom, ever in motion, fidgeted in his chair again. “Did you take anything else apart?”
Mr. Palmer held up his hand. “Not now, son, let the man eat his dinner. He worked hard all day.”
“You are very good-natured, Laurence.” Ellen’s heart turned over. Not many men would tell such an embarrassing tale about themselves. She smiled at him, and he grinned back, before they ate in silence for a while.
The maid entered once more carrying another tray. She cleared the table and then set out a strawberry tart. Amid laughter and chatter, Mrs. Palmer sliced the pastry and then handed the filled plates around.
The final course. Not much longer now.
Chapter 9
Laurence stifled a yawn as he accepted his dessert. His arms ached, his legs ached, and his eyes teared from coal smoke and steam. By Jove, fencing and pugilism were no training for the hard manual labor he had done today.
Moving everything from the basement had taken until dinnertime. After he, Mr. Palmer and Tom had piled a rented horse-drawn cart high, he and the constantly chattering boy had walked behind as Mr. Palmer drove the vehicle to the new workshop. All three of them then unloaded the conveyance and set up the equipment. Laurence, as the strongest, always hefted the heaviest items. They repeated the process four more times until they brought every bit over.
Then they rearranged everything to provide more working space for the steam engine. The apparatus cranked happily on its platform in the center of the floor, hissing and steaming and spinning to its heart’s content, and never stopping until Mr. Palmer turned it off for the night. Or it ran out of coal, which happened rather frequently.
Laurence picked up his fork and grimaced at the twinge of pain in his arm. Now that he no longer moved, his cooling muscles had tightened. Pray he could rise from the table.
He straightened up and winced again. If his scratchy drawers didn’t kill him first. The wretched things made every movement a misery. No question but that he would have his valet toss them out.
�
��Laurence, is something amiss?” Mrs. Palmer, her forehead puckered, set down her fork. “You are fidgeting like Tom. Is the chair not comfortable?”
He forced a smile to his lips. “No, ma’am. The chair is fine.” My drawers are the problem, but I can’t tell you that. He stilled and then dug into his pastry.
As he lifted his fork to his lips, he met Ellen’s gaze across the table. There she sat, fresh as a flower, her lilac scent caressing his nose, more delectable than the strawberry tart before him. And strawberry was his favorite.
Curse Tom for taking her seat. Well, tomorrow night, he would make sure she occupied the place beside him.
Gads, every muscle in his body had frozen at Tom’s comment about sleeping. Images of him and Ellen in bed had flooded his mind, and still clouded his thinking. She had turned the most delightful shade of red. Had she thought the same thing? Scratchy as his drawers were, he now squirmed for an entirely different reason.
Orange sunlight spilled through the west windows and crept along the floor as the sun dipped toward the far horizon, heralding the end of one of the best days in his life. Tom nattered on and on, his words a meaningless jumble in Laurence’s ears. He stifled another yawn. Would the boy never stop?
Ellen looked down and placed the back of her hand over her mouth. She would probably like to yawn, too. She glanced across the table and quirked an eyebrow.
He grinned back. He would make sure he had her to himself after dinner. The heat of the day had dissipated, promising a fine, cool evening. Mayhap they could take a walk. Visions of him taking her soft curves into his arms filled his head. His blood hammered in his veins.
He coughed as he forked up another piece of tart. Better not think of that now. “My compliments to your cook, ma’am.”
Mrs. Palmer dimpled. “I shall tell her.”
They finished dessert and then pushed back their chairs. Laurence levered himself up with a minimum of pain and only a small grunt and followed Ellen to the parlor.
Her mother, book in hand, again took the armchair before hearth. Ellen sank onto the settee facing the open front window. Good, they were almost alone.
Laurence lowered himself carefully to the place beside her. His drawers itched only a little. Or maybe he was numb.
The gauzy curtains fluttered in a slight air current and Ellen fanned herself with her hand. “Gracious, I am grateful for the breeze. The day has finally cooled off.” One side of her mouth curved up. “Although, I think you were warmer in the workshop.”
“Just so. Although the new workshop has more and larger windows than the old one, the summer heat and the steam engine’s firebox ensure the place will be hot. But, I assume the engine will also keep the place quite comfortable in winter.”
“How is your work progressing?” Her head tipped to the side and her eyes glittered.
She was interested! He didn’t need any more incentive.
So, he told her all about his day, and, truth be told, he puffed up his part a bit. Most women sought words of love and admiration, but this one wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than intellectual stimulation. How refreshing to speak of steam engines and mathematics without causing a lady’s eyes to glaze over. Perhaps bluestockings were maligned.
When he finally wound down, she tapped a finger on her lip. “I have come across an interesting passage in the History of the Steam Engine about ensuring a continuous stream of coal to the furnace, but I cannot remember the details.”
“Is that the book you borrowed from the library?”
“Yes. I must finish it soon, so I can return it.” She sighed. “I wish I could afford a copy. The book contains so much useful information.”
He would buy her a copy. A book was an acceptable gift from a man to a woman, so he wouldn’t offend her parents. They could read it together, preferably alone in some secluded garden bower, where they could easily forget all about Mr. Galloway’s dry tome. His pulse kicked up higher. “Sounds interesting. I would like to read it sometime.”
She rose and hurried to the door. “I will fetch the book and you can see for yourself.”
