The Way to a Gentleman's Heart - Theresa Romain Page 0,34

him, depending as it did on the speed and purpose of his own work.

“While I’m dirty anyway,” he decided, “I’ll spend some time working on the old Redfern stable.”

Viola examined the delicate lace at her sleeves. “Better you than me. In a few hours, I’ll send someone to you with water and something to eat, if you like.”

“Thanks, Vee.” Pecking her on the cheek and laughing at her grimace and protest against his dirt, Jack left the house. He tramped across the Grahame lands, crossing onto those that had once belonged to the Redferns.

They had all altered, thanks to Helena’s money. Croplands no longer flooded due to poor drainage; the fields had been replanted with more profitable grains. Tenants had been recruited and secured, and Jack’s father’s purchase of the Redfern lands from Marianne’s widowed mother had added hundreds of acres. The house had been sold separately, along with a bit of land, to rich Londoners who wanted a bucolic country home but didn’t care to farm.

Jack avoided the sight of it, the house where Marianne had grown up. He’d already enough reminders of Marianne tucked within his own brain. By cutting across the land to the east of it, he arrived at his destination.

The old stable hadn’t been used for its intended purpose since Jack’s childhood. It was slope-floored and dim, an Elizabethan relic that had been replaced with a modern construction much nearer the house. This stable was off by itself in a pasture. The remains of a footpath and training track indicated that it might once have been part of a stud facility. For decades, it had been nothing but a catch place for things that weren’t quite good enough to use but not quite bad enough to discard.

The day after Jack’s arrival, he’d oiled the rusty old lock and wrestled it open, then shoved back one of the great doors and eyed the space. It had been well built of the same red brick as the grand homes hereabouts, roofed in slate that had kept the place sound—or nearly so. Here and there, broken slates had allowed water to damage the roof structure, to trickle in and turn tools into heaps of mildew and rust. An out-of-favor carriage had become a nest for mice, the stuffing of its squabs tugged and pulled in clouds of horsehair and batting. And the condition of the tack left behind was not worth speaking of.

But the way it was wasn’t the way it would always have to be. And in the three days since Jack had arrived, he’d drawn up rough plans for the way the building could be changed. He’d brought over new slates and stowed them in the stable, and today he’d begin to repair the roof.

He retrieved a ladder from the stable, relieved that it was decently sound, and hefted a roll of heavy wool batting onto his back. Slates were fragile, strong though they were once in place, and he’d need to protect them from his own weight.

With a few slates at a time, he climbed the ladder, gingerly moved across the roof on the roll of batting to the necessary spot, then removed the broken shingle and put the new piece of drilled stone in its place. Driving it in with long copper nails, he moved on to the next, and the next.

The frost was gone from the air, though the day remained cool. Jack was grateful for a breeze as he worked at the stable roof. The new slates were far darker than the old, which had been paled by decades of rain and sun—or maybe just purchased from a different quarry. Jack’s work stood out from the rest of the roof like freckles on a face. He rather liked it, seeing the progress he’d made. Sometimes it was nice to be reminded that he’d done something with his time.

Just as Marianne did, meal after meal, bringing contented bellies to students and teachers and servants. Marianne, making a good wage all those years, safe and capable because someone had taken her in and taught her what she needed to know.

He’d do the same, however he could. And this was where he’d do it.

“You’re humming,” called up a voice from below. Startled, he dropped his hammer, cracking the slate he’d been about to install.

And he realized he had been humming.

And that Marianne Redfern was no longer in London, but standing on the ground looking up at him. Smiling.

His heart, thumping from the surprise of her