Chapter Seven

T hatcher sat at his cluttered desk, eyes locked on the blank parchment before him. The room felt stifling, suffocating, as if the walls themselves were closing in on him. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and then hesitated, the tip hovering above the paper. Lady Lottie’s presence in the office had done little to alleviate his inner turmoil. If anything, her mere existence seemed to amplify the maelstrom of frustration that churned within him. She was, after all, the reason he found himself in this predicament, tasked with co-writing a play when his creativity had abandoned him.

Across the desk, Lottie sat with an expectant look, her wheat-colored hair cascading around her shoulders like a golden waterfall. The silence between them had stretched into an uncomfortable abyss, broken only by the scratching of his quill as he idly doodled on the parchment.

Lottie cleared her throat. “Mr. Goodrich, perhaps we should start with the plot. What direction do you envision for our play?”

Thatcher’s jaw tightened, his frustration boiling beneath the surface. He knew he should have had a plan, a concept, something to guide them. But the creative wellspring within him had run dry, leaving nothing but a desolate wasteland of ideas. “Let’s…” he began, his voice tight with irritation. “Let’s start with the characters. Who are they? What are their motivations?”

Anything. Come on, give me something at all to work with, to spark my creativity once more. Please.

Lottie regarded him with a mixture of patience and exasperation. “I suppose that’s a good place to begin. I was thinking of a strong-willed heroine who defies societal expectations, much like myself.”

Thatcher forced himself to nod, though her words felt like a weight upon his chest. He had always been adept at crafting compelling characters, but today, his mind remained obstinately blank. He dipped his quill into the inkwell again and made a futile attempt to sketch an outline. Minutes ticked by in agonizing silence as they attempted to brainstorm ideas, but each suggestion felt forced and uninspired. Thatcher’s frustration grew with every passing second, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit his creative block to Lottie. To do so would be to acknowledge his vulnerability, something he had carefully concealed for years.

Lottie leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the parchment, her expression thoughtful. “What if our heroine is a playwright, much like myself? She faces obstacles and prejudices in a male-dominated world but refuses to yield to convention.”

Thatcher’s irritation flared, and he snapped, “And what if we’re merely writing your life story, Lady Lottie?”

The words hung in the air, charged with tension. Lottie’s eyes blazed with indignation. “Mr. Goodrich, I have had enough of your obstinacy and arrogance. If you cannot put aside your petty grievances, then perhaps we should abandon this collaboration altogether.”

Thatcher felt a pang of regret as he watched her rise from her chair, her determination evident in every graceful movement. He knew he had pushed her too far, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize, not when his own frustration threatened to consume him. With a curt nod, Lottie turned and walked toward the door. Before she could reach it, however, Thatcher called out, his voice tinged with resignation, “Wait.”

She paused but didn’t turn around, her back ramrod straight. “What is it, Mr. Goodrich?”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging with defeat. “I’m sorry. My temper got the best of me. I… I am struggling with this collaboration more than I care to admit.”

Lottie slowly turned to face him, her gaze softening. “We’re in this together, Mr. Goodrich, whether we like it or not. But if we’re to create something worthwhile, we must find a way to work together.”

Thatcher nodded, a begrudging acknowledgment of the truth in her words. “Agreed. Let’s start fresh, shall we? And please, call me Thatcher.” He could no longer bear the stifling atmosphere of the theatre. His head throbbed with frustration, and the constant presence of Lady Lottie felt like a lead weight around his neck. He needed air—fresh, unencumbered air to clear his thoughts and, just maybe, rekindle the spark of inspiration that had eluded him.

Pushing his chair back with a harsh scrape against the floor, he stood abruptly. “I need some air,” he declared. Without waiting for Lottie’s response, he strode toward the door, leaving her momentarily stunned in his wake. She watched him with a mixture of disbelief and irritation. Surely she had expected their collaboration to be challenging. But he was certain she had not anticipated his sheer willfulness.

