Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway

Chapter Three

Lord Ryecombe was upset. When the working-class team won and the bats held up without so much as producing a splinter, he handed—rather flung—Edward’s payment at him with a begrudging look.

“Ath promithed,” he grumbled. His lip had swollen large in an angry, purple bruise.

“Thank you, my lord,” Edward said, clutching the payment as he battled with his lips to thwart a smile. Was his chipper tone far too pointed? Was it terrible that he did not care if it was? Having the earl humbled—in appearance and in paying Edward—was simply too satisfying. As Mother always said, “Injustice has a way of working itself out.”

“Excellent cricket match,” Edward said. He motioned to Lord Ryecombe’s mouth. “I am sorry to see you injured, though.”

Lord Ryecombe muttered a few unintelligible words, clearly seeing through Edward’s fabricated sorrow.

At the earl’s dejected tone, Edward’s mood lifted even higher, like leaves raising toward the sun. His day had turned out immeasurably better than he’d thought it would, especially when the odd woman had finally left him to his pastries in peace. He was more than fine not having seen her again once she’d darted away from whoever had called out for her.

Lord Ryecombe shifted away from Edward without another word, turning to speak to a gentleman with fair hair who had come up beside the earl.

As they engaged in their own conversation, Edward slipped the payment into his satchel with a satisfied smile. Mother would be pleased to see the amount. They would live to see another day at the shop now.

“Well done with the bats, Steele.”

Edward looked up as his friend, Michael Cavinder, walked past, sweat still beading his brow from the match.

“Thank you,” Edward returned. “And well done on your victory.” He glanced to Lord Ryecombe, who was still occupied with the gentleman. Lowering his voice, he said, “Did you see who hit the ball at Lord Ryecombe?”

Michael paused, laughing in his throat. “Does it matter who did, so long as we all got to witness it?”

Edward shook his head in amusement. He and Michael had been friends for years now, having first bonded over their shared love of the arts—Edward with carving, and Michael with painting.

Michael rubbed his jaw, his eyes still shining with mirth as he spoke in a hushed voice. “You know, my father painted the earl’s portrait. I do wonder if he should make an adjustment to Lord Ryecombe’s likeness now that he’ll have a proper scar on his lip.”

Edward chuckled, and the men tipped their heads to each other in departure.

Securing his satchel closed, Edward made to leave Briarwood Estate, but Lord Ryecombe stopped him, calling out from behind.

“Mr. Thteele?”

Edward turned to face him again, the other gentleman still at his side, focusing his attention on Edward.

“Is this the maker of the bats then?” the man asked.

Lord Ryecombe nodded, his voice taut as he spoke. “Mr. Coventry, thith ith Mr. Edward Thteele. Mr. Thteele, Mr. Jacob Coventry.”

Edward greeted the gentleman with a short bow. Mr. Coventry responded with an observing eye, looking Edward up and down as one would examine a new milk cow.

“I’m quite impressed with your work, Mr. Steele,” he said. “I happened past your shop last week and viewed your fine carvings from the window.”

Edward quite liked this man, despite his being a gentleman. “Thank you, sir.”

Lord Ryecombe looked green in the face. Whether that was due to the praise Edward had received or because of the obvious pain the man was in due to his purple lip, Edward couldn’t decipher.

“Excuthe me,” the earl said with a bow.

He wandered toward two working men waiting nearby. A mention of a pair of bay horses drifted to Edward’s ears, and he focused on their interaction, distracted by their looks of dismay. Eventually, the earl walked away, and the two men were left with scowls.

“…ever come through with the blunt…” one of them said as the other shrugged.

Was Lord Ryecombe trying to swindle them, too? If only that came as a surprise.

“They do not look very pleased with their conversation.”

Edward darted his gaze to the man Lord Ryecombe had introduced him to, having nearly forgotten that Mr. Coventry still stood beside him.

Edward cleared his throat, embarrassed at having been caught prying in another’s affairs.

Mr. Coventry shifted his body to face him. “Have you a moment to speak, Mr. Steele?”

“Of course, sir.” So long as more praise would be given.

“I will not take much of your time. I merely wished to inquire of your schedule. You see, over the last few years, I’ve hired numerous cabinetmakers to refinish one of the libraries in my house that was damaged from extensive underuse and lack of care. The entire room has been refurbished with new wood—the ceilings, the bookshelves, the flooring.”

