by Conkle, Gina
“The smaller pieces, yes.” She blew out the taper. “It’s the larger items like that chair that bedevil me.”
“I can fix this.” He bent lower, inspecting the joint where ivory attached to wood. “Since I’m not leaving until Twelfth Night ends, I may as well do some good. It’ll give me something to do.”
“Won’t the Captain miss you?”
“He’ll miss the chance to harangue me about taking over the family business.” Jonas tested fragile hinges on the chair. An eye to the rusted metal, he shrugged off his coat. “Take this, will you?”
She held the blue velvet, a mute witness to Jonas bending this way and that. A touch to another hinge. A thoughtful hum as his fingertips ran the length of all four chair legs. Capable hands testing, poking, skimming ancient wood with the gentleness a surgeon gave a desperate patient. Last night, her senses sung a different tune when studying those hands.
“Finding anything I should know about?” she asked.
He slanted a grin at her. “Yes. This old wood is telling me I should work on it.”
“You? Pardon me, Jonas,” she said to his profile. “But you don’t know one jot or tittle about Roman antiquities. Your offer is generous, but I’m not sure it’s wise.”
He chuckled, examining the upper arch. “Your Roman chair, it’s furniture. Don’t forget, I come from generations of furniture makers.”
“Which you turned your back on ten years ago. This isn’t a practice piece.”
His hands grazed the back rest’s upper curve, pausing to push a spot as if he tested a wound. “I’m aware of the gravity here. You forget. The Captain apprenticed me when I was eleven years old.”
Hugging his velvet coat, she couldn’t argue with his experience. While she spent time with tutors, Jonas had learned the cabinetmaker’s trade at his grandfather’s side. He tilted the chair into the hearth’s light, his forefinger tracing knobby carvings. Jonas checked wood flecks on his finger. He even sniffed the wood.
“Some rot here, but the rest of this arch is intact. If you won’t let me work on it, you’d better have a care how deep you work the grain or you’ll split it in two.”
“You see that in the grain?”
“I do.” He stood up and dusted off his hands.
She passed back his coat. “You really think you can save it? Even the hinges? After the ivory legs, those hinges and the carvings will be what collectors inspect the most.”
Jonas slid into his blue velvet coat. “You’re selling this to collectors?”
“One collector. He has a number of interested buyers, if the chair remains intact.”
“I’ll need to borrow some of the Captain’s tools, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, collecting his heavy coat and hat and gloves.
She folded the ends of her shawl over her chest amused at her refusal of Jonas’s help turning into a discussion of how he would help. “Your working on this chair would free me to write the next book.”
“In your father’s name? Or yours?”
“My father’s. No one will accept my name on a manuscript.”
“Why not? You were spouting facts about Londinium and Roman generals when you were ten years old.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Irritating, wasn’t it?”
“Endearing.”
His lone word, said in his deep rumble of a voice, satisfied her to her toes. Fragile threads of friendship strengthened on his singular affirmation. The truth was Jonas understood her. He always had.
“I’m afraid it will be my hand on the manuscript and Thomas J. Halsey on the book.” She fixed her shawl again, pulling the wool tighter. “Once the book is done and the curule chair restored, I plan to put this all behind me.”
Jonas rubbed gold trim on his tricorne, a gentlemanly smile ghosting his mouth. “We’ll have a few weeks. We can manage it together.”
Firelight shined on his tall, black boots. Jonas was handsome but not in the conventional sense. He was big, his size akin to braw Highlanders. Town gentlemen were tame by comparison. Jonas would never spout flowery phrases or write poetic letters. But, he’d keep a secret and be the friend to catch you if you fell from an adventure that went awry.
And her heart ached that he’d not be around to catch her again.
This was all she’d have. A few weeks with Jonas.
The hat rotated in his hands, a sluggish end-over-end circle as his gaze locked with hers. “Well, I expect the Captain and his cronies are impatiently awaiting my return.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice quiet. “You should get back to your grandfather and his guests.”