“But—” “Sometime” doesn’t mean “right now”! The last thing he wanted was to talk about a blasted book. He slumped against the back of the settee. Curse it. Foiled by a book.
The breeze fluttered over his face, the fragrance of roses in the park wafted to his nose and his tired muscles relaxed. His eyelids lowered. How comfortable he was here. The Palmer family was splendid. Especially Ellen…
“Laurence? Laurence!” A rough hand jabbed him in the shoulder.
Laurence’s eyes popped open. The air current still fluttered the curtains, the rose scent still perfumed the air. What had happened?
Laughter bubbled out of Tom, who bent over, his arms around his waist. “You fell asleep! Right on the settee.” He poked Laurence in the shoulder again.
“What’s so funny?” Mr. Palmer entered, and both he and his wife crossed to the window.
“Laurence fell asleep!” Tom held his sides and guffawed again.
All the cobwebs fell away from Laurence’s mind. He swallowed and then sat up straight. “I apologize. I cannot think what came over me.”
Mr. Palmer laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sleep came over you, lad.”
“What happened?” Ellen, book in hand, shoved the still-chortling Tom to the side.
“He fell asleep.” Tom wiped tears from his eyes.
“You work him too hard, Papa.” Ellen bit her lip on a smile.
Why did the floor never up open up and swallow a man at a time like this? He rubbed his eyes. “Well, I am right and tight now.”
Mr. Palmer’s face creased. “Tom, call a hackney. Our friend should seek his bed.”
“I am fine, sir, really.” He held out a hand to Ellen. “Shall we look at your book?” Please.
“No, no, we have kept you too long already.” Mr. Palmer hauled him up. “You need your rest. Come a little later tomorrow. Like half after six.”
Chapter 10
A blunt stick end prodded Laurence in the shoulder. “Wake up, guv. We’re here.”
Laurence raised leaden eyelids. “Where?”
“At One Charles Street.”
Laurence nodded at the jarvey and pushed himself up from the corner of the seat. His muscles screamed and his backside groaned. Wincing, he stumbled out before flipping the man a coin. “Thank you.”
The jarvey caught the coin with a deft hand before he hopped up to the driver’s perch and then took off.
Gritting his teeth, Laurence hobbled up to his chambers on the third floor. While he preferred the top floor because he hated hearing tapping heels overhead, today he wished some convenient magic would lower his rooms to the basement. Pulling the door open took almost more strength than he had left. “Hodges, where are you?”
His valet materialized at the doorway to the study. “Yes, sir?”
“A bath.” He staggered into his bed chamber and stripped off his clothes, very slowly. Hodges returned as he was down to his drawers.
“And how did the new attire work out, sir?” Hodges’s voice was neutral, but his eyes danced.
“I know that look, Hodges.” He may as well give up. Once his valet saw his arse… “You were right.”
“In what way?” The smile drifted downward from Hodges’s eyes to tug at the corners of his mouth.
Laurence heaved a breath. “You will make me say it, will you not? The clothes are uncomfortable, to say the least.” He undid the ties of the drawers and dropped the garment. “Especially these.” A drawers-shaped patch of angry red blotches covered him from waist to knee. He angled his back toward the cheval glass in the corner and then looked over his shoulder. Same in the rear. “Devil take it, what are these drawers made of? Glass paper?”
Hodges’s eyes bugged out. “I confess, sir, I have never seen the like. But I know just the remedy. First that bath. A warm one.”
He scurried out while Laurence stripped off the of
fending drawers and then flung them into a corner. Definitely material for the rubbish heap. Unless someone in the kitchen could use them to scour pots.
Now what? The thought of sitting made him shudder. With care, he pulled on a banyan and then poured a brandy. The alcohol should help deaden the pain.
A few moments later, the valet returned with several house servants carrying a hip bath and buckets of hot and cold water. Laurence sipped the amber liquid, concentrating on the burn in his throat, as Hodges prepared the bath.
Tendrils of steam curled upward from the tub as Laurence sank into the water. Hot enough to relax his overworked muscles, but not too hot. And joy of joys, Hodges had been right; the warm water soothed his troubled skin. He took his time washing, but mainly just lay there, letting the heat ease his abused body until the liquid cooled.
“Soap up well, sir. We do not want the damaged area to become infected.”
Water sloshed as Laurence stood in the bath. He lathered up the washcloth and then gingerly rubbed the affected areas more thoroughly than he had before. He winced as the soap touched the reddened skin, but the cleanliness would help. He sat back down to rinse off.
“And now that you are done, I will apply another remedy. Please rise.” Carrying a large pitcher, Hodges strode behind him. Liquid splashed as he poured the ewer’s contents over Laurence’s backside.
Burning seared over Laurence’s skin. He hissed in a breath and jumped forward, out of range of the devilish brew. “Damn you, Hodges, are you trying to kill me?”
The valet’s unperturbed voice issued from behind him. “I am sorry, sir, but this is a further help to prevent infection.”
“What is it?”
“Salt water.”
“Hellfire and damnation, how much salt is in there? Enough to brine me?”
“I assure you, no, sir. A very mild concentration.” The valet came into view. “Now for the front…”
Laurence grabbed the pitcher. There was no way he would let Hodges pour that fiendish fluid over his privates. “While I appreciate your effort, I will apply this with a cloth.”
The valet, smothering another smile, fetched a fresh washcloth.
