The Bluestocking's Whirlwind Liaison, page 11
Dr Peverett thrust his pitchfork into the leaves. ‘I, too, could have made that choice. When I was younger, I had the opportunity to be a grand surgeon, to publish papers and be famous and wealthy or I could come home and be a country doctor like Richard Peverett and my father. I came home and the wealth, the happiness, has followed. I met Catherine, married her, raised a family I’m proud of and had a career in healing that I am proud of and will pass on to my son, William, some day. I still publish papers, one every few years and present it in London to the Royal College. We have all the money we need—and the fame that had once intrigued me because of the connections it could provide? Well, those, too, have followed. My daughter is married to an earl, another to the son of a duke, another to a member of landed gentry, a former M.P. turned philanthropist and investor. All has happened the way it should, because I followed my heart.’
Jules’s father would positively drool over himself to have the connections Dr Peverett mentioned so casually. And yet, that wasn’t the point of the story, was it? ‘What’s your passion, Howell? And don’t tell me it’s acquiring medical device patents for the company because that’s no man’s passion. That’s paperwork.’ He was being polite, Jules thought. It was clerk’s work when it came down to it, not the work of a founder’s son.
‘Painting. I love to paint, to capture a moment, a feeling on canvas.’ He felt silly saying it. Would Dr Peverett find it silly, too, as his father had? Dr Peverett saved lives, delivered children into the world—what could be nobler than that?
Dr Peverett merely nodded. ‘Very good. Why aren’t you painting, then? Surely your family has the means to send you abroad to the art schools or even the schools here.’
Jules shook his head, smiling away his embarrassment. ‘Painting isn’t big enough for my father.’
Peverett cocked a greying eyebrow. ‘Isn’t big enough? Or not manly enough? Or not financially productive enough? Apparently, your father doesn’t know the current Earl of Bourne, the one who established the Seasalter Academy of the Arts a quarter of a century ago. He’s not only married to one of the outstanding female artists of our time, but he’s a painter himself and in possession of one of Britain’s finest collections of paintings by the English masters. Of course, it wasn’t easy for him. Growing up, his father didn’t support his painting either. It was something he came back to.’
Peverett reached out a hand and gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. ‘The point is, every man needs their own true north in order to live a purpose-driven life, a life that has real meaning, whether that be his love for his family, his care for his fellow mankind or the need to create something beautiful. When a man listens to his heart, his purpose will follow.’
‘That sounds rather whimsical for a man who doesn’t believe in luck,’ Jules said, trying to resist the allure of the man’s words. They were heady and intoxicating and nothing at all like anything his family believed in. His father would think Peverett’s ideas heresy. But wasn’t this exactly what he’d been trying to tell himself these past few weeks? Only Dr Peverett had put it so much more succinctly.
Peverett was not put off by his challenge. ‘Not at all, my boy. For a doctor, the heart is everything, a man’s core, the source of his power, his very life. The first thing I listen to when I examine a patient is the force of their heartbeat. Life ceases when the heart ceases, physically, emotionally.’
My boy—the endearments came so easily to Peverett. This was what a father should be, what fathers and sons ought to be to one another together. Helping one another, teaching, sharing life’s insights. Jules’s own father had never shared such things with him in his whole life as Dr Peverett had shared with him today. It was no wonder Becca was acutely aware of her own calling and her own determination to pursue it. It had been bred into her. She’d been taught to understand herself, to be true to herself and the rest would follow.
Want surged in Jules. He craved that same understanding of himself, hungered for it, hungered for the courage to follow his heart, to be sure enough of himself to know that heart, to know he wasn’t following a short-lived fantasy. Across the orchard, Becca waved at him, gesturing that he should bring the wheelbarrow to help carry the baskets.
