Stop. Don’t think of it.
She sat forward, recovering her composure. “I’ve years of experience in dealing with exactly this kind of pest, Mr. Anderson. It’s the fight they’re after—the satisfaction they’ve distressed me. Acknowledging them only gives them what they want.”
He looked unconvinced. “I’m going to ask the men to keep a closer eye on your gates. Call it a surfeit of caution.”
What was she, the princess in Jasper’s fairy story?
She wanted to object. She should object, for these posters were not his concern.
But she thought of the kingfisher, and she only nodded. “That is kind of you.”
All at once, the last traces of light went black outside and rain began to fall down in heavy beads, pelting sideways at the windows. She jumped.
Mr. Anderson grimaced. “Augh, I didn’t time it right. Thought I had a spell more time. I should leave before it becomes impossible to make it home.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “The cliffs are prone to landslips in the rain. Stay and dine with me. Hopefully it will quiet in an hour or two.”
His posture said he would decline this offer, which depressed her, for she did not wish to be alone. Rain made her unsteady at the best of times, and in this low mood she was liable to drink too much and write letters to Cornelia and Thaïs that were so maudlin and self-piteous that her friends would come here to save her from herself, and she would never finish her book before the deadline.
Or maybe she just wanted him to stay.
Why had she sent Henri away? Could she not have suffered a few weeks of over-exuberant emotion if it came with the proven opiate of sex? Erotic entertainment was like a trapdoor from one’s worries. She longed to slide out of her mind and into bed.
A rumble of thunder shook the house.
Mr. Anderson’s shoulders dropped, as though in defeat. “Well, I suppose there’s no getting home in this. Very well, yes, I will dine if it’s no trouble to you.”
She smiled, and for once was grateful to Cornwall for its dramatic weather. “Splendid.”
Miss Arden seemed on edge. Adam could see her striving for her usual insouciance but beneath it she looked uneasy. Lines he had not noticed before pinched around her mouth.
Maria had set out supper for them in the dining room. The meal was humble. Monkfish, potatoes, creamed greens, and bread.
“Had I known I would have company I would have asked for something heartier,” Miss Arden said. “Will you be hungry?”
She took a generous sip of wine and seemed to be asking this question on behalf of his shoulders, which she kept stealing glances at in a way that made him pleased and shy.
“It’s delicious, thank you,” he said. “I’ve been enjoying the Cornish fare. Fresher fish than one gets in London.”
“Yes, one of the few tempting attributes of my patrimony. Where are you from?”
“Scotland,” he quipped, emphasizing his brogue.
She gave him an astringent look. “Yes, that much is clear. I meant whereabouts there.”
“Near Edinburgh.”
“Ah, Edinburgh is a fine place. You attended the university there?”
“Aye.”
“And how did you come to architecture? The family business?”
“My wife’s. Her father built half of Edinburgh. He was friendly with my grandfather, and when I showed an interest in drawing as a boy he took me under his wing. Paid for my schooling.”
“That was kind of him,” Seraphina said.
It had been, though there was more to it than simple charity. When Adam had showed an interest in Catriona—and she in him—the elder Mayhew had thought it better that Adam learn a trade more profitable than art. Giving up painting had been the price of courting Catriona. One he’d gladly paid.
“Aye. He did it for Catriona. My wife.”
Miss Arden’s eyes widened in interest. “You knew her as so young a man?”
He nodded. “Since I was a boy, really. We were neighbors.”
“A childhood amour,” Miss Arden smiled. “How sweet. What was she like as a girl?”
“A right terror,” he said before he could think better of it.
Miss Arden laughed with genuine appreciation. “Oh, my favorite type.”
He grinned. “As a boy I thought she was a pesky lass, always trailing after James. There wasn’t a school for girls, so she’d make us teach her our lessons.”
Miss Arden’s eyes lit up. “She sounds like a fine woman.”
“She was.” He speared a hunk of fish and chewed on it determinedly, eyes on his plate.
Miss Arden watched him. “You miss her,” she said quietly.
He sighed. He was tired of holding the memories in silence. “Every day. I was thinking of her today, at luncheon. How much she would have loved watching the children eat strange foods, chase crabs.”
“What happened to her,” Miss Arden asked in a soft voice. “If you don’t mind my asking?”
“Died in childbed.” He would spare her the grim details.
Even without them, Miss Arden sat very still, as if trying to hold back emotion. “I’m so sorry.”
He could tell her words were heartfelt, and it deepened his discomfort. “Thank you. I was blessed to have a happy marriage, and I’m grateful I have the children to remember her by.”
She nodded, pushing her food around on her plate but not eating it. He decided to bring up a happier topic.
“Have you ever considered marrying?” he asked.
Her demeanor changed from melancholy to amusement at once. “Me!”
He grinned at her. “Yes, you.”
“Heavens no,” she pronounced with seeming relish. “I oppose the institution.”
He paused. He had never heard of such a thing. “You oppose marriage?”
She nodded blandly. “I’ve yet to publish my arguments against it for one must be cautious about such things, but in private, yes, I find it deprives women of their meager autonomy and what few pitiful rights they are granted under law. I would as soon cut off my own legs as marry.”
“Surely it’s not as bad as that,” he said. “Besides, you have very fine legs. ’Twould be a pity to lose them.”
Oh Christ, he’d really said that. He nearly choked on his water.
But instead of volleying back some outrageous flirtation, as he expected, Miss Arden looked at him intently.
“A dear friend of mine has recently been locked in a lunatic asylum by her husband because he objects to her ideas. And he is within his legal rights as her husband to imprison her. So, yes. I think it is as bad as that.”
He stopped chewing. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She waved away his sympathy. “I only mention it to illustrate my point. That the majority of women have marriages that do not end in their literal imprisonment does not change the pernicious fact that the law makes such abuses possible. Husbands should not have such power over wives. And until they don’t, any sensible woman wouldn’t marry, if she had the choice.”
He thought of his father, who had not married his mother but had abused her anyway. “Perhaps the larger principle is that those with power should behave decently.”