She looked back and forth between Valentine and his mother, noting that Jemima had stepped into the doorway, her eyes wide and her expression sympathetic.
“I am no amateur,” she said, defending herself, realizing that while she understood Valentine’s dismay, she needed him to be supportive of her, to not downplay all the work that she had done simply because she was a woman. She needed the man she loved to support her, her work and her passion, to believe in her and her capabilities. “I have spent my life learning from my father. He is a master architect and he has passed on all of that knowledge to me. How many times did I hear you say how impressive our design was, Valentine? Do you like your lady’s maid’s new proximity to your chamber, Mrs. St. Vincent? Do you like the openness of the library with the way the doors permit light to enter, the way the mirrors project the greenery around the room? I know you do, Valentine, for you have said so yourself.”
She looked intently at one of them and then the other.
“Yes,” she said, holding her head high. “Yes, these are primarily my designs. I am proud of them, and you will be proud of your home once they are all implemented.”
“You are done here,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, lifting her nose and turning from Rebecca to show just how finished she was with her and with the conversation. “You may leave now. Take your things. We will hire a new architect.”
“You can’t!” Rebecca said, desperation clawing at her throat now at the thought of all of their progress being destroyed. “We are near halfway through completion. This house has already seen the work of two different architects. It would devolve into anarchy if you bring in a third.”
“I believe that is for us to determine, Miss Lambert,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, and Rebecca turned to Valentine, imploring him to say something, to stand up for her, to agree with her.
But he shook his head.
“I knew something was amiss,” he muttered. “Since you arrived at Stonehall, I was aware that something was not as it should be, but I couldn’t quite determine what it was. You distracted me. Used me. Ensured that I wouldn’t discover what it was you were hiding.”
“It was nothing like that,” Rebecca said, anger now completely overcoming her fear. “If that is what you think of me, then you know nothing of me at all.”
“Apparently, I don’t,” he said. “My mother is right. You should go.”
“Valentine!”
“I will pay you for your work if that is what you are so concerned about,” he said dejectedly, and Rebecca balled her hands into fists at her side.
“Don’t be despicable,” she said. “Keep your money.”
“Oh, we have been waiting for our payment, have we not Rebecca?” her father finally chimed in, rising from his place on the sofa. His timing, nor his words, could not have been worse.
“We don’t need it, Father,” she said tersely.
“Oh, but we do,” he said sagely. “You’ve been saying so for months now. It was why we took on a new project, was it not?”
Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, wishing that she could turn back the clocks to but an hour ago when she should have been more careful to not have been discovered. Or that she had told Valentine the entire truth so that it would never have come to this — him suspecting her of ulterior motives.
“Does it really matter that Rebecca was the one doing the work?” Jemima asked softly, entering the room now, and when she came to stand beside her, Rebecca nearly wept with the relief of having someone support her. “The design is what you both were looking for. I, for one, think it to be ingenious.”
“This isn’t what this is about, Jemima,” Valentine said angrily, slashing his hand through the air. “It’s about her deception.”
“Perhaps she was worried this is what would have happened, had you found out about it — that they would be turned away.”
“And lose the paycheck they so desperately need,” Valentine retorted, and Rebecca placed her hand on Jemima’s arm.
“Thank you, Jemima, but it’s all right. I understand.”
“It’s not all right,” her new friend said, and a small bit of Rebecca’s heart began to mend itself back together — until she realized that she would likely never be seeing Jemima again, not with the rift that had just been torn between Rebecca and the St. Vincents.
“It is,” Rebecca said, attempting to lift the corners of her mouth. “We should be going now. Come, Father.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, but Rebecca responded simply by taking her arm and leading him to the door.
“I shall walk you out,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, and Rebecca’s heart hardened.
“That is really not necessary,” she said tersely, though still politely.
“I insist,” she said, placing a hand on Rebecca’s back and nearly pushing her out the door when Rebecca attempted to turn to look back at Valentine. All was silent for a moment as they walked down the hallway.
“I know what you were here for, Miss Lambert,” she said. “The title of duchess is a high-minded one for any woman, but especially for a common one. I should know. Valentine, however, is already spoken for. You can look for his betrothal in the newspaper any day now.”
She stopped at the doorway, the slightest bit of regret touching her face.
“I apologize that it has come to this, Miss Lambert. But a mother must always put her children first, no matter what. Farewell, now. My best to you, Mr. Lambert. I hope you are well soon.”
And with that, Rebecca found herself deposited on the top of the lofty stairwell, her father at her side, her heart wrenched open, and her emotions frayed.
As she called a hack, she replayed the entire scene within the house, torn between guilt at Valentine’s words — she had deceived him, though not intentionally — and ire that he hadn’t stood up for her, hadn’t understood.
She stole a glance at her father, who was looking about him, admiring the view on either side of them in this most prestigious of London neighborhoods, and she swallowed back the tears that threatened, determined not to let them fall until she was alone. Her only current blessing was that her father was unaware of the depths of her misery.
All he had worked for was falling down around him, and he had no idea. For one word on his current state of mind and he would be finished. His legacy, his reputation would be destroyed. Rebecca would never work again.
And they would be sunk.
Rebecca had no idea just what she was supposed to do now.
24
The ledger of accounts sat on one side of the table. Her sketch pad sat on the other.
Rebecca knew which one she should be dealing with, for the other no longer mattered. And yet she couldn’t help but open up the pad to a blank sheet of paper. She released her mind from all of her tribulations and allowed the pencil to wander over the page. Left to freely roam, it began to draw the place where Rebecca always returned when she needed comfort — a little garden that had planted in her mind. She wasn’t sure where it had come from as she had never seen one quite like it. There was a stream that meandered over rocks, cascading down a hill that was filled with wildflowers. A stone arch crossed the water, leading to a tiny pond at the bottom.