With a sigh, Lottie rose from her seat and followed after him. They emerged from the theatre into a glorious autumn day. The sky stretched overhead, an unbroken expanse of azure, while the trees wore their autumnal attire of burnished gold and fiery red. The air carried a crispness that invigorated the senses.

Thatcher hailed a waiting hack, and the driver tipped his hat respectfully as they climbed aboard. Once inside, he leaned back against the plush seats, his frustration seemingly forgotten for the moment. “Hyde Park,” he instructed the driver tersely.

As he settled into the bench seat of the hack beside Lottie, a sense of calm washed over him, smoothing his agitation. The bustling energy of Covent Garden gradually faded into the background as they made their way through the heart of London.

The hack rattled along the cobblestone streets, the rhythmic clatter blending with the noise of the city. Thatcher’s gaze wandered, taking in the sights and sounds. Buildings of various architectural styles lined the streets, their fa?ades a testament to the city’s rich history and cultural diversity. From elegant townhouses adorned with intricate wrought-iron balconies to bustling market stalls teeming with colorful produce, every corner held a story waiting to be discovered.

But it was the people who truly brought the city to life. Merchants haggled with customers over prices, children played in the streets with unabashed joy, and fashionable ladies and gentlemen strolled arm in arm, their laughter mingling with the crisp autumn air.

Beside him, Lottie sat bathed in sunlight, her features illuminated by the soft golden glow. Her hair shone like spun silk, catching the light in a cascade of shimmering waves. Thatcher admired the way the sunlight danced across her rose-and-cream complexion. Damn, but her skin had a radiant glow.

Her presence was magnetic, drawing his gaze like a moth to a flame. Despite her outward strength, there was a softness to her, a vulnerability hidden beneath the surface. Thatcher found himself captivated by the juxtaposition of her solid, statuesque frame and the delicate grace with which she carried herself.

As they passed through the affluent neighborhoods near the park, Thatcher’s senses were overwhelmed by the opulence and wealth that surrounded them. Imposing townhouses with grandiose fa?ades stood tall against the backdrop of the clear blue sky, their windows gleaming. The grandeur of their surroundings served as a stark reminder of the life he might have had, had fate dealt him a different hand.

As a baron’s son, he should have been no stranger to such luxury and privilege. The thought brought a grumble to his lips and a scowl to his brow as he contemplated the paths not taken and the dreams left unfulfilled.

Third son of an impoverished baron.

Lavish would not describe his upbringing.

Thatcher’s gaze inevitably drifted back to Lottie, her presence beside him a vivid reminder of the unexpected turns life could take. He felt a twinge of regret at the thought of what might have been had his father not been what he was, but he quickly shook it off, refusing to dwell on the past.

Instead, he focused on the present, and the jarring fact that even with the splendor of their current surroundings, it was Lottie who captured his attention.

*

Lottie couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the day. She had always found solace in the natural world, and this unexpected detour offered her a brief respite from the stifling confines of the theatre. “It’s a lovely day,” she remarked.

Thatcher glanced at her briefly, his brooding demeanor momentarily softened by the serene surroundings. “Yes,” he admitted, though it was clear that he was not yet willing to relinquish his gruff exterior. “The park has always been a place of solace for me.”

As the hack rattled along the cobbled streets toward Hyde Park, Lottie couldn’t help but steal glances at him. There was something about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Beneath the layers of arrogance and frustration, she sensed a depth of vulnerability that piqued her curiosity. One she hadn’t noticed before.

When they arrived at their destination, they stepped out of the carriage onto the sun-dappled path. The park was abuzz with activity—couples strolled hand in hand, children played near the pond, and the distant sound of music drifted from a nearby bandstand. It was a picture of idyllic London life.

She saw Thatcher take a deep breath, inhaling the crisp autumn air as if it were a lifeline. His features, which had been etched with tension, relaxed ever so slightly. “This is what I needed,” he admitted, surprising Lottie with his candor.

She smiled, her earlier annoyance giving way to a sense of camaraderie. “Sometimes, a change of scenery can do wonders for the soul.”

