Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway
Chapter Ten
Edward had spent the better part of ten minutes searching the Coventrys’ library for his forming chisel before realizing he’d left the tool at the inn.
Frustrated with this setback, he jogged halfway back to the Blue Boar, retrieved the tool, then made for Daffley Park once more. This would certainly teach him not to make the mistake again. He’d lost more than an hour of his time. After finishing only a side of one bookshelf in a fortnight, he couldn’t afford to waste a single moment. He would certainly be consuming every last week allotted him to complete the design.
He turned along the lane that led to Daffley Park, his musings propelling his feet faster. He needed to accomplish much more to prove his worth to Mr. Coventry, and dawdling on the path would do nothing of the sort.
The dirt road shifted to gravel, his feet crunching against the road to the estate. He had all of his tools, his stomach was filled with Mrs. Hill’s pastries, and the temperature breathed even cooler that day. Nothing would distract him from finishing his work now.
Except for the clopping hooves coming up behind him.
Halfway to the house, he shifted to the side of the road to allow the rider past.
“Good morning, Mr. Steele.”
Miss Coventry pulled up beside him, sitting tall and regal in her riding habit atop her bay gelding. Her groom rode a healthy distance from her on his own horse.
“Good morning,” he returned.
Her emerald eyes smiled as she looked down at him, though his attention was stolen by a swipe of green paint along her jawline. His lip twitched.
“You are late this morning,” she stated, no hint of judgment in her tone.
His eyes dropped to the paint once more. The green not only enhanced her eyes, but it also drew far too much attention to the smoothness of her skin.
He raised the chisel in his hand. “Yes, I forgot this at the Blue Boar, so I had to go back and fetch it for my work today.”
“You ought to have asked for a horse. You would have made it in half the time.” The paint on her jawline darkened as the clouds in the sky shifted.
“That is all right. I did not mind the walk.”
The usual anxiousness that accompanied being with Miss Coventry did not appear that afternoon. Not only did he trust the woman to not speak disparagingly of him to her father—she seemed to have not an unkind bone in her body—but he also had taken matters into his own hands by presenting himself to Mrs. Coventry under the guise of helping them across the puddle. Having the woman introduce her daughters would lead to far fewer questions should someone discover his strange acquaintance with Miss Coventry.
He’d felt badly sending the young woman into a panic at the churchyard, but he was grateful for the chance to prove to her that he could be trusted, despite the unsavory rumors he hoped to keep the family ignorant of for the duration of his stay.
Her gelding stomped on the ground, bringing his attention back to the present.
Miss Coventry leaned forward and stroked the horse’s neck, and the animal instantly calmed. “How goes the work in the library?”
He glanced at the groom, who stared toward the stables, no doubt bored of their conversation. “It’s moving along smoothly. I’ve never worked with such fine mahogany.”
She sniffed a laugh, still stroking the bay’s brown coat. “That is my father for you. He would never settle for anything less. Only the finest mahogany for his library. Only the finest material for Mother’s curtains. Only the finest silk for sister’s dinner party dress.”
He waited. “And for yourself?”
She stared down at him, her brow pursed beneath her elegant, blue hat. “Oh, I am in need of very little.”
Her silence spoke measures, though questions still arose in his mind. Was she neglected? Not given the same treatment and fine things as her mother and sister were? How could that be so with Mr. Coventry being as kind to Edward as he had been?
“How long have you been carving, Mr. Steele?”
He hesitated, knowing she was simply changing the subject to avoid his questions. But he wouldn’t press her to speak more on something she didn’t wish to.
The horse stomped again, despite her settling strokes.
“All of my life. My father started his business when he first married my mother, and I was born soon after. The first gift I remember receiving as a young man was a chisel.”
The dimples near the edges of her mouth deepened as she smiled. “Truly? How delightful.”
Of course, she would think that was delightful. She was delightful. He had certainly eaten his own disparaging words. She was a bit strange, but she wasn’t at all like most wealthy individuals. She was a woman who preferred the smell of old books and carved mahogany to roses and jasmine.
The horse stamped on the ground again, snorting impatiently.
Miss Coventry seemed to notice, as well. She turned to the groom. “Would you mind very much taking Rosencrantz to the stables for me?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
She then turned to Edward with an expectant look. Heavens, she was looking for him to help her dismount.
He stepped forward, hesitating just a moment before dropping his chisel to the ground—unwilling to risk carving Miss Coventry’s skin—then reached his hands forward. He may be more comfortable speaking with the woman, but touching her? That was another matter entirely. Suppose someone saw them? Hopefully, the groom would vouch for Edward’s innocence.
Miss Coventry modestly raised her right leg up and over the lower pommel, then leaned forward, pressing her hands gently against Edward’s shoulders. As she slipped down from the horse’s back, his fingers wrapped around her slight waist, and his heart skipped a beat. The feel of her so close to him felt natural. But it shouldn’t.
The second her feet settled on the ground, he tore his eyes away from the paint accenting her delicate jawline then released her and moved back. Willing his heart to pump properly, he retrieved his tool from the ground.
