Page 81 of Foes, Friends and Lovers
Is this what satisfaction feels like?
Caitlin had linked her arm in his. He felt her gaze on his face, then she murmured, “When you first arrived, we didn’t know what to expect of you—what sort of owner you would be.” When he glanced at her, she smiled and looked ahead. “As it turns out, you’ve stepped into Timms’s shoes, but you’ve also taken the role of owner and made it into something different. Something more.” She glanced at him and, this time, met his gaze and allowed him to see the appreciation warming her violet-blue eyes. “You’ve become the sort of owner all of us need you to be, and that’s becoming more obvious with every passing day.”
She looked forward and tipped her head to his shoulder. “Don’t think we don’t see it, that we, collectively, don’t value what you’re doing and appreciate the changes you’re making.”
His heart swelled. “Thank you for telling me that. It…means a lot to me.”
And it did. Far more than he would have thought possible a mere month before.
As they crossed the lawn toward the house, he looked up at the turrets and uneven roofline and no longer saw a gothic monstrosity. Now…this was home.
Smiling, he ushered Caitlin through the door and followed.
Everything was going excellently well. Even Ecton’s unwanted interest had only led to better days for Gregory and all at Bellamy Hall.
Chapter 12
Three days later, Gregory was enjoying a leisurely breakfast with Caitlin, Rory, and the three painters. The others had already broken their fast and departed.
Seated around the other side of the round table, Melrose, Tristan, and Hugo were earnestly whispering about their works, discussing which particular pieces to show should Gregory’s letter to his uncle, Gerrard Debbington, regarding him viewing their work bear fruit. Perhaps understandably, the three were a trifle twitchy over the prospect of displaying their efforts to one who was widely regarded as England’s pre-eminent landscape painter.
Beside Gregory, Caitlin was chatting to Rory, seated on her other side.
While attacking a mound of kedgeree, Gregory reflected that over the two weeks since Rory had arrived, Caitlin’s cousin had settled into life at the Hall remarkably smoothly—indeed, without a single ripple. Rory had taken to spending his mornings at Nene Farm, helping Martin Cruickshank with the cattle stud, taking luncheon at the Hall in company with whoever was there, then joining Percy in the carpentry workshop, much to Percy’s delight and relief. Rory had taken over the crafting of Millie’s lute, relieving Percy of that responsibility; Percy had confided that Rory’s ability to work with wood was nothing short of amazing, and his carving was exquisite. Consequently, Percy had set Rory to carving the Cynster coat of arms into the back of what would be the love seat that Gregory had commissioned for his great-aunt, along with a second version for his grandmother.
Gregory set down his fork and reached for his coffee cup. Bit by bit, Rory was quietly and methodically carving out a place for himself at the Hall. It was, Gregory thought with a small smile, instructive to watch.
At his and Caitlin’s monthly meeting with the business owners the week before, Martin had hung back specifically to complain not of Rory’s invaluable insights into managing Martin’s breeding stock nor Rory’s help about the cattle stud but rather about his—to Martin, frustrating—refusal to accept any form of payment. “Having him work for nothing doesn’t sit well with me,” Martin had stated, “but he adamantly refuses to accept any coin. He says him getting room and board here is enough.”
Caitlin had exchanged a glance with Gregory, which he’d interpreted as saying that, in truth, Rory didn’t need the money, but she’d made soothing noises to Martin, then—plainly struck—made the inspired suggestion that, as she knew Rory would, eventually, want to expand his woodcarving into a business of his own, perhaps Home Farm through the Bellamy Hall Fund could underwrite the high-grade wood and tools necessary for that.
Martin had been ready to seize any straw that held out the promise of easing his conscience. He and Caitlin, with Gregory assisting, had worked out the basics of a barter-like exchange. Subsequently, after dinner that evening, when, as they often did, he, Caitlin, and Rory had taken refuge in the library after the others went upstairs, Gregory and Caitlin had put the proposal to Rory and watched the big man’s eyes and expression slowly light with quiet joy. Rory had gladly accepted the arrangement.
Gregory glanced sideways at Rory. Sitting beyond Caitlin and enthusiastically gesticulating, he was explaining what sort of wood—some sort of burl—he was hunting for. “It has to be really gnarly so I can use that as a frame for the face. Like hair, it’ll be.”
Rory had found his place. Smiling, Gregory returned his attention to his plate. He’d found his place, too, and was remarkably content.
The thought had barely formed when the peace of the morning was shattered by a sound disturbingly close to a roar.
Seconds later, Cromwell came rushing into the breakfast parlor. “Sir! Miss. Mr. Rory! There’s another Scotsman here.”
Hard on Cromwell’s heels, a man strode swiftly into the room.
As along with everyone else, Gregory came to his feet, his first thought was that at least the newcomer wasn’t as large as Rory.
“Hamish!” Rory exclaimed, confirming the connection. He waved his hands in a placating gesture. “Calm down.”
Frowning direfully, Hamish halted. His blue eyes were lighter than Rory’s, and instead of Rory’s red-brown hair, Hamish’s was more blond than brown and not as curly, but in all other respects, the likeness was compelling.
As Cromwell sidled across to stand behind Gregory’s chair, Gregory had no doubt he was facing another Fergusson. Wide-eyed, the three painters edged sideways, out of the direct line of fire.
“Really, Hamish!” Caitlin scowled back far more ferociously. “Is that any way to enter a gentleman’s house? You know better.”
Hamish had been scanning the room. He returned his gaze to Caitlin. “You’re all right.” The statement was uttered in a tone of wonder.
“Of course I’m all right,” she snapped, then a heartbeat later, inquired, “Have you eaten?”
“Aye. At the inn in the village.” Hamish shifted his gaze to Rory. “And what happened to you? Why are you still here?”
