Page 17 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

“You have remarkable skill for drawing. An asset in your line of work, I am sure. But these sketches are wonderful. You must show my sister Cecilia, she is also very talented and has a fine appreciation for such things. I’m afraid I cannot draw a straight line,” she said with regret, for she had often envied those with such talents, and Mr Bramwell was gifted indeed.

He laughed softly. “Thank you, however, I must tell you drawing a straight line is often far harder than creating a small sketch.”

She smiled and looked back at the drawings, considering them once more. “It’s very smart, but I worry that such dark colours will make the room gloomy on dull days. Did Mrs King choose them?”

“No,” he replied, sounding suddenly a little defensive. “Mrs King has not yet decided about the décor for all the rooms, but it helps me to see the room in my mind if it is decorated. The choices are mine. I’m sure Mrs King will do better.”

Hetty smiled, appreciating his candour. “Well, it’s certainly very elegant, but I feel a lighter touch might be best, pale green or blue with touches of cream and gold. You can warm a room decorated with cool colours on a grim day with a lit fire and carefully placed lamps, but all that dark red will make it feel rather oppressive, I fear.”

“Point taken.”

She glanced at him uncertainly, but he did not seem to have taken offence.

“Have you allowed for a pianoforte?”

“Here.”

Hetty shook her head at once. “Oh, no. That won’t do. It’s all very well if the pianist is talented and everyone has gathered expressly to listen, but what if they are not? All these people seated in this area will flee, for they will not be able to hear themselves think. Let me see.”

Thoroughly enraptured now, Hetty leaned her elbows on the table, studying the plans closely. In some distant part of her mind, she heard Howard come in with the drinks and serve them to her guest. Despite her concentration, she was constantly aware of Mr Bramwell, of his proximity, the pleasantly musky, woody scent that tickled her nose, but the plans fascinated her, and she allowed her imagination to conjure the space in her mind.

“Here,” she said with satisfaction, pointing at the layout. “It’s close to the window, which means if the player is talented, the windows can be opened, and the sound will drift down through the gardens, but it is far enough away from the seating area not to be overwhelming. You might consider a folding screen too, though, to deaden the sound.”

Pleased with herself, she turned to him, the smile at her lips quavering as she noticed the look in his eyes. The usually cool grey was turbulent, studying her with such intensity that her breath caught. A few tense seconds passed, neither one of them looking away, and then Mr Bramwell cleared his throat.

“An excellent suggestion,” he said briskly, turning away from her and patting his pockets to find his notebook.

Hetty blinked, wondering what had passed between them, what that blistering look in his eyes had meant. She did not know if he’d been happy, furious, curious, or anything else. He was a mystery to her. It was terribly frustrating.

She forced her attention back to the plans.

“This door. Could it be moved over a touch? That way, access to the terrace goes through here, instead of disturbing people taking tea. There’s nothing worse than people filing past you when you are relaxing and indulging in a little heart to heart or sharing the latest on-dits.”

Mr Bramwell leaned over the plans, and for a moment his arm grazed hers. Hetty bit her lip, wondering why such a subtle thing should make her pulse race so fast. It was just his arm, covered this time in layers of cloth, not bare and tanned and—stop it.

“I believe that is possible. I had put it there because of the layout of seating on the terrace. You see, here, it looks better to have the door where it is, but I believe you may be correct. The flow of traffic is more important. I shall examine that in more detail and see if there are any reasons preventing its relocation.”

Hetty nodded, admitting to herself that she had not expected him to be so open to her suggestions. Perhaps she had misjudged him.

“I’m sure Mrs King has such things in hand, but you should also make allowances for a small writing desk.”

“I believe she has already considered that,” he replied with a nod.

“I would also suggest you do not underestimate the amount of space needed to store cloaks and hats and such garments as people dispose of when arriving for a ball. I cannot tell you how many times I have had items returned to me utterly crushed because there was not enough space and everything was piled high, one atop another. I would suggest, as the ceilings are very high, that you use the full height for storage and hanging rails and provide ladders for the staff. You could make cubbyholes and number them to make identification easier. But that way it need not take up any more space, for I realise the building work is quite advanced by now.”

Finally, she saw a glimmer of respect in his eyes. “That answers a question that has been plaguing me for some time. Well done, Lady Henrietta. You have indeed helped.”

Hetty’s heart gave an odd little leap in her chest, pleasure unfurling inside her like petals long denied the sunshine. “Oh.”

He watched her with interest, a trace of cynical amusement quirking his lips.

“What? Did you think me ungracious enough as to not thank you when you are right? I am stubborn, my lady, but I am not a fool.”

Hetty stood straighter, appalled that he should think so.

“No, indeed. I thought nothing of the sort. You were very magnanimous when I was so clumsy in pointing out the difficulty with the retiring rooms in front of everyone. I should probably apologise for that,” she added diffidently.

He laughed, and the sound was deep and thrilling, vibrating inside her. Hetty gazed at him in wonder, wanting nothing more than to provoke such a sound from him again.