Serena’s lips twitched with amusement at his superiority again. ‘Does it pain you to admit another architect has done well?’
He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Why should it pain me? Credit where credit is due, you know. Aleron house will survive at least as long as this lighthouse, if not longer.’
‘You are that confident?’
Mr King seemed surprised at the question. ‘Of course I am. Were I not confident, I should have torn it down by now and rebuilt it.’
How was it possible to enjoy someone’s company when they often spouted sentiments of self-importance? And yet, Serena did. She shook her head in amusement. ‘Well, this lighthouse is remarkable. For a building so necessary to seafarers, it is surprisingly graceful.’
Mr King rounded on her, peering into her face in the dim light. ‘Would you like to see more?’
‘Well, I—’
‘It shan’t take long. And I promise they are at least as interesting as this.’
‘But it must be almost midnight. Doesn’t the darkness concern you?’
Mr King grimaced. ‘I am adept at handling the reins you know, and the night is yet young. Come, it will be diverting, I promise you.’
He appeared so genuine and his face held such wide-eyed expectancy that Serena could hardly say no. However, she doubted she had much wakefulness left in her. ‘Very well. Lead the way, Mr King.’
It turned out that Mr King grossly underestimated his idea of ‘it won’t take long’. Five miles and almost an hour later, he steered the curricle into the sparsely lit streets of Sydney. Oh, so close to her family, her heart was drawn toward the docks, as though an invisible string tugged it in that direction. Dare she ask him to visit?
‘Mr King…’ she swallowed the question before she blurted it out, too afraid.
Perhaps this hadn’t been the wisest idea, after all. No one chaperoned them, and their ‘short outing’ was now several hours long. Serena smothered a yawn as he handed her from the vehicle outside another intimidating piece of architecture.
‘This one, I think you will appreciate.’
Serena looked up and focused in the semi-darkness. ‘Why it is St James.’ She’d walked past this church countless times over the years. ‘I am very familiar with it.’
‘But did you know Greenway designed this building?’
She shrugged. ‘No, I never thought about it.’ Serena gazed up at the towering spire, although it was difficult to see on such a dark night, and then studied the rest of the building. ‘I do recognise similarities to the lighthouse. The curved arches, for instance.’
‘You are quite insightful, Miss Bellingham. Walk with me.’ He thrust his elbow out.
‘Mr King. It is the middle of the night. Should we not—’
‘Nonsense. Those rules on the proper times for an excursion are the fabrications of stuffy individuals with no imagination. You only live once.’ He turned to her as he finished this rebuke and such animation lit his eyes, she could not argue with him. Mr King wrung an exorbitant amount of life from every moment. Overawed by it, Serena could only nod her compliance.
They had barely turned the corner when Mr King pointed out the Barracks building. ‘That is also a Greenway design.’
Serena had little to say. The arches were represented again, but the total construction was square and less interesting than the lighthouse and the church.
‘Did you know he also designed the Female Factory at Paramatta, where the maids come from every Monday?’
‘No, I didn’t know that. I’m sure Mr Greenway must have been very busy with all of these buildings.’
The two walked on in the darkness and Serena pulled the coat tighter around her shoulders. As the night deepened, the air grew colder still. Few other souls roamed the streets at this hour. Serena gasped at two men staggering in a drunken stupor, presumably back to their homes for the night. The occasional horse and carriage trundled by, but the streets were quiet, save for the howling of dogs in the distance. They were nearing the shoreline—Serena sensed it in the salt on the air, and pangs of longing for home arose within her again.
‘You are quiet of a sudden, Miss Bellingham.’
‘I was just reminded of home. The smell of the ocean brings it back.’ Serena swallowed the lump in her throat as she glanced up at him.
As they approached one of the street lamps, she noted a frown creased the small space between Mr King’s brows. Was he perturbed by her admission?
‘You miss living in a hovel surrounded by the stench of fish?’
‘I’ve never called it a hovel ... and my family must miss me as much as I miss them.’
‘You found happiness with needy siblings and a pilfering father?’
As quick as the pangs of homesickness had risen, a burst of anger now overrode them. ‘Mr King! You go too far. I love my father, even though he made one mistake, and I love my sisters, even though they have been my responsibility these past few years. My home was, well, my home. Until you took it away from me. Do you never care for anything save yourself?’
The words were out before she could stop them, but then she clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I ...’
A distant look came over Mr King’s features. A memory perhaps, or maybe he didn’t care for her tirade.
‘I should not have spoken so boldly.’
Mr King said nothing, but continued to walk toward the harbour.
‘It appears you consider me ungrateful.’ Serena wanted him to know how his words had affected her.
He shrugged—a noncommittal lift of his shoulders—which told her nothing.
‘It is hard to be grateful when an injustice has been done to me and my papa.’
‘I could have had him imprisoned.’
Serena wanted to groan. So, she should appreciate that one reprieve? ‘Instead I am imprisoned. In luxury, yes, but a prison nonetheless.’
‘There must be consequences. That is true justice.’
‘And what of grace?’
‘Was it not
