Stone-flagged floors had been scrubbed to a honey color. The massive hearth dominated the far wall, its blackened stones now revealed as warm russet where the village boys had scraped away years of accumulated soot. A small fire crackled there now, warming the air and scenting it with woodsmoke.
Copper pots hung from the overhead beam, most showing fresh polish though some still bore tarnish too stubborn for a single day’s attention. The deep sink beneath one window remained stained by a hundred years of use, but the brass tap gleamed with unexpected warmth. A stack of wooden spoons and paddles dripped onto a cloth nearby, their grain raised by recent washing.
The enormous oak worktable anchoring the center of the room showed the honorable scars of a century of chopping, kneading, and rolling. Its surface had been scrubbed to a clean paleness that spoke of lemon and sand and considerable muscle.
In the midst of this transformation stood James, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms glistening with perspiration as he worked at a stubborn hinge from one of the pantry doors. He looked up at her footsteps, a streak of grime across one cheekbone, making him look more like a blacksmith than a lord. Regardless, he was beautiful.
“Mrs. Fairfax, is everything all right?” He straightened, though not apologizing for his disheveled state.
“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”
He smiled, his expression soft. “You have a worried look in your eyes.”
“Ah, yes. I mean, no, nothing’s wrong. I’m amazed by how much you’ve accomplished. I’d not expected you to do any of the work yourself.”
“For now, I remain more of a tavern owner than lord, Mrs. Fairfax. Until the manor is restored, I fear I will be unable to show much improvement.”
“None is necessary, my lord.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You’re too kind. But I fear society would not agree.’
“I have some proposals for your bedchambers, my lord,” she said, stepping fully into the kitchen. “If you’ve a moment.”
He gave the hinge a final twist before setting it aside. “I can hardly wait.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do. Very much so. I care deeply about every inch of this house. It’s a way to honor my father.”
Her eyes pricked with sudden emotion. “This is a home. One that will hold happy times again.”
He nodded and for a second their gazes locked and an understanding passed between them. She’d felt it with him several times since they’d met. A kinship of sensibilities, perhaps?
“Shall we gather at the table?”
“Yes, please.” He set aside his tool and joined her at the table that surely had fed countless staff over the decades. Not the last one, sadly. But the one to come, surely.
A faint scent of lye and soap lingered in the air, almost but not quite masking the deeper notes of old woodsmoke and herbs that had permeated the walls over decades. The kitchen range nearby, a massive iron affair with multiple ovens and hotplates, had been blackened with stove polish, though rust still peeked through in places where the neglect had bitten too deeply to remedy in a single day’s work.
“I find myself unsure if you’ll like any of them now that I’m here to show you what I’ve gathered.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” James asked. “If I don’t likethem, then we’ll try again.”
“My husband used to tell me something similar when I was fretting about this or that.”
“He sounds like a wise man.”
“He was. And he certainly didn’t suffer from any feelings of insecurity when it came to his work.”
“You must borrow some of his confidence. Just as I will have to learn to be a gentleman.”
From somewhere in the depths of the kitchen came the scrape of a boot on stone as one of the village boys continued his work in the scullery or cellars below. Three doors led off from the main kitchen. The first revealed what must be the pantry, its wooden shelves visible through the partially open door and mostly barren save for a few lonely jars and sacks. The second door presumably connected to the scullery, where faint sounds of clattering dishes and running water could be heard. The third and narrowest door, with its weathered handle and ancient hinges, likely concealed a steep staircase winding down to the damp cellars beneath the house.
Georgiana set her portfolio on one end of the table. “All right, then. Here’s what I have.” She opened the portfolio to reveal her selections. “These are the options I believe would suit the east-facing master chambers.”
James leaned in, bracing his hands on the table’s edge. Those hands. How strong and capable they were.
She arranged five squares of wallpaper across the scarred oak surface. “This first is a damask in Prussian blue from Ackermann’s Repository. Very fashionable in London this season.” Her fingers moved to the next sample. “This is a more traditional striped pattern in forest green with gold accents, which would complement the existing woodwork.”
