“I promise not to disturb you.” Inside, Arthur took a seat well out of her way. The señora put on her long apron and picked up a brush. She began adding a herd of tiny cows to the distant hills of the scene before her.
“My wife liked to paint, particularly outdoors,” Arthur said.
The señora’s brush went still and then resumed.
“Flowers were her favorite,” he added. “She used to say that if one could properly depict a rose, one could paint anything.”
She seemed attentive, but perhaps that was for her work and not for him.
“This was long ago of course. Nearly twenty years.”
She said nothing.
“Did your husband like your paintings?”
This time her brush stopped. She glanced at him and away. “I don’t care to talk about this.” She went back to painting.
“It is painful to think of them gone,” Arthur replied. “I’ve thought a good deal about grief lately. It never really ends, does it? But it changes over the years. My wife’s death was very hard—a long, bitter illness. It was years before I could speak of her easily. Then, gradually, the bad ending grew less vivid, and good memories came drifting back. There were many more of those, after all. I’m grateful for that.”
She said nothing. The rigidity of her back told him she rejected this topic. He’d wanted to share with her, felt she might have endured similar things. He’d hoped she might say so. And yes, he remained curious about the shadowy figure of her dead husband. More than curious. The fellow haunted his imagination. But he should have listened and changed the subject. Now they were afflicted with an awkward silence.
It would have been interesting to discuss grief with the earl, Teresa thought. He was surprisingly thoughtful. She’d agreed with some of his points and not with others. Her grief over her family had been quite different.
But she couldn’t talk with him honestly. And that had begun to rankle more and more. Calling herself a widow had been so much easier in this new life she’d created. That status smoothed over many things, deflected a variety of questions. Even as it created more, she thought now. And she had no gift for fiction.
No, call it what it was—lying. She’d told a lie, and now she had to live with it. Lord Macklin expected a tale of her past to match the one he’d told, and she had none about her imaginary husband. Nor much inclination to invent one.
“Have you gone forward with your plan to remove cobbles from your yard?”
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “You remember that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Why? How many people—most particularly men—would do so? “Yes, it was done yesterday.”
“Ah, that’s good. I spoke to my gardener, and he has some plants you might like for starting your garden.”
“For me?” She gazed at him, astonished.
“He’s very good with roses,” the earl added. “And lilies. Of course he doesn’t have as many plants here as he would in the country. But he said he has some fine ones to spare.”
“You asked your gardener to find flowers for me?”
Arthur nodded. “He can send them over as soon your soil is ready for planting. He suggested you might benefit from the services of an undergardener in that regard.”
“Regard,” she repeated.
“Preparing the soil. He thought that ground that had been under cobbles would need extensive cultivation.” She was staring at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns. Had he offended her? Did she see the offer of a few plants as interference? Really, that was unreasonable. He knew that enthusiastic gardeners exchanged specimens all the time. It was the done thing.
A wavering silvery sound rang through the workshop, like an audible expression of the feelings running through Teresa. She had to admit it; she was utterly charmed. This aristocratic Englishman had not only remembered a small detail she’d told him about her plans, but he’d gone out of his way to help her accomplish them. Even his prim way of making the offer—“in that regard”—was endearing. This was a rare man indeed.
The sound came again. On the other side of the workshop, Tom stood with a large wooden mallet in his hand. For a third time, he struck a thin sheet of metal that had been hung in a frame. The shivery warble followed. “That’s done it,” he called. A number of the other workers cheered. Tom grinned and took a bow.
“What an unusual gong,” said Lord Macklin.
“It’s a chime for the fairy kingdom in a new play,” replied Teresa. “They wanted an ‘otherworldly’ sound, and Tom offered to invent one.”
“Naturally.” The earl smiled. “He is an irrepressibly creative spirit. I have so enjoyed watching him bloom.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. As you do gardens perhaps.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t everyone like seeing young people come into their own?”
“No. Many people never notice. And some are envious or annoyed.”
“Annoyed?” He looked bewildered.
“Have you not observed that there are many petty, mean-spirited individuals in the world?”
“Of course, but…” He considered. “Even they will benefit from new ideas and…youthful energies. People who are encouraged to use their skills are happier, and that makes society more pleasant.” He shook his head. “And I sound insufferably pompous.”
“No.” Something in his manner—perhaps the way he treated all people as equals—kept him from pomposity. He was proper, yes. Good manners and the rules of society fit him like his perfectly cut coats. But he was never stuffy or narrow.
“I think perhaps I do,” he replied with a rueful smile. “But I thank you for making me think. I shall try to find ways to say it better.”
She was in love with him, Teresa realized. The knowledge seemed to burst over her, like an ocean wave that knocked one tumbling and then pulled irresistibly toward the depths. But it wasn’t really sudden. The sentiment had been building, bit by bit, over these last weeks. He had added to the flood with each thing he said or did.
Madre de Dios. She’d renounced everything to do with amor years ago. That haunted word was just another term for oppression. It was a deception, a cheat, made you commit all sorts of stupidities and then broke your heart.
But this man wasn’t like the others she’d known. Perhaps he could love in the way the poets imagined. Or was that simply a sad rationalization for her weakness?
She was staring up at him. She saw an arrested expression rising in his eyes. The smoldering heat of the kiss she’d denied him was flowing back. With it came a question she had no idea how to answer. What was she going to do? She had to stop this.