Dr Peverett laughed. ‘You’d best go to her. We’ve had quite the crop of apples. It will be a bumper year for Haberstock cider when we press in a couple of weeks. It’s a big event, everyone comes to the hall. We press in the barn, of course, and there’s dancing. The Cider Ball, we call it, although it’s not really a ball at all.’ But Jules wagered, as he pushed the wheelbarrow, it would be tons more fun than any ball hosted beneath the expensive light of a Baccarat chandelier.
True north. The thought stayed with him as he hauled baskets for Becca and her mother, as he ate dinner, laughing at a story Dr Peverett told, as he sat at the piano with Becca, singing as she played that night. Did Dr Peverett guess he’d not yet found his true north? Was that why the man had shared so deeply with him today? Or perhaps he had found it and just needed to claim it. What if it was here? What if it was her? What if true north was Rebecca Peverett? What if he failed to win her? Would he spend his life wandering aimlessly at the beck and call of his family in a life he didn’t quite fit? But how could he win her? As he was, he wasn’t worthy of her. Not yet. But he could endeavour to be. That started with knowing himself.
Chapter Twelve
Jules Howell, singer, painter, kisser of innocents and rule-breaker, leaf-raker, apple-gatherer. Becca added the last to the growing list of who was Jules Howell. These days, she seemed to know him better than she knew herself. She would never have guessed that her head could be turned by a few kisses, but then she’d never imagined kisses like these, kisses that sent her wits to the four winds and her reason with them. She never should have allowed him to steal that second kiss outside the workshop, never should have allowed him to talk her into the mad idea that it could be different for them, that they would be careful, that somehow they could be business partners and friends, man and woman and friends, where so many others had failed.
Perhaps it was the inventor in her that tipped the scales of reason in Jules’s favour, that part of her that loved taking the known rules and twisting them into a new semblance of application. She might not break the rules, the inventor in her argued, but she certainly bent them into new things. That was what an invention was, after all. It was the taking of old technologies and turning them to new uses. Why should the rules of a relationship be any different than the rules of physics?
That argument had carried the day and the weeks beyond. It was all the proof she needed that she was changing because of him. Not for him, to be clear. She wouldn’t change for any man. But she was changing because of him the way rocks change the flow of water, displacing it from its usual beds and sending its currents in new directions. Even her surroundings were affected by him.
Her cottage workshop bore the stamp of him and their changing relationship as well, despite their best efforts at being careful to not let their new roles cross. The workshop was no longer her space entirely, but theirs. Jules had his space now, a table brought down from the Hall’s attics to sit before the fire. Jules wrote to his brother from that table, read reports from Manchester at that table. She had made a habit of watching over the rims of her glasses as she drew her plans, fascinated by the way his eyes moved as he scanned letters, the way his hand held a pen when he wrote, the way his brow furrowed when he was thinking, the way his mouth pursed when he drank tea from the chipped mug that had officially become ‘his’.
He’d put his stamp on the place in other ways: the way he moved through the space, casually looking through cupboards as he hunted for tins of shortbread to munch alongside his tea, the way his spicy winter scent hung in the air, mixing with the smells of the fire and the workshop. His waterfall painting hung in pride of place over the mantel, a constant reminder of their day together.
They’d gone back to the falls several times since that first visit. It had become their place. The wide rock on which they’d sat and painted had become Painter’s Rock. The falls had become Indigo Falls for the way they picked up the late October light at sunset. This was the place where they could be alone, where they could set aside business, where no one would interrupt them or judge them.
It became the place where Jules told her about being expelled from schools in an attempt to gain his father’s attention. He’d laughed when he’d recounted his pranks, but she’d seen the hurt beneath the laughter, the lost boy behind the man. It was the place where she’d told him about being envious of her siblings, about feeling she’d never measure up, until now. These contracts proved she could contribute to the world, too.
* * *
When the weather had proved too formidable for the hike to the waterfall, they drove the pony trap to the village and wandered the stores. By the first of November, Jules knew all the shopkeepers by their first names and the names of their wives and children. He demonstrated an enormous acuity for remembering names and faces. The shopkeepers invited him to take a drink by their stoves, asking his advice while Becca shopped.
