Page 86 of Counting on a Countess
He grinned at her attempt to find something commendable about the property. “Precisely.” Letting go of her hand, he walked backward, his arms open wide. “You are looking at the future home of the Greenwood Pleasure Garden. Imagine, if you will, a lantern-covered pergola that stretches from where you are standing to a terrace surrounded by topiary.” He waved to the invisible pergola. “At dusk, the Chinese lanterns will be lit, dazzling the eye.”
He walked quickly to the area reserved for the terrace. “Tables will be arrayed here foral frescodining on wine-poached fish and fruit grown in the Greenwood’s own glasshouse.” He turned in a circle, envisioning a multitude of guests seated or strolling as they enjoyed the fine evening.
“And here,” he continued, striding farther into the area, “will stand an elegant, open pavilion where musicians from the Continent play the very latest musical compositions. Sopranos from Italy will sing from a gilded balcony. Or acrobats will tumble and walk on tightropes while juggling flaming torches.”
Tamsyn walked slowly down the future site of the pergola, her eyes bright as he described the rest of the pleasure garden.
“Beyond the pavilion,” Kit went on, “will be the gardens themselves, full of wild roses and mazes for moonlight assignations. An artificial stream will run the length of the property, and guests will be encouraged to purchase little paper boats to float down the stream in daily regattas.
“And every night at midnight,” he said excitedly, “fireworks shall brighten the sky as the musicians play in accompaniment.” He wouldn’t mind the sound of the explosions—their loudness would chase away the booming echoes of cannon fire.
His breath came quickly and his heartbeat throbbed with exhilaration. He felt the smile stretching his face as he strode quickly to Tamsyn.
“It sounds marvelous,” she said appreciatively.
“It will be,” he said with conviction. “The culmination of many years’ planning and consideration.”
“When will construction begin?”
He took hold of both her hands and wondered if she could feel the excited trembling in his. “As soon as you give me the nine thousand pounds the project requires.”
Her face went blank. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nine thousand is the initial estimate,” he explained. “More costs will likely be incurred, but for now, the amount will be sufficient to begin. A manager will need to be hired, of course, and someone to plan the gardens, plus somebody else to take charge of the entertainment such as the musicians, singers, and acrobats. Lady Marwood might be able to offer some recommendations, as well, since she knows the theatrical world so well. There’s also—”
“No.”
“—the kitchens where the suppers will be prepared, so a person will be hired to get provisions, and—” He stopped abruptly. “What was that?”
“No,” she repeated. Her heart was a cannon in her ears.
He frowned. “I don’t understand. ‘No’ what?”
“I mean,” she said, sliding her hands out of his, an agonized expression on her face, “that I can’t give you the money. I’m sorry, Kit, but this is a dreadful idea.”
“You just said it sounded marvelous,” he pointed out.
“Forsomeone elseto build. Someone who doesn’t care if they lose such a vast sum of money.” She shook her head. “Now is aterribletime to build a new pleasure garden. The country’s economic status is in shambles. We haven’t recovered from the War. There’s famine and crop failures and...” She took a breath. “I truly wish I could agree to this, but I just can’t, Kit.”
Everything she said was true. But most of all, she needed that money. To buy Chei Owr and keep the village alive.
Kit looked as though someone had plowed a fist into his stomach. His lips moved as though trying to find words but no sound came out.
Finally, he spoke in a dazed voice. “All those years I was fighting, trying to survive another day, eating rotten meat and watching the deaths of men who trusted me.” He looked down at the tops of his boots, which had collected dust as he’d walked through the vacant parcel of land.
“I didn’t have a sweetheart to write me letters of hope,” he said, his flat voice a sharp contrast to painful words. “The only thing I had to keep me sane was... this.”
He looked around at the empty tract, as though trying to conjure up what he’d needed for so long. “This dream of a place where there was no suffering, no death. Only joy and pleasure.”
She swallowed hard around the ache in her throat. He wanted this so much—and she had to deny him. She wished she had the resources to see his dream come to fruitionandto protect the people of Newcombe, but she couldn’t do both. Guilt racked her. It was his money, and yet she needed it desperately to keep the village alive.
It felt as though some creature wanted to claw its way out of her chest, leaving her a mass of bloody pulp.
“Is there anything else?” she asked desperately. “Some other dream we can fulfill?”
“There is nothing else,” he answered without inflection.
Almost frantic, she glanced around at the land. “A little park, perhaps, for veterans?” That, they could afford.
