“You can’t guarantee that.”
Gage sat back, seeming to realize for the first time how genuinely distressed I was. “You’re right,” he replied calmly. “I can’t guarantee it. But as I said, I would not have brought you here if it weren’t important. So please, Kiera, will you just trust me?” His eyes were begging me to listen to him.
I wanted to be stubborn, to demand he take me back to Charlotte Square, but he was right. I had trusted him up to this point. I should trust him a little bit further.
I nodded and allowed him to help me down from the carriage. He shielded me from any eyes that might be looking through the windows above as best he could as he hustled me in through the back door of his lodging house. But rather than taking me upstairs, he instead directed me down a flight, into what would normally be the servants’ exclusive domain. Now my curiosity perked up even further as he approached a door near the base of the stairs.
He hesitated a moment and turned back to look at me. I couldn’t see much in the dim light, but I could sense his uncertainty now that the moment was upon him. I was more interested than ever to know what was behind that door, but I waited for him to make the decision, to show me in or change his mind. When he twisted the handle, my heart leapt up into my throat.
The hinges squeaked as he slowly pushed the door open, and immediately I was assailed by the smell of sawdust. I glanced up at him in inquiry as he ushered me inside, but he said nothing. The room was dark save for the small window near the ceiling that looked out on the mews. It cast a muted light on the room’s contents, creating more shadows than revealing objects.
I turned as Gage shut the door and then fumbled with what I presumed to be a lantern and matches on the shelf to his left. A light flared to life, momentarily blinding me at his proximity. I heard the creak of the lantern door as he reached in to light the wick, and then a snick as he closed it again. Now that there was a light, I pivoted to view what he had brought me here to see.
It was a woodshop. Several long tables and benches stood in the middle of the floor, and tools of all types hung from pegs and nails on the walls. Along the wall underneath the window, a low shelf held jars and pails filled with what I presumed were nails, pins, screws, and bolts. Several wooden pieces, in varying degrees of completion, were also scattered about the room. A partially finished wooden chair was tipped on its side on one of the tables, while its twin sat on the floor near the door. Two intricately carved shelves held pride of place on the other table, next to a pile of wood.
“What is this?” I asked as Gage moved forward to stand beside me.
I glanced up at him, finding his gaze on the wood rather than me. He reached out to run a finger down a long plank of pale wood, and I suddenly understood. The calluses on his hands, the sometimes woodsy scent of his cologne.
I turned back to the lovingly carved shelves. I didn’t know much about wood, but they certainly didn’t look like the work of an amateur. Reaching forward, I picked one up, letting my fingers play over the smooth edges. “Did you make all of these?”
Gage finally lifted his head to look at me. “Yes.”
“They’re beautiful,” I replied.
His shoulders were tight with tension, and he didn’t respond, instead continuing to run his hands over the wood.
“You know,” I told him carefully as I set the shelf down. “I never really believed you got your calluses from fencing.” He shifted his weight to his other foot as I reminded him of the explanation he’d given me in my art studio at Gairloch Castle when I’d asked about them. “And I don’t really understand why you felt the need to lie.” I moved around the table toward the finished chair, figuring Gage would find it easier to talk without my standing there staring at him, demanding answers.
“Gentlemen do not work with their hands. And if they do, they never let it be known,” Gage pronounced, as if he’d heard the assertion many times before.
“And you think I care for such nonsense?” I told him over my shoulder. “I willingly married an anatomist, for goodness’ sake. I understood what his profession entailed. Though I never expected to take part in it.” I muttered the last under my breath.
“Well, I . . .” He seemed momentarily flummoxed, but then he recovered. “No. I did think you would understand. But I’d hid it for so long. It was a bit hard to admit it to anyone.”