The Architect of Song Page 10

  “This is why I never encouraged the memory. The trauma still affects you. That was my mistake. I’ve kept your fears static, not allowing you to face them. My thought is, since Lord Thornton’s manor sits atop the quarry, if we take his offer to work for him, you can get a glimpse of your past. With all of the changes he’s incorporated at the mines, it will put things in perspective as to time’s passage. You and I can move forward … bury the memory for good.”

  My attempt at remembering fell stillborn, unable to compete with Uncle’s bizarre announcement. Had I read his lips right?

  I shot to my feet, forcing both of the men to stand.

  “Me, work for him? In his mines?” I glared at the viscount. “Have you both gone stark-raving mad?”

  Chapter 11

  It is a long road that has no turning.

  Irish Proverb

  “Juliet, you’ll not be expected to work in a mine shaft. Heavens.” Uncle gestured to the viscount. “Lord Thornton and I have found we share some business interests. Now, I’m to fetch samples of my fabrics. Keep our guest company until I return.”

  As my uncle started toward the stairs, he threw a meaningful frown in my direction—be on your best behavior. Though my cheeks burned, I responded with a slight nod. Uncle vanished behind the banister. I stood with my back to the viscount, two steps away from plucking a petal from the flower to revive Hawk.

  Chloe sniffed at my ankle as our guest came up behind—close enough that my entire body surged with awareness. I forced myself to turn and face him. He loomed over me, holding me in his long-lashed stare. An immeasurable darkness shifted through his eyes like moving clouds.

  I was too intent on that mysterious gaze to notice him reaching into his pocket until he held out the folded parchment he wrote upon earlier. On the front, in lovely curving script, were the words: To help you make peace with your past.

  Blood thrumming in my neck, I caught the opposite end of the paper. He clasped it tighter. I watched his mouth.

  “Read it when you are alone.” Though his words seemed a command, the way he looked at me, almost pleading, drained any defiance. I nodded and he released his clasp. Then his attention strayed to the stairway.

  I tucked the letter inside my bodice as my uncle came around the banister.

  Had I managed to eat anything earlier, I would’ve been sick upon seeing the three dress forms he carried. He had draped his fabrics over their shoulders, yes. But he failed to mention he’d be showcasing my newest creations atop each of the figures’ heads.

  “Did I not tell you?” He addressed our guest while beaming with pride. “The finest hats in all of England.”

  Numb, I watched the viscount take his place beside my uncle and run his fingers across the bonnets, measuring my work. I grimaced at Uncle. Thrice in one day he had brought my insecurities to float atop the froth of my mortification, never to sink again.

  “His Lordship has already hired a seamstress,” Uncle explained. “And he has a boutique ready to accommodate a linen-draper and a milliner. You and I can work side by side. I’ll sell dyed fabrics and trimmings for gowns, and you can provide hats to match them.”

  The viscount glanced up from his appraisal of my bonnets. “I need a bright and charming young lady to attend to my female patrons, Miss Emerline. They will be the cream of society.” He acted as if nothing had taken place between us in Uncle’s absence. As if he hadn’t passed me a secret note. As if his improper proximity hadn’t made my pulse race.

  Uncle’s face brimmed with excitement. “You have your mother’s touch, Juliet. Do not let it fade away to waste. Make her proud.”

  Eyes burning, I glanced at my feet, knowing he referred to more than my perfect pick-stitches. He wanted me to step outside my safe haven and forge new relationships, just as Mama had always done.

  But I was satisfied here in Claringwell with the few clients I had made. I never intended to reach beyond them. I had no desire to fraternize with the snobbery and tout-abouts of an aristocracy I did not belong to.

  I’d been to enough showings over the years. I saw how Mama’s more elite customers looked down on me. How they treated me like a rare porcelain toy with minuscule cracks, lovely to look at, yet sad and fragile. Untouchable. Better to be seated on a shelf where I wouldn’t break.

  I couldn’t relate to them, much less befriend them. I lacked the status … I lacked the finesse. How could a deaf woman sit safely upon the throne of the elite, when she couldn’t hear the whine of slanderous arrows in time to stop them from pricking her exposed heart?

