Page 29 of The Virtuoso
Ellen, blast the woman, had been right: Resting the handcompletelyapparently had a salubrious effect. Working it, no matter how mundane the task, aggravated the condition. Val eyed the manor house, deciding to forego his plan to spend the afternoon with the masons on the roof, and turned to make his way through the home wood.
He emerged from the woods at the back of Ellen’s property and scanned her yard. In the heat of the day she was toiling over her beds, her floppy hat the only part of her visible as she knelt among her flowers. Val stood at the edge of the trees, watching silently, letting the peace and quiet of the scene seep into his bones. Through the trees he could still hear the occasional shout from workers on the roof of the manor, the swing of a hammer, the clatter of a board being dropped into place.
In Ellen’s gardens, the sounds were a distant, mundane chorus, detached, from another sphere entirely. The scent of honeysuckle was more real than those sounds or the industry producing them.
She looked up, like a grazing animal looks up when sensing a possible intruder to its meadow. Val walked forward out of the shadows, knowing without being told she’d hate being spied on. Fear it and resent it.
“Good day.” He smiled at her as she rose, seeing she was once again barefoot and back in one of her old dresses. Her hair was in its customary braid, and old gloves covered both hands.
She returned his smile and Val let himself enjoy the sensation of physical warmth it bestowed on him. “Mr. Windham. I hope you’ve had a pleasant morning.”
“I most assuredly have not.” Val’s smile faded slightly. “Soames was, as usual, late with his deliveries, Darius is in a brown study about something to do with his brother, the Visigoths discovered the cobbler, and my hand hurts.”
“Come along.” She pulled off her gloves and held out a hand to him.
“I am to be taken to the woodshed for a thrashing?” Val asked as he linked his fingers with hers.
“You should be. You no doubt spent the morning mending stone walls, laying slate, unloading wagons, and entirely undoing all the benefit you gained resting over the weekend. You are stubborn, sir, but I did not take you for stupid.”
“That smarts a bit, Ellen.” Val peered at her, trying to ascertain if she were truly angry.
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Ellen sighed gustily. “I shouldn’t complain. Your excesses give me an excuse to get out of the sun and to hold hands with a handsome fellow, don’t they?”
She retrieved her tin of salve from a pocket and tugged him back across the yard to where the stream at the edge of her property ran next to a single willow. Pausing to part the hanging fronds of green, she led Val to a bench in the shade, one sporting both pillows and an old blanket.
“Come, naughty man.” She sat on the bench. “Lend a hand.” Val complied, bracing himself for a lecture when she saw the damage he’d done in a single morning.
“You must be in a desperate tear to finish your house,” she remarked, opening her tin and frowning at his hand. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Ellen?”
“Hmm?”
“Could we just now not take too seriously to task one Valentine Forsythe Windham?” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “It’s a pretty day, the morning was… disappointing, and I would enjoy this respite with you.”
She fell silent, and he let out a sigh of relief. Her hands on him were gentle but thorough, working all over his palm, fingers, and knuckles, up his wrist and forearm, and then simply clasping his hand between her two. The stream gurgled, the breeze soughed, a faint buzz of insects came from the gardens, and Val felt a pleasant lassitude replacing his earlier ire.
“You’ve worked magic,” he said, opening his eyes. Beside him, Ellen’s expression was grave, uncharacteristically devoid of the special lightness he associated with her. “What’s on your mind, Ellen FitzEngle? You look most serious.”
“I get in these moods.” She smiled at him, though there was a forced quality to it.
“Broody.” Val nodded. “All the Windham men are prone to it. Maybe you are tired? We were up early this morning, and I know I could use a nap. Shall we?” He stood and grabbed the blanket folded over the back of the bench. “If we spread it here, nobody will know Val Windham, Slave Driver and Scourge of the Huns, has caught forty winks with his pretty neighbor.” He flipped the blanket out before Ellen could argue then extended a hand to her.
“Just forty winks,” she allowed, glancing around as if to make sure of their privacy then lowering herself to the blanket.
“Twenty apiece,” Val replied solemnly then lowered himself to the blanket and began unlacing his boots. “Getting up at first light and abusing my hand all morning is tiring work. I can’t imagine taming your own jungle is exactly restful, either.”
“It is, actually.” Ellen regarded him as he popped up and retrieved a pillow from the bench to stuff behind his head. He stretched out on her blanket and smiled up at her where she sat beside him.
“This is a friendly forty winks, Mrs. FitzEngle.” He snagged her wrist. “Join me.”
She regarded him where he lay.
“Ellen.” The teasing tone in Val’s voice faded. “I will not ravish you in broad daylight unless you ask it of me, though I would hold you.”
She nodded uncertainly and gingerly lowered herself beside him, flat on her back.
“You’re out of practice,” Val observed, rolling to his side. “We must correct this state of affairs if we’re to get our winks.” Before she could protest, he arranged her so she was on her side as well, his body curved around hers, her head resting on his bicep, his arm tucking her back against him.
