Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway

Chapter Four

After spending a restless night at the Blue Boar Inn, whittling away at a spare stick to release his nerves, Edward rose early and traveled the distance on foot from the village to the Coventry’s home.

With its columns and spires and light brown stones, Daffley Park easily rivaled Lord Ryecombe’s estate. To the west of the house, a small pond nestled in a grove of trees. Beyond that, fields of sheep bordered with grey stone walls lined the countryside. In truth, he far preferred the grounds to the house. But then, what did Edward know about stone?

He strode toward the structure with his leather satchel over his shoulder, his tools tucked inside. Knocking against the front door, he removed his hat and waited to be greeted.

A few moments later, the door swung open without a sound, and the butler stood before him with an impassive expression. “Yes?”

“Good morning. My name is Mr. Edward Steele. Mr. Coventry has hired me to—”

“You are the woodcarver?”

“Yes, I am.”

The butler opened the door wider. “We’ve been expecting you, sir. I am the Coventrys’ butler, Mr. Morley. Do come in.”

Edward entered with a grateful nod of his head. He forced his eyes away from the grand marble entryway, the chandelier at the top of the room shimmering with crystals, and the two circular staircases winding to the upper floors.

He’d been slightly uneasy with the sheer amount of money Mr. Coventry had agreed to pay him via their next correspondence. Now, Edward was certain the man could afford to compensate him even more.

Mr. Morley closed the door and faced Edward. “Mr. Coventry has been called away on a business matter, so he has tasked me with showing you to the library.”

Edward shifted his feet tensely. Mr. Coventry had been more than kind to Edward. Would the rest of the household welcome him so openly?

They were sure to, if they did not know about the rumors.

“If you will follow me, sir.”

Edward trailed after Mr. Morley through the various corridors, losing count of the number of rooms they passed until they reached the east wing of the house.

From there, Edward could have found the room himself. Mahogany tended to lose most of its aroma as time passed, but the woody scent still pervaded the area, growing as they drew closer to the library.

Edward preferred that smell to any other cologne or fragrance. It spoke to his soul with warmth and whispered clarity to his mind.

He stepped into the library after Mr. Morley, his eyes captured at once by the sheer amount of deep, reddish-brown wood covering the room. The ceiling was split into simple, squared sections, and the bookshelves circled about the entire space from floor to ceiling, excepting the large windows at the end of the room, which poured bright sunshine into every inch of the library.

Edward certainly had his work cut out for him.

“As far as I’m aware,” Mr. Morley said, “the cabinetmaker hired before did an excellent job creating the shelves and ceiling, but he failed to meet Mr. Coventry’s expectations in regard to the detailing.” He pointed to a small section of the bookshelf where a foot of the wood had been carved into a rather unwieldy design.

It certainly needed a more graceful touch. Luckily, Edward could provide just that.

“You are welcome to come and go as needed through the servants’ entrance,” the butler continued, “but Mr. Coventry expects a full day’s work from you every day apart from Sunday. Of course, he is not averse to you needing an extra day or two to await supplies or to recoup from your work.”

That was fair enough.

Edward placed his hands on his hips as he distractedly examined the ceiling. He could create a very elegant design along the edges of the squares, yet still showcase the masculinity of the wood. Perhaps a grand floral design with wave-like shapes would serve him well.

“I was told Mr. Coventry discussed the matter of payment with you?” Mr. Morley asked.

“Yes, he did.” Mr. Coventry had promised to pay Edward after a month’s worth of work, which was more than generous. Shocking, really, in comparison to Lord Ryecombe’s behavior.

Still distracted, Edward continued to glance about the room. In the corner was a dark-red, oversized chair pushed up against the window that featured a spectacular view of the estate. Beside the chair, a small table was situated with a stack of books and…were those crumbs spread about the top of them?

Mr. Morley’s words cut through his musings. “There will be meals available from our own cook, providing you agree to have a small fee taken from your income.”

Edward nodded. “That would be most appreciated.” Especially after the stale meal he’d consumed at the Blue Boar last evening.