  Catching a hooded glance between my uncle and our guest, I pondered how many missives had passed between them in the last few months. How long had they been planning this?

  A gritty dryness tightened my windpipe.

  The viscount stepped in front of my uncle, holding one of my fall bonnets formed of spruce crape upon a foundation of straw. “Exquisite work, Miss Emerline. The finest Trianon hat I’ve ever set eyes on.” He traced the gold bow at the crown where brown foliage gave way to peach and maroon flowers. “These blossoms are immaculate. So lifelike.”

  Despite my discomfort, I couldn’t help but be impressed by his knowledge of the design. “Strawflowers,” I mumbled, making little effort with my vocal cords. “Immortelles bred for their vividness and shape retention. Few things are more persuasive to a person’s mood than color.”

  A thoughtful expression curved his brows. “I concur wholeheartedly.”

  I studied his apparel—his periwinkle shirt clashing with his burgundy vest like a black rose stands out in a vase filled with poppies. The rumors of his architectural prowess, the outlandishness of his artistic schemes, appeared to be true. If I were guessing, I would say he used color in brash and stunning ways to unbalance people. To give him power over them.

  “And how do you get these to hold their form?” he asked, referring to the strawflowers again.

  “It is all in the way you dry them. Bundle them in twine and hang them upside down. If the buds are facing the ground, the petals will retain their beauty. Takes little talent. Only knowledge and patience.”

  He secured the bonnet on its holder and smoothed the crape as if petting a child’s head. “Ah. But such patience is a talent in and of itself. And this garden hat is superb.” He tweaked the round, broad brim lined with violet muslin. “Who supplies the plumage?” His breath bent three long feathers of jade and slate green, tucked within a cluster of navy roses. “I understand such embellishments are lavishly priced.”

  I shoved away another unwanted niggle of admiration for his knowledge of my craft. Wiggling my feet beneath my hem, I attempted to look bored. “My lord, such flattery is fruitless. I’m satisfied with the customers I have—”

  Uncle caught my elbow and I pieced enough of his words together to surmise he was telling the viscount that I raised my own birds and flowers.

  With an admiring nod, the viscount turned his attention on me again. “So, I venture you support the recent practice of mounting whole, stuffed birds upon hats?”

  I clenched my teeth. “Absolutely not. Better to wait for them to molt and gather the feathers like leaves.” Uncle squeezed my elbow gently, but I eased my arm away. “I do not condone the killing of animals for ornamentation or sport. Lest their meat be dressed for a banquet, it is vanity at its most debase.”

  Our guest appeared amused. “Yet you hold the birds in cages, so they can’t fly as their instincts entail. Is this not cruel vanity as well?”

  Hot prickles tightened my cheeks. I studied his forehead, hoping to find a bruise from anymore head-banging episodes at the cemetery. Finding no such flaw, I mentally berated how his shirt clashed with his vest and cravat. “Do you have a more suitable solution for containing them, sir?”

  “I do. And I’ll share it with you, Miss Emerline. Please.” He pointed his cane’s tip toward the settee and I took my seat again, staring miserably at Hawk’s flower.

  Uncle stood beside me and the viscount
perched on the settee’s arm opposite us, capturing my attention. “Seven years ago, I acquired the Larson Estate in Worthington.”

  Intent on the viscount’s face, I noticed a taut tension between his brows upon the mention of the Larson name—a transformation so minute, anyone not attuned to reading faces would’ve missed it.

  The viscount tilted his head and the sun highlighted the auburn brushstrokes in his hair. “The mines had been scraped hollow,” he continued. “For three years beneath my watch, the estate grew stagnant. Other than ornamental gardens, I was unable to establish any worthwhile sowing or harvesting. The abandoned mines have compromised the soil’s nutrients. And there are an abundance of hot springs that hinder tilling the lands. But four summers ago, I braved a new vision for the property. Along with the funds of several investors, I’ve put all of my assets into constructing a place where men can play, bringing their ladies along for jollies. It’s called, ‘The Manor of Diversions’.”