“Thank you,” she said.
She extended the horse’s reins to the groom, who made his way across the grounds with both animals, leaving Edward alone with Miss Coventry.
Perfect, he could bid farewell to the man vouching for him now.
“Would you see me back to the house?” she asked. “You are going in that direction after all.”
He cleared his throat. “Of course.”
The worst that could happen was Mrs. Coventry spotting them from the window. He was doing nothing untoward. It was not as if they were alone in a room together. They were out in the open. Nothing improper about this at all. Nothing he could be blamed for. Nothing he would lose his payment over.
“So, tell me more about the carving you do. You enjoy it greatly, yes?” She stood a good distance away on his right side, the paint still clearly visible. Should he tell her about it or leave it be?
“I do,” he replied, gripping the chisel more firmly in his hand. “The work I’ve been completing here is far more fulfilling to me than simply creating plain furniture.”
“What is it that makes you prefer one over the other?”
Edward hesitated. Did he truly wish to delve into his likes and dislikes? To create a connection with this woman even more than he already had? Then again, there was no way to kindly refuse to respond.
“There is slightly more finesse involved in detailing a piece of furniture rather than joining them together, which is difficult in its own right, but far less satisfying for me to accomplish.”
“You do come from Steele and Son, do you not? What does your father prefer doing?”
A sorrowful ache cut through his heart. He knew he should’ve changed that sign. “He preferred the opposite of me, which was why we worked so well together. But he…he passed a few years ago.”
“Oh.” A line formed between her brows, the shimmering in her eyes vanishing. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking away. He didn’t wish for pity. He was tired of pity. But then, was it pity she was extending or simply compassion?
“It must be so difficult to carry on the work without him,” she said softly. “But I’m certain you are making him proud by continuing the business.”
The ache struck deeper, as if a chisel had been driven straight through his heart. Steele and Son was failing. Edward had yet to prove to Bath that the rumors were false, that the Steeles could be trusted. He was not making his father proud. Father would be ashamed.
They reached the house, and to his relief, instead of walking him to the library, she stopped. “I must go to the stables to ensure Rosencrantz receives a good brushing.”
He nodded. “And I must see to the carving.”
She studied his eyes for a moment before nodding her goodbye and walking past him, the paint standing out once more.
He really ought to just go straight upstairs, but his conscience got the better of him. “Before you go…”
She turned back to face him. “Yes?”
He touched his lower jaw. “You’ve something there. Paint, I believe.”
“Oh, thank you.” She rubbed at her cheek. “I do wonder why the groom did not tell me so. Did I manage to clean it off?” She leaned her jaw toward him, the creamy texture of her skin calling out to be stroked.
He startled at his thought and looked away. “No, it’s still there.”
She again attempted to wipe it clean, this time with the palm of her gloved hand. “Now?”
“No, you’ve missed it again.” This would be much easier if he could simply reach out and stroke—wipe it off for her.
She huffed out a sigh and scrubbed harder, finally removing the mess.
“There you are.”
“Thank you,” she said with that appreciative smile she was so quick to give.
He pulled his lips in and nodded. Most women would be horrified to be seen in such a manner, but Miss Coventry had seemed entirely unaffected. “So, I take it you paint before riding every day?”
“I do, always at eleven o’clock,” she replied, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about her behavior.
He supposed there wasn’t, really. But it was rather strange that she so religiously followed her schedule. Was she avoiding something? Beholden to a routine because of her father? Perhaps Mr. Coventry was not as respectable as Edward previously thought.
“Well, I shan’t keep you from your work any longer, Mr. Steele. Good day.”
She curtsied then headed for the stables once again.
“Good day, Miss Coventry.”
Before he could ascend the steps to the house, she spun around, her brow furrowed. “What did you call me?”
He hesitated. What had he called her? “Miss…Miss Coventry?” That was her name, was it not?
Her frown did not ease. “I am Miss Marianne. My older sister is Miss Coventry.”
Was that the first time he’d said her name aloud? How could that be so? He looked around them. “But…is your sister here now?”
“No.”
“Then are you not Miss Coventry?”
She stared at him, her expression unreadable.
“I apologize if I’ve caused offense,” he said. Though he had no idea how he could have done so. “I will refer to you as Miss Marianne, if you prefer.”
She shook her head, still staring at him. “No, that is all right. You are correct, of course. I simply don’t believe I’ve ever been called that before.”
He tried not to gawp. “Never?”
She shook her head, still appearing in a daze.
How could that be? Surely, she’d been out without her sister before. She could not always be in her presence during balls and dinner parties.
“Are you well?” he asked when she remained silent.
Her eyes continued to study him before her features softened. “Of course. But I believe it really is time for me to let you depart. Good day.”
Then she curtsied and with a growing smile left for the stables.
Thank goodness he was free to continue with his work. When next he saw her—that is, if he saw her, he would be certain to leave before any more time could be usurped from his carving.
Just so long as there was no green paint to distract him.