On the second visit, he suggested to Mr Thompson at the mercantile the benefits of a wholesale price on the grey flannel for customers who bought the fabric in bulk in order to reduce the man’s overstock. On the third visit, he suggested to Mr Barnes at the bakery the packaging of the bakery’s excellent shortbread in decorative tins that bore a winter scene on their lids in order to make the shortbreads into a gift. Then, Jules promptly ordered such tins down from Manchester and made a present of them to the delighted baker.
‘You’re very good at that,’ Becca commented as they left the bakery, having dropped off the tins the moment they’d arrived. Her shopping basket was now piled with wrapped packages of shortbread from Mr Barnes and a bag of liquorice drops from the confectioner’s to feed Jules’s insatiable sweet tooth.
‘At what?’ Jules tipped his hat to a passing matron, making the woman blush. Becca knew how it felt to be the recipient of Jules’s attentions. She still felt herself grow warm when he looked at her, still felt his touch all the way to her toes, still felt herself come undone at his kisses. Familiarity had not made her immune to the thrill of him, as one might suppose. Instead, that familiarity had made her crave his gaze, his touch, his kiss, that much more.
‘You help people see their potential. Mr Barnes is already thinking of how he can add a length of ribbon to those tins in order to dress them up for Christmas. With all the money you spend on shortbread he can afford to buy the next batch of tins on his own.’ Becca held up the bag of liquorice drops and offered it to him. ‘I think you’ve been underestimated, Jules Howell. You’re more than just charm. You make people feel good about themselves and that’s quite a gift.’
Jules took a handful of liquorice drops and popped one in his mouth. ‘Stop, you’re going to make me blush.’ He laughed, brushing off the compliment, but she thought the remark had touched him, perhaps even that the praise had made him uncomfortable. They rounded a corner and he tugged her hand, pulling her into an alleyway between shops. ‘You know what else I’m good at? Kissing you.’ He demonstrated the talent with a quick buss to her lips, dancing her back to the rough brick wall of a building.
‘Jules, careful, someone might see!’ Becca protested with a laugh at his impetuosity, but it was all for form’s sake. She didn’t mind, although she knew she ought. Kissing him was fast becoming the highlight of her day every day. She breathed in the spicy, wintry scent of him, his mouth moving over hers, playful at first, nipping and teasing at her lips before the kiss slowed and deepened. He tasted of licorice and the faint tang of Mr Thompson’s visiting brandy. He moved against her, evidence of his arousal obvious as their bodies clung to one another, mouths devouring one another.
She wished they were back at the workshop, where they might be alone, where they might indulge in more than kisses.
At the risk of breaking the rules, a small part of her conscience scolded.
There were to be no kisses in the cottage, the cottage was for business. Afternoons were for friendship, or what passed for friendship between them. She’d never had a friend like this, though, one who could kiss her senseless, who could drag her into an alley and rouse her to recklessness. He put his mouth to her throat just below her jaw and a little moan escaped her, part pleasure, part frustration. She wanted his mouth in other places: at her breasts, at her navel, or even lower where the warm heat he engendered pooled and throbbed. Perhaps his mouth might ease her.
Her sisters had made such allusions when they spoke of intimate things. None the less, they were wanton ideas for an unmarried woman to have, but wanton or not, they populated her thoughts more and more often these days as the calendar marched closer to his departure. What would happen to their kisses once he left? She gripped the lapels of his greatcoat and kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ Her voice was ragged.
‘Shh...’ He pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t think about it, we have time, another full week yet.’ He pushed a loose strand of her hair back from her face. ‘We’ll manage something.’
The encouragement of his smile warmed her and she let herself snuggle closer in his embrace as he kissed the top of her nose. ‘We. I like the sound of that.’
‘I do, too.’ He kissed her again, softly, gently, taking her face between his hands. She could live on his kisses, so sweet were they, so intoxicating...