  I gaped just to imagine the moral misconduct such a venue could encourage, though secretly, couldn’t deny being intrigued.

  His hand raised in a reassuring motion. “‘It is nothing unseemly. Whereas, in the past, men have had their gaming sports and ladies their shopping haunts, I’ve brought it all together in one place—shops, billiard halls and clubs, banqueting halls, and lodging, all within one castle. Thus, everyone might be entertained throughout the day, yet not have to brave dark backstreets in the evenings to attend banquets and galas. No highwaymen or gangs, no gaming hells. Each separate edifice is joined to the other by enclosed corridors with gas lights and guards posted throughout for security. I’ve hired lady’s maids, so no guest will be left wanting for a chaperone. There’s entertainment aplenty indoors, which means people can winter there as well.”

  As Lord Thornton continued to speak, his face glowed with an almost boyish quality reminiscent of little Ian in his rabbit costume earlier. From what I could gather—aside from times the viscount spoke too fast to be read—his estate, surrounded by a forest on all sides, was immense at ninety acres. The front façade itself measured over one-hundred-and-twenty-three meters, and boasted a star tower reaching to the clouds.

  Out of everything he described, the glass-roofed winter garden piqued my imagining most, for it was there the viscount proposed—that should I work for him—I could house my birds. It spanned a full ten acres and had an ingenious entrance. Two glass doors, one to enter first, then the other to provide passage to the gardens after the first door sealed shut. This prevented the escape of the butterflies and bees which already occupied the enclosure. There, my birds would be safe to fly free.

  By the time he finished his spiel, a new hunger swam in my belly—an unsettling yet enthralling curiosity about what it might be like to visit such a majestic palace. Mama’s pets would love to flutter within the winter garden and nosh upon fresh bugs. And my flowers would thrive there, as well.

  “Would this be a permanent arrangement?” I asked, still adrift upon the viscount’s amazing descriptions.

  “I am suggesting a trial basis of one month,” the viscount answered as he glanced at Uncle. “That should give us time to determine if we’re compatible.”

  I looked at Uncle Owen. Could he not see this man’s deception? This was an obvious ruse to win my estate, to have me settled elsewhere so I’d no longer care what became of my childhood home. The viscount underestimated me. I would never be so calloused with my loyalties.

  As if sensing my mental vertigo, Uncle thanked the viscount for coming by, and asked that I be given time to consider the proposition.

  “Please let me know by the first of December,” Lord Thornton requested. “I plan to open the Manor the third week of the same month. I’d like you present before the guests arrive, so we might set up your boutique. I do hope you’ll come.” He kissed the back of my hand with warm, soft lips. I half expected his mouth to disappear like his brother’s.

  Instead, the soft density of his touch shocked me—like a raindrop falling upon the skin from out of nowhere, when there’s not a cloud in the sky. And not only could I feel him, but I could taste his nearness, his almond essence sweetening my tongue.

  The shadowy storm I noticed earlier played again within his eyes. I couldn’t decide if it originated from greed, desire … or danger.

  Without another word, he turned, gathered his hat and cloak, and nodded a goodbye. A covetous ache weighed upon the back of my hand where his mouth had left an imprint—my traitorous skin pining for another touch.

  Uncle escorted him to his black Phaeton outside, leaving me to watch from the window. Four stallions, white as spun sugar, were harnessed to the rigging which added to the fairytale illusion already awhirl in my mind.

  After mounting the squab, the viscount wedged his cane between his knees, wriggled his hands into black gloves, and took the reins. He glanced at the house to catch me watching at the window. I ducked behind the safety of the drapes.

  As he pulled away, the clouds from his eyes seemed to fill the sky and a heavy rain rolled in. I grabbed Hawk’s flower, gathered my skirts, and fled upstairs, desperate to hear my ghost’s voice once more.

  An irrational fear had crept over me, that now that I’d touched the living embodiment of him, his spirit would be lost to me forever.

  Chapter 12

  The palest ink is better than the best memory.