Jonas stepped around the Roman chair, his broad shoulders seeming to take up the room. She followed his blue velvet-covered back as he picked his way through the relic-strewn floor to the stairs. He slipped on his black frock coat and black tricorne in silence. Her palm pressed her stomacher. Butterflies camped there.
“You will be back tomorrow?” she called out. “To fix the chair.”
Jonas gave her a swoon-worthy smile. “Bright and early.”
She’d never swooned a day in her life, but her knees didn’t know that. They were jelly. “Bright and early. I look forward to it.”
He disappeared down the winding stairs. She froze in place, listening to his descending steps until the old oak door scraped open and shut. Grabbing her skirts, she sprinted to the window to watch Jonas walk home. Winter covered the evening world in white. Bits of diamonds could be scattered in the snow, sparkling beautifully. Jonas emerged from the side of the tower, trudging through the fluff. Light from her window cast a mellow glow on the ground, and Jonas walked through it. Gentle wind trifled with his coat. His black boots stopped their trudge. He turned and waved. Nose pressed to cold glass, she waved back.
Was it possible his blue eyes shined clearer and more lively? For her? Palm flat on the icy window, she felt Jonas, his warmth and presence lingering until he disappeared in the night.
Chapter Four
“It does my heart good to see those tools in your hand again.” The Captain picked up a small chisel, the sharp tip no bigger than a child’s littlest finger. “You’ll want this, too, though it needs sharpening.”
The barn-cum-workshop of Braithwaite Furniture and Sons hinted at days past. Patterns for Chippendale chair backs hung from hooks high on a wall from the grandest to humblest designs. Dusty cobwebs fluttered in the corners. Jonas quietly rolled up the chisels and tucked them in his leather satchel. Silence was best when the Captain waxed on about him taking over the business—a thing both men knew would never happen.
The Captain’s eyes narrowed to shrewd slits. “A young man strong as you can do twice the work I did. Oversee twice the laborers…make a tidy income.”
A young man as strong as he was? No. He’d shake Plumtree’s dust off his feet the same as he did ten years ago and leave behind the ridicule.
Big Ox. Dumb oaf. Brainless beast of a man.
Villagers had admonished him in his youth, “Better to use your God-given brawn to make your way in the world, because the good Lord gave your brother all the brains.”
The sting of old taunts haunted him the moment he’d stepped foot in Plumtree two nights ago. He tried to shake them, but the past wouldn’t let go.
Jonas picked up a planer off the workbench, words of the past blistering his soul as if freshly spoke. The Captain had held this same tool, saying years ago, “Your brother will attend St. Mary’s College and study the law. You—” The Captain smoothed the planer up and down the walnut board, wood shavings dropping around his feet. “—you’re better suited to a life of labor. Right here. This shop shall be yours.”
Even the Captain, good man that he was, had unwittingly elevated Jacob over Jonas. His mother had patted Jonas’s arm and bade him to consider the merits of furniture-making. Take over the Braithwaite Furniture and Sons, the Captain and his mother had said.
Instead, Jonas had set fire to the building.
It was an accid
ent, a small fire, as damaging blazes go. Jonas had placed linseed oil too close to an open flame and whoosh! One beam had been charred to ruin and a fine oak chest of drawers for meant for an earl’s butler had been reduced to ash. The fire had branded him an ungrateful youth in the eyes of Plumtree. Once the destruction was repaired, Jonas packed his things and left as quietly as he’d arrived at the tender age of ten.
The Captain slapped the work bench, snapping Jonas out of the past. “In its finer days, a man could expect three hundred fifty pounds income.”
His grandfather ambled the rough-hewn floors, speaking around his pipe, his cane tapping the floor. The old man wasn’t giving up. Jonas gathered twine, listening as patiently as a grandson ready to leave could.
“Did I tell you Chippendale’s man of business inquired about Braithwaite Furniture and Sons constructing a series of lady’s writing desks?”
Jonas tossed two balls of twine in his satchel. “Odd, since you haven’t been open for business of late.”