Edward nodded, leashing his hope to his side.

“It has taken longer than I’d hoped it would,” Mr. Coventry continued, “but I should like to see its completion this year. The final touch will be, of course, the carving. I’m sure you’ve surmised as much, but I should like to hire you for the job.”

Edward blinked to ward off his surprise.

Lord Ryecombe had hired Edward out of sheer desperation, and any other orders from the upper class were next to nonexistent. The only way Edward had been able to keep a small amount of food on his table was working for those in the city who were unaware of the rumors and had happened upon his shop. Apparently, this was the category into which Mr. Coventry fell.

“It will be a long task, mind,” Mr. Coventry said. “Perhaps three or four months.”

Three or four months. Three or four months of a solid, steady income. Three or four months of carving, designing—doing the thing he loved most. This had to be a dream.

“I believe I could manage such a task,” he answered as apathetically as possible.

“I would need you no later than next week,” Mr. Coventry said, then he hesitated. “In Ashwick.”

“Ashwick?” But that was nearly twenty miles away.

“Yes, I hope that will not be a problem. You would need to stay in the village, of course. But I am more than happy to pay for your room. And I will compensate you for the work generously.”

Edward’s hope lapped at his heart. With such work, he might then be able to satisfy the four months of rent he owed. He would certainly be daft to decline such an offer.

But how could he leave Mother for so long?

“When would you require an answer, sir?” he asked. “I have a few items to work out beforehand.”

“Within the next few days would be ideal, but I understand if you need more time to put your affairs in order.” He pulled out his golden watch, eying the time. “When you decide, send me a note at Queen’s Square. We will be there until the end of this week.”

“I’ll have a decision to you before then,” Edward agreed.

The men nodded in departure, and Edward struggled to hide his smile. Now all that was left to do was tell Mother—and hope she would agree to his decision.

But of course, she did.

The moment he spoke with her about the opportunity, she began eating his smuggled pastries and jumped straight into planning.

A week later, Edward was adjusting his leather satchel around his shoulder and carrying a portmanteau out of their small home on the outskirts of Bath.

“You’ll send word the moment you arrive safely?” Mother asked, readjusting his cravat for the second time—something she’d always done with Father.

He nodded. “You will be all right here without me?”

She patted his cheek. “The three months will be long, but we shall do what we must.”

Edward was still hesitant about leaving Mother for so long, especially with the landlord, Mr. Chapple, breathing down their necks. Edward had managed to ward off the penny-pinching man for months with compliments and promises. But he feared Mr. Chapple would take advantage of Edward’s absence and threaten evicting Mother.

Worry stirred in the center of his chest, producing unsettling images of begging for money on the streets and carving from a cheap house in the middle of the countryside. He’d promised Mr. Chapple he’d deliver a month’s worth of rent by the second week of June—after a month of working for Mr. Coventry.

This was all contingent on Mr. Coventry keeping his end of the bargain, of course. Would he do the same as Lord Ryecombe had done? Or would the man simply refuse to pay Edward altogether?

Edward shook the thoughts from his head. Mr. Coventry had seemed more than trustworthy. Edward needed to believe him. He had no choice but to believe him.

“Do take care of yourself, son,” Mother said, “and be sure to eat often to maintain your high spirits.”

“I will, Mother.”

“And be sure not to work yourself too hard. But take care not to dawdle. And express your gratitude to the Coventrys every moment you have the opportunity.” She hesitated. “And…and be sure to take special care with your behavior. We wouldn’t wish for the rumors to only grow.”

Edward listened to her advice. One would think he was a boy leaving for school for the first time and not a twenty-eight-year-old man.

If he was being honest, though, he was as anxious as if it was his first day of school. He knew his actions were constantly under scrutiny after all that had occurred with their family. Mr. Coventry didn’t appear to be aware of any such rumors, but Edward feared that someone—Lord Ryecombe, perhaps—might alert Mr. Coventry that the Steeles were nearly out of business. Or worse, why the Steeles were nearly out of business.

But three months working for a reputable gentleman could change the rest of their lives forever. Though, whether that change be positive or negative was still yet to be seen.