27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

It was ten days before Jethro concluded his business in Guernsey, but finally he got what he wanted. He’d negotiated a deal to buy two trading vessels. This would give him much more control over his cargoes and, he expected, a substantial increase in profits. It would also cause Frampton some grief, as he’d be forced to make new shipping arrangements.

With the signed agreement in his possession, Jethro was on the packet boat at last, making his way back to Weymouth, yearning for the comforts of home—and his wife.

How was Cassandra? Had she been content during his absence, or dare he hope she had missed him?

He had sent her word when he arrived in Guernsey, and received a short missive in return, informing him all was well in his household. But she said nothing about how she fared. It had all sounded so impersonal that he couldn’t bring himself to write again.

What would he have written about anyway? His entire visit had revolved around the negotiations. Cassandra wouldn’t be interested in that. Not even Crowley cared for the details. Only the result.

Jethro rubbed the back of his hand across his brow, which was beaded with sweat. The voyage seemed interminable. His normal sea legs had deserted him, and his stomach churned from the tossing of the waves. He couldn’t wait to get off the wretched boat .

Exhausted from his journey, he barked directions to have his luggage sent, and trudged down the Quay toward Devonshire Buildings.

His first thought on entering his house was Cassandra. As the footman relieved him of cloak and hat, he enquired where he would find her.

“I’m sorry, sir. Mrs Hunt is not at home.”

Huh! Absent for ten days, and his wife was not even here to greet him. She can’t have missed him then. “Please inform me when she returns. And fetch Mr Crowley from the warehouse. I’ll be in my study.”

He slumped down into the chair behind his desk and swiped a hand across his forehead. Why was it so hot in here?

Word must have spread through his household fast, because Jethro was still debating whether to open a window when Mrs Timms entered with a tankard of ale and a slab of cold pie.

“I thought you’d be hungry, sir. It’s always hard to eat when you’re at sea, I think.”

He nodded her away and stared at the food. Mrs Timms’s beef steak pies were one of his favourites, but he felt no inclination to eat. The ale, however, was welcome, and he drained the tankard before Crowley arrived.

Jethro spent the next hour locked away in his study, talking to his manager. He was relieved to hear that the last shipment had reached Weymouth safely and with few issues. Hiring Crowley had been a wise move. His friend had managed the business well in his absence…

“Hunt?”

Jethro raised his head. Had he been daydreaming? Perhaps he was even more fatigued than he realised.

“The next shipment is due the day after tomorrow. Do you want me to arrange the paperwork?”

“No. I’ll sort it out in the morning,” he said, as a sharp pain cut across his temples.

As Crowley rose to leave, there was a knock at the door, and a footman entered to inform Jethro of Cassandra’s return.

“I’ll show myself out,” said his friend with a grin. “Go and find your wife.”

“Where is Mrs Hunt, Martin?”

“In the drawing room, but—”

Jethro did not wait to hear any more, but followed Crowley along the corridor, and pushed open the door of the drawing room, which stood slightly ajar .

His jaw dropped as he surveyed the room. Instead of comfort, he saw chaos. Most of the furniture had been removed—including his mother’s desk—and those pieces that remained were covered in sheets.

The ceiling and walls had been painted pale blue, apart from a section near a scaffold, which had been erected against the far wall. There was a man in overalls on it, paintbrush in hand, who was conversing with Cassandra, who stood below.

“Yes, yes,” she said in a loud voice that Jethro thought would have reached to the centre of town. “That colour is just right. Well done, Mr Perkins.”

“Very good, madam. I should be finished in here tomorrow, unless there’s anything else you want me to do.”

“Not at the moment, but I’ll let you know next time I need some work done.”

Before the man returned to his painting, he nodded across the room to Jethro. Only then did his wife turn around.

“Jethro! You’re back.”

“As you can see.”

“When did you arrive?”

“A few hours ago.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I have found the most talented carpenter who has promised to make us some side-tables using one of Chippendale’s designs and I was just…”

His eyes glazed over. What was she saying?

He slumped against the doorframe. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he was faintly aware of noticing that it had been stripped of paint and varnished to bring out the colour of the oak.

His wife was still talking, but he needed to sit down. The journey must be taking its toll on him.

Without a word, he turned away, and he sensed rather than heard that she had, at last, stopped speaking.

He plodded down the corridor to the small parlour. Relieved to find the room unaltered, he flopped into an armchair.

Cassandra trailed after him and took the chair opposite.

“I’m sorry. Don’t you like it?”

Jethro scowled. “Like it? No. I don’t.”

Cassandra’s cheeks flushed red. “You said I could—”

Her shoulders slumped. “I should have guessed you didn’t mean it. That you wanted to make the decisions yourself. ”

“I didn’t expect you to get rid of all my furniture. Where is my mother’s desk? Did you value it so little?”

“On the contrary, I had it taken upstairs to my bedroom—”

“Where I could no longer see it—”

“To keep it safe. I didn’t want to risk it getting damaged.”

“Humph!”

Her bottom lip quivered. Jethro knew it was his fault, but he hadn’t got the energy to fight his annoyance.

“I’m sorry you don’t like it,” she said. “I’ll ask Mr Perkins to paint it white again.”

“There’s no need. That would take even longer. I’m sure I’ll get used to it. When will it be finished?”

“The paintings I’ve commissioned for the walls are not ready yet, and the carpet won’t be delivered for another few weeks, so—”

“Where am I supposed to sit in the meantime? In here? Or are you going to turn this room upside down as well?”

Cassandra leaped to her feet, her jaw trembling. “I won’t touch this room. I won’t touch anything ever again if you’re going to rant at me like that for trying to help. No one would take you for a fashionable gentleman when your drawing room looks like it was thrown together with someone else’s castoffs.”

Jethro closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had been looking forward to seeing Cassandra again and yet he had only been home a few hours, and he’d already upset her. How could it all have gone wrong so fast?

He swiped his palm across his forehead. The heat was making his head ache. He needed to think clearly.

Somewhere deep inside, a small voice prompted him. Tell her how you feel.

He pulled himself to his feet and grabbed hold of her hand to stop her from leaving. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t go. I didn’t mean it. My head aches so much I can’t think. I was looking forward to returning to the comforts of home and it was a shock to find my drawing room in an uproar. And I didn’t enjoy discovering a strange man in my house, talking to my wife, so she was too busy to greet me.”

Cassandra gave him a curious look and raised her other hand to his cheek. It felt so cool. So smooth. So soft.

This time, he would not resist if she embraced him. He would take her in his arms and kiss her thoroughly.