Page 24 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

“His wages were short?” Gideon asked in concern.

“By an entire penny,” Ridley said with obvious exasperation. “Though, to be frank, I give leave to doubt it. Mr Baker couldn’t find his arse with…” He let out a breath to calm himself and returned a rueful smile. “Excuse me, sir, I’m a little rattled. Please don’t worry. I’ll see it never happens again.”

Gideon nodded. “You’d best refund yourself that penny from the petty cash and be sure it doesn’t, or else your pockets will be to let before the week’s over.”

Ridley laughed. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

Gideon sighed and made his way to the site hut. Casting his hat upon his desk, he sat down with a thud and reached for the bottle of lemonade he’d brought with him. He gulped it down, washing away the dust that seemed to have coated it. For a moment he contemplated putting his feet up on his desk and closing his eyes, but then he remembered the blasted letter.

Reaching into his inside pocket, he drew it out, gazing at it resentfully before breaking the seal.

His spirits plummeted as he read the brief note. Guilt twisted his guts, followed swiftly by a surge of resentment, as it always did. Why did he care? Why should he be responsible for this?

Yet who else was there? Damian? Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he feared that Damian too, or even that he… but no. He had enough to worry about without borrowing trouble. He gave a bitter laugh and refolded the letter, stuffing it back in his pocket.

“My lady, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Hetty turned to give Jenkins a look of sheer exasperation. “Yes. You’ve said so ten times already, but the wretched man does nothing but work. It’s a week since I saw him last, when he already looked worn to a thread, and to my knowledge he’s been nowhere else but on this building site. Well, if the wretched man is determined to bury himself under the weight of this blasted hotel, I shall just have to dig him out.”

“But my lady. He ain’t your gentleman.”

There was an edge to Jenkin’s voice that Hetty knew she ought to heed, but she was at her wits' end. She had tried being patient and waiting for Mr Bramwell to suggest another meeting—which would never bear fruit, as she was the least patient woman in the world — and then she had tried walking past the site when he might be arriving or leaving. She had tried visiting The Mermaid, hoping she might run him to ground there with no success, and in sheer exasperation had called upon Mrs King, who had verified that the foolish man was never to be found anywhere else but on site.

“His dedication is remarkable,” Mrs King had said, yet Hetty had been aware of a note of anxiety in her voice too.

It was all very well for a man to be driven to succeed, but at this rate he’d be driven to Bedlam.

“Give me the basket, if you please, Jenkins,” Hetty said, holding out her hand for it.

Jenkins held it tighter. “It ain’t proper. If you must go through with this, then I’m coming too, and short of dismissing me, there’s nowt you can do to stop me.”

Hetty gave a little growl of frustration and then let out a breath. She shook her head, smiling at Jenkins. “If I didn’t adore you, I might be very cross. As it is, I commend your loyalty to your wicked, headstrong mistress. I am a sore trial to you, I fear.”

“Oh, no, my lady. Just a tad aggravating. And reckless.” Jenkins considered Hetty, warming to her theme. “And—”

“Yes, thank you, Jenkins. That will do,” Hetty replied before her maid could get into her stride. She hurried off, leaving the woman to follow her.

Though she was horribly aware of the weight of many male gazes as she picked her way carefully across the site to the little hut, she kept her eyes on her feet and ignored them. If she injured herself, Mr Bramwell would never forgive her, and she would feel an utter fool.

Around her men toiled, pushing empty wheelbarrows to heaps of sand or lime and filling them before hefting them back the way they’d come. The ground was uneven, littered with stray nails and brick fragments, chips of stone, and the deep ruts from passaging cart wheels. The unpleasantly sharp tang of tar thickened the air and Hetty wrinkled her nose.

“Afternoon, ladies,” called a jovial voice as a group of men stopped their work to watch them pass. Hetty ignored them, aware it would be the height of foolishness to acknowledge the sally, but from the corner of her eye she saw the men tugging at their caps before winking and nudging each other and laughing.

Jenkins muttered crossly behind her, but Hetty pressed on. It had rained hard last night, and the evidence of the downpour was everywhere: puddles glinting in the gloomy daylight. She glanced around, self-conscious, before lifting her skirts a bare inch higher, away from a patch of thick mud. From somewhere on the site she heard a low whistle, but she put up her chin, ignoring it.

“Mind, it’s slippery here,” she called to Jenkins, who nodded and picked her way around the puddle.

“Wait for me, my lady,” Jenkins called, and Hetty stood still, her ears ringing with the constant strike of hammers and mallets, of chisels striking stone and shouted instructions.

“Give me your hand,” Hetty instructed, and held hers out to Jenkins to guide her over a plank that someone had laid down over an especially muddy patch of ground.

Hetty paused, turning to stare curiously at the monstrous, great building that seemed to rise higher each day. It was an impressive sight already. Men toiled everywhere she looked, upon the wooden scaffolding, crawling over the place like insects, each with their own role to play. This was Mr Bramwell’s world, and these men were bringing his vision to fruition. Yes, Mr and Mrs King had commissioned him, had given him the parameters within which he must work, but this was his design, and he held everything within his control.

Admiration for him was a hot little jab to her heart, and she took a breath, reminding herself of what Jenkins had said.

He ain’t your gentleman.

And never would be. It was a shockingly melancholy thought, but not one she could ignore. Mr Bramwell was not for her, the aggravating, fascinating devil. Still, that didn’t mean she must let the wretched man work himself to death.