They walked along the path, the swish of their footsteps mingling with the rustling leaves underfoot. It was a comfortable silence, unburdened by the weight of words. Lottie stole sidelong glances at Thatcher, taking in the sharp lines of his profile and the way the sunlight played on his dark hair. The playwright seemed lost in thought. The bustling world of the park seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in a tranquil bubble of existence. It was a peculiar sensation, one that left her feeling strangely vulnerable yet undeniably alive.

As they strolled, the day unfurled before them, an unexpected respite from the pressures of their collaboration. It was a moment of peace, of shared silence, and perhaps, just perhaps, the beginning of an understanding between two fiercely independent souls, Lottie thought. Hoped.

She followed him as they ventured deeper into Hyde Park, away from the bustling crowds. They walked along the path that skirted the Serpentine, and the tranquil waters of the lake shimmered in the autumn sunlight. A gentle breeze ruffled the surface, creating mesmerizing patterns on the water.

Thatcher’s steps slowed as he gazed out at the serene expanse of the lake. “This place,” he said, his voice low and contemplative, “this is where I often come when I need to think, to find inspiration.”

Lottie joined him by the water’s edge. “It’s breathtaking,” she admitted. She couldn’t deny the allure of the spot he had chosen. “Do you find it helps you write?”

Thatcher nodded. “There’s something about the tranquility of this place that clears my mind. It’s as if the stillness here allows my thoughts to flow more freely.”

As they stood side by side, the weight of their argument from earlier seemed to dissipate. The presence of nature had a way of mending fractured spirits. Thatcher reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a leather-bound notebook and a quill. “This is where we’ll work,” he declared, choosing a nearby bench overlooking the water. He settled down, the notebook open on his lap, and motioned for Lottie to join him. “A change of scenery might be just what we need to tap our creative wells.”

Lottie hesitated for a moment, then took a seat beside him. She watched as he dipped the quill into an inkwell and brought it to the page. “So, where do we begin?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. It was interesting, learning another writer’s techniques.

Thatcher’s brow furrowed as he stared at the blank page. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We have the opportunity of a lifetime to write a play for the king himself, and yet…we’ve got nothing.”

Lottie regarded him thoughtfully. She had seen his talent firsthand, witnessed the power of his words on the stage. She hated to admit it, but… “You’re an exceptional playwright, Thatcher. This is merely a slow start. We should begin with something simple, a scene, a character. Let the rest flow from there.”

His smoky eyes met hers. There was a vulnerability in his gaze, a crack in the armor he wore so well. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It doesn’t have to be easy,” she replied with a small smile. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And that was how she found herself in a secluded corner by the Serpentine, with the tranquil waters glistening under the late afternoon sun. They had settled on a moss-covered bench, and she couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty of their surroundings. It was as if nature itself had conspired to inspire them.

“Much better,” Thatcher declared. He cast a sidelong glance at Lottie. “I believe we’ve found the ideal place to work.”

Lottie smiled. “I must admit that this location has a certain charm. Now, shall we begin?” With pen poised, she turned her attention to him. “Let’s start with the opening scene,” she suggested. “What do you envision?” Her gaze shifted fixed on the lake as her thoughts drifted. “I see a moonlit garden, shrouded in mystery. A solitary figure, cloaked in shadows, stands beneath an ancient oak tree. She’s waiting for someone, but she doesn’t know if they’ll ever come.”

He listened intently, looking captivated by her words. “Intriguing,” he mused. “Who is this figure waiting for, and why?”

Lottie’s pen moved across the page as she began to sketch the scene. “She’s a woman of strength and independence, but she carries a secret deep within her. The person she’s waiting for holds the key to her heart, yet they’re both entangled in a web of intrigue and danger.”

“A forbidden love,” Thatcher ventured, “set against a backdrop of political turmoil and betrayal. The stakes couldn’t be higher.”

“Exactly. And as they navigate treacherous waters, they’ll discover that love has the power to overcome even the darkest of secrets.”