“I wish Rosslyn well with it,” Kit said and closed the door behind him.
So that was that.
He took a deep breath and headed to Windsor’s Upper Ward to check the progress on the new dining room. Following a complete inspection, he felt a little better. Everything seemed to be proceeding well and on schedule. He had high hopes that the successful, timely completion of this beautiful chamber would help ensure more commissions from the Crown.
Somewhere in town, a clock struck noon, reminding him he’d best get on his way to Trentingham if he wanted to arrive at a decent hour. But he didn’t want to rush to Trentingham—not today. He felt drained. The interview with Wren had sucked the life right out of him.
Tomorrow morning would be better, he decided, heading out of the castle. He was in no hurry to confess his failure to Rose’s family, and that greenhouse was hardly an emergency. The groundbreaking wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, anyway.
He looked forward to a long, hot bath, followed by a good night’s sleep. Here in Windsor, in his own house, he’d doubtless rest easier than he had in weeks. Especially since he no longer had to worry about his projects. Or, he thought dejectedly, about whether he’d win the appointment he’d been working toward all of his adult life.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Martyn,” the old guard called as he passed through the castle gate.
“Afternoon, Richards,” Kit returned.
The next thing he knew he was standing in front of a pawnshop.
His brother-in-law’s pawnshop, to be precise. Kit still had the damnedest time thinking of Ellen as married. But something inside him knew he had to come to grips with that—the same something that had sent him here without conscious decision.
He hoped she fared well. And there was only one way to find out. He drew a deep breath and opened the door. At the jingle of the bell, Thomas emerged from the back.
“Mr. Martyn,” he said, clearly surprised. And apprehensive, Kit thought.
Well, in a sense, he couldn’t blame the man. But they were kin now, for better or worse, so he’d best set the fellow at ease. “Call me Kit,” he said. “Please.”
“Kit.” The younger man nodded.
“I’ve come to see my sister.”
If anything, Thomas’s eyes grew more hooded. “She’s upstairs. I’ll fetch her.”
“No. I’ll go up.”
“I’m sorry, sir—I mean, Kit. But I’m not sure she wants to talk to you.”
That hurt. Kit had hoped Ellen would be over her snit long before now. She’d won their battle, after all. She’d fought to live over a pawnshop, and live here she did.
He wanted to see the place, see how she was living. Whether she and her baby were healthy. Whether she and her pawnbroker were happy. They’d be happy after he gave them her dowry, of course, but he hoped they were happy now without it. That his sister hadn’t made a mistake marrying for love.
Before he turned over all that money, he needed to see Ellen’s happiness with his own eyes. He was not taking no for an answer.
“I’ll go up,” he repeated. “You can show me the way or I’ll find it myself.”
“Very well.” Thomas handed a key to the young man behind the counter, then Kit followed him through a storage room and up a narrow staircase.
When Thomas opened the door, Kit sniffed appreciatively. “Smells like apples.”
“The only thing your sister knows how to cook is apple fritters,” Thomas said with a wry quirk of his lips. “I’ve been eating them till they’re coming out of my ears.”
Kit looked at him sharply, but the words had been said in good humor. It seemed the man loved Ellen whether she could cook or not.
The living quarters were nicer than he’d expected. The main room was small and the floor was bare wood, but it was polished and everything was clean. There was plenty of fine furniture and, in Kit’s opinion, entirely too many knickknacks—all of which he suspected came from the shop. He guessed that some of the best merchandise found its way upstairs. A hidden benefit to this business.
And Ellen doubtless loved all the knickknacks. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to find she’d dragged most of them up here herself. His heart lifted to think she was probably very happy here, indeed.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“In the bedchamber. She naps often these days.”
A subtle reminder of his sister’s condition. Kit nodded. “Will you wake her or shall I?”
He saw the other man draw a steadying breath. “Wait here.” Thomas opened a door and slid into the room beyond, closing it firmly behind him.
Kit paced while he waited, peeking into another chamber to find a kitchen with a small fireplace and a scrubbed table for eating.
That seemed to be it—just the main room, kitchen, and bedchamber. He wondered where the babe would sleep, though he knew full well that entire families lived in single-room homes—why, this place would be a palace to the common cottager. Hell, he and Ellen had lived like that until the Great Plague had claimed their parents.
But when he built the new shop for his sister in London, he would design it with much larger living quarters attached. A proper house.
The bedchamber door opened and shut again, startling him. “She won’t see you,” Thomas said.
“Pardon?”
“Ellen doesn’t wish to speak with you, Mr. Martyn.”
Fuming, Kit didn’t bother correcting Thomas’s use of his name again. “She doesn’t have a choice.”
He crossed the room—in all of three strides—and threw open the bedchamber door. “Ellen.”
She lay on a huge four-poster bed—much too big for the room—with her back to him.
“Ellen.” He sighed. “I don’t wish to play games.”
She rolled over and stared at him with those eyes that were so like his. Her pretty mouth was thinned into a straight, forbidding line.
She said nothing.
“It’s a nice home,” he conceded, feeling like an idiot talking to himself. “I hope you’re happy here.”
Nothing.
A heavy silence hung for a moment before Kit’s frustration gave way to anger.