The Captain chewed his pipe. “Oh, very well. I wrote Chippendale first. Told him my grandson was coming home.” And his grandfather was off, his enthusiasm churning. “Just think of it. My experience and your strong back.”
“You mean a beast of a man like me…a man with no brains.” He picked up a rusted hammer and dropped it back in the bucket.
His grandfather winced. “You can’t still believe that.”
Jonas tied the satchel. “I don’t.” But the sting of those words will take a long time to fade.
The Captain gripped his cane with both hands, his proud shoulders bowing with age. Or was it grandfatherly guilt at not stemming the critical tide that had washed over Jonas years ago? The old man had always walked through life with his brand of salty-tongued dignity.
His thin lids drooped. “You found your own way. Seeing the world, returning to England and taking a position as man of business for the Earl of Greenwich. That was no small feat. Everyone in the village was quite impressed.”
“And there’s more world I want to see,” Jonas said, tossing the leather satchel over his shoulder. He was long past caring about Plumtree’s good opinion of him.
“By the time I was your age, I’d been married, fathered three children, and buried two of them. Surely you’ll want a wife.”
“And settle into Braithwaite cottage?” He scoffed. “Plumtree’s too small for my taste.”
“It welcomed you and your brother,” the Captain said sharply.
“And shamed my mother.”
“She eventually won them over,” was the best the old man could give.
Jonas eyed his grandfather under the brim of his hat. “A thing she should never have had to do.”
The village’s cool, dismissive matrons had cut the deepest. Women were cruelest to other women. His mother bore the shunning with a stiff spine, but sometimes he’d find her teary-eyed in a quiet corner at home. His boyish arms around her was the only cure he could give.
The family had borne the brunt of ridicule until the town’s folk moved on to better gossip. Eventually, the hardest hearts melted under Jacob’s charm, a thing Jonas didn’t possess. He was the twin to stand stoically aside while his brother won Plumtree’s hearts with wit and undeniable friendliness. It came in handy when they got into scrapes such as freeing Farmer Watson’s prize-winning pig…and then chasing the sow through the village, sliding through muddy roads, their antics splashing mud on pedestrians.
Later, Braithwaite handsomeness served a purpose. Tavern wenches and merchant’s daughters threw themselves at Jacob and Jonas. Conversation wasn’t required when a pretty girl did all the talking. None truly noticed the person Jonas was. None, that is, except for lank-limbed Livvy Halsey, as ready for a day of fishing as she was to climb trees and catch frogs.
Her pert smile and saucy tongue had been a sylph-like memory all these years since he’d left, a comfort in lonely days at sea. Those were the times a man saw the deepest nooks and crannies of his soul. One face appeared often when he stared at wide open water.
Livvy Halsey.
When it came to pretty Elspeth, he couldn’t recall her features with nearly the same vividness as Livvy’s—Plumtree’s best and brightest spot.
Funny that.
“Plumtree has changed since you left. At least consider the merits of reacquainting yourself with the district,” the Captain said, a slow smile creasing his face. “Give the fair young women here a chance. There are many festivities planned from now until Twelfth Night.”
Jonas’s hand curled tighter on the satchel. “I’m not long for Plumtree, sir.” He tipped his head at the Captain. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised to assist the Halseys in repairing a chair.”
They strolled to the workshop’s open door with Jonas slowing his step in deference to his grandfather. They walked together into morning sunshine, and Jonas shut the door after them.
“For all your protests of leaving Plumtree, you haven’t said what you want me to do with your inheritance,” the Captain said to Jonas’s back. “This land, the cottage, the shop…it will be yours.”
Jonas latched a rusted lock on the door. “What about Jacob? Doesn’t he want it?”
“He’s a solicitor, not a furniture maker. Working with wood is not in his blood.”
“And you think it’s in mine?”
The Captain leaned both hands on his cane, his blue eyes twinkling on the satchel bulging with tools. “Something’s got your blood stirring.”
Jonas ignored the quip and dug the shop’s key from his pocket. “Here.”