Mr. Morley extended a piece of paper folded three times. “Here is a list of Mr. Coventry’s requirements. I hope you have been warned of the work ahead of you, Mr. Steele.”

Edward scanned the items requiring detailing. Just as Mr. Coventry had said, this was easily three months’ worth of work, if not more.

He smiled. “I am more than ready, Mr. Morley. I assure you.”

A flicker of approval flashed in the butler’s eyes. “This end of the house is usually silent, so you will be left relatively undisturbed. Should you be in need of anything, simply alert us with the bellpull and someone shall be sent to help you.” He walked to the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must make ready for Mrs. Coventry’s callers.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morley.”

The butler departed with a nod.

When Edward was left alone, he drew in a deep breath and took in the work ahead of him. His hands tapped anxiously against his leg, itching to feel that smooth wood with his fingertips.

He hoped Mr. Chapple would be patient with the rent due. He hoped Mother would be all right without him. And he hoped Mr. Coventry would approve of his work.

But Edward? He was going to be just fine.

He removed the satchel from his shoulder, laying it down on a nearby table. As he pulled the tools out, lining the chisels and mallet neatly in a row, footsteps padded outside the door.

He paused. Had Mr. Morley forgotten a part of his instruction?

But the butler never appeared.

“Hello?” Edward called out.

Silence replied.

He walked to the door with narrowed eyes, poking his head around the corner, but no one was there. Perhaps he’d simply imagined the footsteps. Or maybe the house was haunted.

He smiled, amused with himself. He certainly was in a good mood.

With an indifferent sigh, he returned to the bookshelves crying out to be beautified. This was going to be a dream realized, carving these shelves, and he couldn’t wait to get started.

* * *

Marianne pressed up against the wall, blood rushing in her ears. Who was that man, and why was he in her house?

She’d been distracted walking to the library that morning, so eager to continue reading about Hamlet and Ophelia—for the third time—that she hadn’t seen the imposter until she’d rounded the corner. Thankfully, she’d pulled back before he’d seen her.

She chewed on her lower lip, contemplating what to do next. Should she scream? Alert Mother? Ring for a footman to expel the ruffian from the premises?

No. There was no time. He was obviously there to steal something. She needed to act swiftly.

Moving to stand right outside the door, she raised Shakespeare’s greatest work—in her opinion—over her shoulder. If words were dangerous, then thirty thousand of them should do the trick.

This was it. This was her time to defend her home. She drew in a deep breath and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, finding the energy and courage she needed to confront the rascal. The rascal who was…humming? What sort of thief hummed while he thieved?

She stilled, the tightness in her chest loosening. Slowly, she peered around the edge of the door.

His back was turned to her as he rolled up his shirtsleeves and stared at something on a table covered with a white sheet. He propped his hands on his hips, his dark brown waistcoat spreading nicely across his shoulders. Then he peered up at the shelves and retrieved something from the table.

A tool? From where had that come?

As he moved toward the shelves, pressing what looked to be a chisel against the wood, her questions were answered.

Of course. This must be the woodcarver Father had mentioned wanting to hire. He was dressed far too nicely to be a common criminal, and he certainly wouldn’t have been humming or calling out earlier if he’d been trying to sneak about in silence.

Beatrice was right, Marianne let her imagination run amok too often. Slowly, she lowered her weapon. Rather, Hamlet. This woodcarver certainly had a fine set of shoulders. His strong jaw was reminiscent of—

She gasped. The man turned just enough for her to see his face, and recognition struck like a flash of fire in the darkness. This time, instead of hiding behind the wall, she raised her skirts, clutched her book in her hand, and darted down the corridor far away from the library.

It was him, the man from the cricket match. She was sure of it.

She pressed a hand to her brow to settle her spinning mind. After the cricket match, she’d realized how fortunate she’d been that Beatrice had not wished to pursue any of the men Marianne had spoken to. The men surely would have told her family of her odd behavior. Father would have been furious.

Father was going to be furious, for now that the woodcarver was in her home, the truth would most certainly come out.

Unless, of course, she could stop him from ever saying a word.