‘What is going on here?’ The sharp tones of her sister interrupted the interlude. Becca startled, her eyes flying open to see Thomasia standing at the mouth of the alleyway. Becca felt her cheeks turn fifteen shades of crimson, never mind that Thomasia was two years her junior. How did she explain this wasn’t what it seemed?
Jules stepped forward. ‘Mrs Rawdon, how delightful to see you. We were just in the village to pick up some shortbread,’ he said as if nothing untoward had been going on. Becca envied him his easy elan under pressure.
‘Were you?’ Thomasia was less impressed. Her hands settled on her rounding belly while her gaze flicked between them. ‘I was hoping my sister might offer me some advice on fabric. Perhaps I could steal her away for a brief time.’ It wasn’t really a question.
‘Of course,’ Jules offered graciously. ‘Becca, I’ll meet you at the pony trap in an hour. Shall I take the basket?’ Becca surrendered the basket and watched him go. She counted to three in her head, but Thomasia barely waited until Jules was out of earshot.
‘What did you think you were doing? Kissing him in broad daylight?’ Thomasia hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her back out on to the pavement.
‘It was hardly “broad daylight”,’ Becca argued. ‘We were well out of sight in the alley.’ She winced, seeing her mistake even as Thomasia pounced.
‘In an alley does not make it better,’ Thomasia scolded, ‘only more sordid.’
‘No one saw us,’ Becca protested.
‘I saw you and you were definitely not tasting the shortbread.’ Thomasia fixed her with a sisterly stare. ‘I thought there was something going on between you that night Shaw and I came to dinner. He was calling you Becca and feeding you chocolates. So, tell me, what is going on?’
They walked past the draper’s without going in, confirming Becca’s suspicions Thomasia didn’t need her help with any fabric. They went instead into the tea shop that also served tea along with selling it. The store was empty, it was a bit too early to be busy for tea, which no doubt ideally suited Thomasia’s purposes, alas.
Thomasia steered them towards a table by the window and ordered. ‘This baby makes me hungry all the time,’ she complained with a smile, rubbing her belly. There was a brief reprieve as they waited for the tea to be brought out. No need to start an interrogation on an empty stomach only to be interrupted, Becca thought uncharitably.
‘Well?’ Thomasia asked the moment they were left alone, tea set before them.
‘We are friends,’ Becca said. How did she explain to her sister what she could barely explain to herself?
‘You’re more than friends.’ Thomasia’s voice dropped and softened, her eyes filled with concern. ‘Have you been to bed with him? Because if you have, you must protect yourself, Becca. You cannot depend on a man to take care with such things.’
Becca blushed, her own voice lowering. ‘No, of course not.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘How could you think such a thing?’, but she knew how. Thomasia had been one of the premiere debutantes during their brief Season in London a few years back, a Season that had been cut short because she’d been reckless with a young lord who’d promised to marry her, but had reneged once he discovered she was pregnant. Sweet Effie-Claire was the product of that mésalliance. Thomasia might look like the picture of the perfect young matron now, but she’d not always been that way. She knew better than most the perfidy of a gentleman.
‘But you want to, you both do,’ Thomasia pressed. ‘I could see by the way you were standing together, not an inch of space between you, your hands all over each other. Kissing isn’t enough, is it?’ Thomasia reached for her hands and squeezed them. ‘Oh, my dear, what are you going to do?’
‘We’re going to take it one day at a time. It’s all we can do,’ Becca offered. ‘It’s an impossible situation, really. He lives in Manchester, I live here. He’s someone I am in business with. To take things further would complicate that.’
‘So, he’ll leave at the end of his visit and that will be that?’ Thomasia queried. ‘I suppose that’s for the best.’ She held Becca’s gaze for a long moment. ‘I can see you care for him, but you’re right. To let this go further would be damaging. I just hope you remember that. In the heat of the moment, men will say anything to get what they want, especially when they know you want it, too.’
