CHAPTER 14
The transformation began with demolition.
Lydia commanded the main hall, her crimson skirts flaring over her boots as the workmen filed in, hats off and eyes lowered. A lift of her hand turned the entire group. She issued orders without mercy. Patch the plaster here. Tear up the moth-eaten runner. Take an axe to the broken baluster and fetch the cut lumber from the yard. By noon, dust and lime hung thick, and Lydia’s lungs adjusted, freckles of grit dotting her skin.
She directed, pointed, and questioned everything. “Is that truly the best position for the chandelier or merely the most convenient? Has anyone checked for rot beneath the landing? You. yes, you. What didI say about aligning the molding?” The men learned quickly that Lydia Montague did not borrow authority, she spent it.
Pausing at last, her hip braced against a stack of floorboards and her eyes stinging, she spotted Maximilian.
He stood on the grand staircase, coat discarded and sleeves rolled. The crowbar moved smoothly in his hands as sweat cut a pale line through the grime on his cheek. He glanced over the rail, offered her a brief smile, and levered up another warped board.
Something in her leapt—no fear, only anticipation.
She watched the economy of his work. The brace, the shift, the recommitment of weight. Around him, laborers moved with caution, their pride replaced by deference. Lydia’s lists scattered in her head. Focus refused to return in the presence of Maximilian.
He set the crowbar aside, tested a newel post, and called, “Miss Montague, if you would.”
The summons pricked, but his tone was a request, not a command. She gathered her skirts and climbed.
On the landing, he held up two lengths of molding. “Your judgment. Which is truer to the original?”
She compared grain and angle, then lifted her chin. “This. The join will vanish, and the stain will take. Who chose it?”
“You did, last week.” His mouth tipped. “I wondered if you would recall.”
“You test me, then?”
“Always,” he said, warm enough to disarm any offense.
They stood framed by the staircase’s ribs while the hall echoed below. He passed the molding back, his thumb grazed her knuckle. The smallest touch, and yet the air shifted.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
His gaze was steady. “I am not here for the house alone.”
Heat crept up her throat. She turned to walk away, but his fingers caught her wrist—lightly, yet firmly.
“Stay,” he said. “Just a moment.”
She lingered.
The bell rang for the midday meal and boots thudded out, sawdust trailing behind. He released her hand but kept his focus on her. “The newel will be set by dusk,” he said, his tone firm.
She nodded, her heart racing, and fled before she gave into desire.
After lunch, work resumed. Pipes snaked through the library, new boards lined the west corridor, and the gloomy portraits were removed. Old Hector Montague’s leer ended up in the barn, and Lydia did not pretend to mourn. She negotiated wages, brokered peace between the kitchen and the electricians, and ate a sandwich over the ruined billiard table.
By dusk, the house settled into a quiet creak of timber. Lydia walked the ground floor, tallying her victories. An even baseboard, a clean sash, air that felt slightly less stale. Exhaustion seeped into her bones, but her mind buzzed with thoughts of what was next.
Unthinking, she paused at the staircase. The newel gleamed, bare wood, not yet stained, but sound. Maximilian crouched over a blueprint on the first landing.
“The stairs will hold,” he said without glancing up. “You may be the first to try them.”
She climbed. Carefully, deliberately, and halted above him.
“There is a question about the upper balustrade,” he said, extending the plans. “Your eye is better than mine.”
She knelt beside him. The paper lay betweenthem, creased and marked. Their shoulders brushed. The scent of soap, wood, and clean sweat erased the day’s harsher notes. He traced a line, explaining pitch and rise. Her mind focused only on the closeness of his mouth to hers.
