Page 82 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

The room was vast, its noble proportions unmistakable even in its unfinished state. The soaring height of the ceilings, the elegant rhythm of the marble columns marching down each side, and the tall windows admitting shafts of sunlight that turned the drifting dust to gold.

His plans come to life, he realised with a burst of satisfaction, and for the first time, he believed he deserved it, the success and the happiness. He had earned it. Even though the air still carried the sharp scent of fresh plaster and sawdust, and the stronger odour of paint, it was everything he had imagined it would be.

Scaffolding remained in the centre of the room, rising in a precarious lattice to where men worked on the ornamental mouldings. Beneath them, acres of canvas protected the freshly laid parquet floors. Nearly there, he thought, though the enormity of the work that was still required before the grand ball on the 5th of September made him slightly nauseated.

Hetty slipped her arm through his, and he looked down at her. How and when had his world changed? Had there been one defining moment, or had it happened gradually, inevitably? Whichever it was, somehow his life had gone from a grey drudge of one working day that bled into the next, where the advancement of his career was the only pleasure he found in life, to something filled with colour and joy and — “Oi, stop thief!”—excitement.

“Gideon!” Hetty exclaimed, clutching his arm.

“Wait here,” he told her, and then shook his head as he realised the futility of that comment. “Nevermind. Come on, then.”

He took her hand, and they ran.

Hetty struggled to keep up with Gideon’s long strides, giving into the temptation to hike her skirts and run pell mell. Grandmama would scold her if she heard of it, but she did not care.

It was worth any amount of telling off, however, as they ran from the building into the glare of sunlight to discover a scene of the like Hetty would never forget.

A young man stood at the centre of it with workmen gathering around him. He was covered in brightly coloured paint: his hands, his clothes, even his face where he had wiped it. Two men held him roughly as he fought to get away.

“Gerroff, you miserable bastards, I ain’t done nothing,” he protested, tugging at the hold they had on him.

Hetty glanced at Gideon, at once delighted her scheme had worked, and wretched as she saw the disappointment in his eyes.

“Mark,” he said, gazing at the young man who Hetty finally remembered as the handsome fellow who had gawked at her ankles when Mr Barlow had hit her in the face.

The fellow stiffened, his face blanching, which only made the smear of blue and yellow powder across his cheek brighter in contrast.

Mark put up his chin and then jerked it towards someone behind Hetty. “It weren’t me. He put me up to it, he’s the one what’s been stealing from you.”

Everyone turned to look.

Mr Ridley stared back at them. “He’s a liar,” he said coolly. “I don’t know what he’s—”

“Aye, you do,” Mr Ludlow said grimly. “I saw the two of you last night, round the back of the Dog and Duck. I’d just nipped outside for a piss—beggin’ your pardon, my lady. But I saw them, Mr Bramwell, thick as thieves they were.”

Before anyone could say another word, Ridley darted forward, his intention to make a run for it perfectly obvious.

Hetty hesitated, she had learned her lesson about grabbing hold of angry men, but no one had said anything about tripping them up.

She stuck out her foot.

Ridley went down face first in the dirt that billowed up around him like a tiny sandstorm.

To her surprise, Gideon followed, and she held her breath, wondering what he would do, but he merely hauled Ridley to his feet. The man was choking and spluttering, blinking dust from his eyes but he glared at Hetty.

“You stuck-up, miserable bitch! This is all your—” The words ended in a squeal of pain as Gideon yanked his arm up behind his back.

“One more word, Ridley, I dare you,” he growled furiously. “Give me a reason to break your bloody arm.”

Ridley swallowed, his features taut with pain.

Gideon yanked his arm again, and the fellow went from white to green.

“Apologise to the lady.”

His eyes were white hot with rage, but Ridley choked out an apology. “Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound the least bit sincere.

“Ludlow! Get this piece of filth out of my sight,” Gideon said, handing Ridley over to the not so tender mercies of the site manager. “You can lock him in my office but make sure to keep men on watch. “We’ll hand him over to Mr King and see what he wants to do with him.”