Nicol looked briefly, almost endearingly, startled by those words. “Neither do I,” he said. “People generally don’t, you know.”
Before Lindsay could respond to that, the footman was back. He recited the dishes available and they made their selections. Nicol, Lindsay noticed, seemed uninterested in the offerings, only asking for one dish, while Lindsay, whose appetite was always sharp, ordered several, though he planned to force some of the food on Nicol. The man was too thin, he decided. That big body was meant to be thickly muscled, not angular and rangy as it was now.
When the servant left them, Lindsay said, “Why do you say people don’t like you?”
Nicol thought for a moment. “I’m a bit of misanthrope,” he said at last, then after a pause, “At least that’s what my wife used to say.”
“Do you agree?”
Nicol shrugged. “I don’t disagree. I have little patience for most people.”
“You make an exception for some, though?”
“Not many,” Nicol said.
“Who then? Your wife?”
It was an impertinent question, and a tactless one. The poor woman was dead, after all, but Lindsay was curious. What sort of marriage had Nicol had with his wife? Had they loved one another? Had it been a marriage of convenience? Had she called him a misanthrope affectionately or bitterly?
Nicol didn’t strike Lindsay as the sort of man who showed his feelings easily, but as Lindsay watched him, that grim expression he wore so steadfastly subtly softened with something that looked like sorrow, or perhaps regret. His scent changed too, in that impossible-to-read way that Lindsay struggled to translate to exact human emotions.
For a few moments after Lindsay’s question, Nicol was quiet and seemed to be looking inwardly. At last he said huskily, “I should have been more patient with her than I was. I can’t pretend I was a good husband. She deserved better.”
The quiet grief in Nicol’s tone shamed Lindsay for his prying. He opened his mouth to apologise but was forestalled by the return of the footman with some of the dishes they had ordered. Awkwardly, Lindsay watched the footman set the dishes down: baked oysters, a pair of roasted pigeons and a plate of tiny meat pastries.
When the footman had finally departed, Nicol said, in the tone of someone who very much wanted to change the subject, “This looks excellent.”
Lindsay took the hint. “Yes, it does,” he agreed, reaching for one of the dishes. “May I serve you some oysters?
“No, thank you,” Nicol said. “I will wait for the turbot, but please, go ahead.”
Lindsay tried to rein himself in a little, but it had been far too long since he’d eaten luncheon. He ended up consuming both pigeons quickly, one after the other, then polishing off most of the meat pastries.
More dishes were brought: Nicol’s turbot, a plate of braised celery and asparagus, a pot of mutton stew, a roast capon. Lindsay made an effort to eat politely, but he was honestly famished and consequently found it difficult to rein in his appetite.
He was, after all, a beast at heart.
“Hungry?” Nicol asked faintly, as Lindsay served himself a large portion of the mutton.
Lindsay grinned. “My last meal was at breakfast time,” he said by way of an explanation, then held up the ladle in his hand. “Would you like some of this?”
Nicol shook his head. “I’m not terribly peckish,” he said. “The turbot is very good though.”
Lindsay eyed Nicol’s plate which still held most of the portion of turbot he’d been picking at for a while now. Judging by how much he’d eaten, Lindsay had to wonder if he really did think the dish was any good. He opened his mouth to ask but thought better of it when he noticed the rigidity in Nicol’s jaw. Instead, he said lightly, “Tell me what it’s like, being an architect. Do you just draw pretty pictures all day, or do you get your hands dirty too?”
His teasing prompted a slight lessening of Nicol’s tension, and a faint chuckle which made Lindsay smile too. Even such a meagre sign of mirth from Drew Nicol felt like a rare honour.
“I don’t lay bricks, if that’s what you mean,” Nicol said, “but I do keep an eye on the construction. My involvement doesn’t end once the pretty pictures are produced.”
“Tell me about it,” Lindsay invited, and to his surprise, Nicol did. He leaned back in his chair, wineglass in hand, and began to talk, while Lindsay continued eating.
He told Lindsay about his work, his thoughts on the buildings he designed, the practical difficulties he faced when he tried to translate those designs into bricks and mortar. He told Lindsay about the politicians he had to deal with, and the tradesmen and the artisans. And of course, the wealthy patrons who bought his houses.
“Do they make insufferable demands?” Lindsay asked.
“Insufferable demands?”
“Do they want to put their own stamp on their houses, change your plans?”