“Keep it. You may need more tools in this endeavor of yours with the Halseys.” The Captain struck out for the cottage.
Jonas dropped the iron key back in his pocket. “Please let Mrs. Addington know I’ll be on time for dinner.”
The Captain paused, his snowy white beard showing as he angled his face to the Halsey Tower. “I will.”
The old man trekked on, his footfalls and the cane a quiet plod on snow and gravel. Jonas’s heart squeezed at his grandfather’s aged amble. Once powerful shoulders stooped. The old man had borne the weight of family, providing for him and his brother and mother. Never once did his grandfather say a recriminating word to his daughter for bearing sons out of wedlock. If he did, Jonas had never heard it.
The proud head, once thick with Braithwaite black hair, was pure white, tied in a small queue brushing his coat collar.
The Captain had given his all for his family.
And none would be here to comfort him in his final years.
Jonas waited for the Captain to get safely inside before making his way to the orchard. Sun poured down on Plumtree. He squinted at a blinding white world of snow, save the bare, tangled branches of the Braithwaite orchard. Sunlight glittered on the diamond panes of Halsey Tower’s window. Was Livvy already there?
She was a balm to his soul. Sweet yet saucy. Even her sudden kiss yesterday blended the best parts of her, soft lips, curious and knowing at the same time. He should’ve wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back, but she was off him in a trice, embarrassed. He’d wanted to let her recover and try again, but Livvy fidgeted against her desk, pouring out bigger and more important things like family secrets.
Kissing would have to wait.
He trudged up the meadow to her tower, his mouth pulling a grim line. Who had taught Livvy how to kiss? One of Farmer Watson’s sons? A laborer on her father’s excavations? Or another antiquarian? Probably a man university educated and smart. His boots sunk in a deep pocket of snow.
Or the appropriate Will Hastings with his Eton education and impeccable manners?
Cresting the Halsey knoll, he bristled at the sight of six chimneys in the east puffing thin streams of smoke. Hastings Manor, a grand home belonging to a grand family. No Braithwaite darkened their door except to deliver a repaired table at the servant’s entrance.
Childhood flattened Plumtree’s social field until he and all the village boys
sprouted chin hairs. That’s when the stark social divide came. The Halsey girls were the bridge.
Up ahead, the familiar rope hung from the tower. The end of it was tied to a modest-sized crate in the snow. Voices drifted from the tower’s open window. Jonas strolled around the tower and pushed the door left ajar. On quiet feet, he made his way up the winding stairs, the voices getting louder.
“I can’t countenance you spending an entire day alone with Jonas Braithwaite.”
Jonas halted his progress. Mrs. Halsey? Her continental accent spun elegantly around each word she said.
“But you can countenance the eight hundred pounds we’ll get if he repairs the curule chair.” Livvy. Her voice pitched headstrong as ever.
“Do not be impertinent.”
“I am being practical, Mother. Jonas has kindly agreed to restore the chair and keep quiet about father’s condition.”
Mrs. Halsey sighed. “You should never have let him into the tower.”
“What was I supposed to do? It was Christmas Day. I didn’t expect anyone to come calling and he saved me from scraping the chair up the outer wall.”
“It’s simply not proper. Your father let you have your headstrong ways far too long. He thought it enchanting,” Mrs. Halsey said, her voice a tad weary. “I should’ve hired a governess straightaway and not waited as I did.”
“Elspeth and I turned out fine.”
“You could do with a better sense of decorum.”
“Decorum is highly overrated.” Livvy’s voice gentled with affection. “You and Father gave me the best childhood a girl could want.”
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. There was a sniffle. A murmur of sound.
“And now we lean heavily on you, my girl,” Mrs. Halsey said sadly. “Too much, I fear.”
Shoes scraped the floor as if mother and daughter embraced. Jonas balked at eavesdropping on an intimate moment. The upper floor’s light flooded the top of the stairs. Below him, the tower’s door remained ajar. He tarried in the dark space in between, an interloper. He could escape. Or he could go forward and announce his presence.
