Page 27 of A Figure of Love

“Mama.” He grinned up at her, unabashed to be found awake at almost eleven o’clock.

“You will go blind reading in such light.” She nudged one of the books over and sat on the side of his bed. “You are driving poor Nounou to distraction. I want you to promise lights out by ten from now on. It is good to think without a book in front of you. That is when I have my most creative thoughts.”

He nodded and closed the books. “All right, Mama. I will try it.” He shot her a furtive glance. “But maybe we can discuss the matter after I have done so for a while?”

Serena laughed and ruffled his hair. “Very well, a negotiation. How long?”

“A week?”

She shook her head at his hopeful look. “A month. And then we can reassess.”

He gave a heavy sigh but nodded.

“Good,” she said, leaning forward to give him a loud smack on his cheek and chuckling at the “Aw, Mama!” her action elicited.

She stood and picked up the candle.

“Mama?”

“Hmm?”

“How long will Mr. Lockheart stay?” His voice had a hopeful note in it that made her pause.

“Do you like him?”

His vigorous nod set his hair flopping and reminded her he needed his hair cut.

“He likes automata. He has built one of his own, Mama.”

“Has he?” She smiled at her son’s enthusiasm. She’d been disappointed that he’d shown no interest in sculpture, but she would be just as pleased if he had a passion for another subject.

“He said I might build my own, too.” He gave her a shy look. “I like him, Mama.”

“So do I,” she said, and then extinguished the light.

∞∞∞

Two hours later Serena was still awake. She had tossed and turned, trying to force sleep on herself, but it had not worked. She needed to walk, to think. She put on her dressing gown and found a fleecy scarf.

It was a half moon and the south side of the house looked magical in the silvery light. Pine stakes had been hammered into the rough turf where the parterre garden would go, its shape defined by twine. Dew had already begun to collect on the shaggy grass and her ankles were damp by the time she’d walked the perimeter of the garden twice. Her mind, however, was down by the river. She was anxious about what Mr. Lockheart had found with her dam and hoped it would not require a great deal of money and time to repair, although she could not see how it could not.

She bit her lip. She’d been foolish to take on such a commission. Three weeks of studying the work of Capability Brown and looking at gardens were not enough training to take on a job of this magnitude. She had let the promise of money—riches to her—lure her out of her area of expertise. She was arrogant and foolish to resist the notion of moving back to her in-laws’ house.

Her feet had led her away from the main block and toward the west. She could walk around the wing and enter through the arcade that ran along the northwest side of the building. As she came around the corner of the building, she saw light coming from one of the second floor windows. Her own rooms had the ninth through fourteenth windows and these were. . . she counted to herself. . . part of the last block, the master suite. She was too close to the building to see so she walked toward the small stand of trees until she had a clear vantage point. It was Mr. Lockheart’s room, the one with the padded floor and odd hanging bags. The room blazed with light but she saw nothing but the smaller of the bags, the one shaped like a pear. Shadows flickered in the background meaning there was somebody—Lockheart, most likely—moving about. She was just about to turn away when he came into view.

Serena sucked in a noisy gasp of air. It was Mr. Lockheart, and he was without a shirt. Serena looked away, staring at her clenched hands in the darkness. What she was doing—spying, there was no other word for it—was wicked. She was intruding on his privacy. How would she like it if he were to do the same?

Her eyes moved back to the window, as if they’d been dragged there by a team of oxen.

He was hitting the bag with his fists, alternating hands, the movement so rapid it was a blur. Even from this distance she could see his nude torso was slick from exertion, the muscles so distinct they might have been graven upon metal. His body, for all its musculature, was too thin—hard and devoid of any fat. Even though she was a female, her father and Monsieur Favel had seen to it that she’d had many opportunities to sketch nude models, men and women chosen for their superlative physiques. But never had she seen such definition.

“It is like watching one of your sculptures come to life, isn’t it?”

Serena screamed and jumped at least a foot, her heart thudding against her ribs to get out. She whipped around, her hand clutching her chest.

“I apologize, Mrs. Lombard. Did I startle you?” McElroy did not sound sorry. He sounded amused. “I must admit I was surprised to find you out here at this time of night. Especially after such an arduous day.”

She did not hear only humor in his voice, but skepticism. What could she say? He had caught her gawking at a half-naked man.