Page 92 of Winterset
“It’s true,” he agreed. “Someone confused them with flowerpots, if you can believe it.” He grinned and handed me my preferred columns.
We passed the rest of breakfast reading in companionable silence. I’d grown fond of Oliver’s teasing manner and the relaxed banter we shared, but I liked the easy silence we shared just as much.
When he decided it was time for me to leave, I would miss mornings like this. I would misshim.
After we finished our food, I hoped he would ask me to walk in the garden again, but he excused himself and went upstairs to work on the repairs in one of the eastern bedchambers. I would have asked if he wanted my help, but I got the impression that he was avoiding me.
So I passed the morning hours by myself in the drawing room, sketching with the supplies and paper Oliver had gifted me. As much as I loved creating, I would have rather worked with Oliver on the repairs. It had been so enjoyable to work with him on the drawing room. Which made me wonder, Were the wall papers dry enough to paint?
To my delight, they were!
Eager, I spread out all the supplies Oliver had purchased for the project and covered the floor with a Holland cover. It had taken me months to paint this room the last time, but I did not have months, so I had to be smart about where I started in case I could not finish in time for his party.
I decided to start with the swath of wall right under the newly repaired window.
It felt heavenly to hold a paintbrush in my hand.
I dabbed some paint onto a tray and mixed the colors to create the correct shade, then started painting the pattern.
Later that afternoon, when Oliver finally came downstairs, I was still sitting on the floor. I pretended not to hear him. It was childish, but I felt confused by both my feelings and his, and I disliked how he’d avoided me all day.
“You’ve made good progress,” he said.
I took a moment to finish the pattern I was working on, then turned to look at him.
He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame again. He wasn’t wearing his greatcoat today, but he looked just as handsome in his waistcoat and rolled shirt sleeves. And the book tucked under his arm only added to my attraction.
He grinned.
Oh dear, I was staring at him.
I turned back to my task. What had he said? “Not as much progress as I’d like. But I’m working on the parts your guests will see first, so you don’t need to worry.”
He walked closer and crouched next to me, observing the pattern. “It looks wonderful, Kate. I am impressed.”
“Thank you.”
Oliver stood and held out his hands to help me stand too.
“How are the repairs on the bedchambers coming along?” I asked as we walked to the settee.
“Good. It took all morning, but I rehung the peeling wall papers and fixed the curtain rods. I still need to level the uneven floorboards, but it’s looking better.”
“I’m glad.”
We sat, and Oliver balanced the book on his knees.
“New book?” I asked.
“Oh, no. I borrowed it for the ghost-story reading. I was hoping you might help me select a passage.”
Of course I knew about the reading; it was the reason I was painting the walls, but seeing the book that would be used that night somehow made it feel realer.
He sensed my unease and said, “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I said.
“But ... ?”