  Chinese proverb

  Hawk practiced no restraint upon his reappearance. He cornered me until my shoulder blades pressed the wall, then he swept through my blood again. This time, as he broke our spiritual kiss with a tug at my lips, he kept his palms on the wall at either side of my head and drank me in with his eyes.

  “Say something,” I managed to plead as my body rocked from within, awash with the pleasure of rejuvenation.

  “You are a beauty and a wonder,” he said, “within and without.”

  His baritone drizzled in my eardrums like warm honey. The pleasure lasted only an instant before he started to fade again. I tripped over my skirts to pluck another fresh petal from the flower sitting on the desk. Opening my locket, I found the petal I had put in moments ago was as black and crinkled as the one before it.

  It confirmed my worst dread. That just as each spirit-kiss made me feel more alive—even had the benefit of healing my wounds—it killed a small part of the blossom. And since I had yet to see the flower sprout any new petals, we would have to be frugal with such intimacies.

  Once I had the freshly filled locket in place against my skin, and Hawk had materialized, I held the evidence in my upturned palm. “We must choose our moments with care, at least until new buds form.” The crinkled petal trembled beneath my breath.

  Comprehension creased his forehead, and I marveled again at the incredible likeness he shared with our earlier guest.

  “What guest?” Hawk turned with me toward the desk.

  Skirts gathered beneath me, I sat in the chair.

  “Did someone come with Enya’s family?” He perched on the desk’s edge. His long legs stretched out next to me so my left elbow should have raked his right thigh.

  Opening the deepest drawer of my desk, I took out a black velvet toque perfect for a mourning traveler, and nestled it in my lap. “No. Lord Thornton visited today. He came early.” I fished through the drawer’s contents, pushing aside rolls of various colored ribbons, spools of thread, and stray laces in search of a cluster of burgundy ribbon roses to embellish the cap’s crown. Finding this, I pinned it above the hat’s mourning veil and threaded a needle.

  Hawk’s expression grew somber. “To buy your estate?”

  “No. He’s using a new tactic. He wishes to distract me from my home. Make me forget it.”

  “How?” Hawk’s fingers kneaded wrinkles in the knees of his breeches.

  “Uncle and I have been offered couturier positions at his holiday establishment in another town.”

  “So, we are to move?”

  I paused, mid stitch. “
I-I don’t wish to. I have no desire to be the clay pigeon for the upper class’s insult shooting. I do not belong in society.”

  “Shush.” Frowning, Hawk rushed a fingertip across my lips—a silken wisp of air. “They would all be stunned by your acumen and talent. You might find they are not as judgmental as you deem.” He paused then. “And just think of it … we could finally uncover the viscount’s link to me.”

  “I already have.” I paused, then He’s your brother echoed in my mind as an afterthought.

  Hawk’s mouth gaped. “I-I have a brother?”

  Studying his pocket watch, my ghost sat wordless as I sewed the roses and told him of the morning’s experience while we were apart—leaving out the more indecorous details of my behavior upon his brother’s arrival. When I had finished my spiel along with my stitching, Hawk’s shoulders slumped.

  “My twin. Age twenty-seven. Which means I’ve been dead for six or so years.”

  I paused mid-stitch, wanting to get back that time for him. If only I could.

  He gripped his hands on his knees. “How is it that someone so young owns the quarry where you had your accident? Do I come from great wealth?”

  “You appear to, but …” I sat the velvet toque atop the desk, snipping leftover strings. “There’s something amiss. To all of society, the viscount is known as an only child.”

  “He’ll give us our answers. I’ll make sure of it.” Hawk stood in front of his potted plant. “Take the offer. Immediately.”

  I glared at him. “Oh, of course. Now that it holds something of gain for you, I should pack up all of my belongings into a trunk without a thought. I should gather up all of my misgivings and shut them away, for apparently, my feelings matter naught. To you or my uncle.” I scooted the chair back and strode to my bed, plopping onto my belly atop the quilt.

  Hawk joined me. “Why, Miss Emerline. I believe I’ve ruffled you. I do apologize.”

  “Don’t patronize me. And do not call me Miss Emerline. It is what he calls me.”