She reached for the belt of her dressing gown. “Yes.”
Harry said nothing as she slipped the thick brocade over her shoulders and freed it from around her legs. He took the robe from her hands and folded it carefully, leaving it atop the fraying rush seat of the chair in the corner.
“Now come here,” he said, holding out his hand.
She put her fingers in his palm, and he drew her upward. Her cheeks were warm, but she held otherwise steady, though her limbs felt naked under the white flannel of her nightgown. Because they are naked, you fool, she reminded herself, but not even that thought disturbed her tranquility. The flutter in her belly was only a benign and eager anticipation. She had made her decision, hadn’t she? She had crossed the Rubicon. Now she had only to see what lay on the other side.
Harry led her to the wall next to the small fireplace, where a pile of angry coals hissed heat into the room, and pointed to the three square tiles above the mantel. Olive hadn’t noticed them before, and now she wondered why: They were beautiful, full of color, depicting intricate heraldic shields on either side and a central figure of Saint George bearing his crimson white-crossed flag.
Harry’s hand moved downward. “See this section of brick here? It’s loose.”
He released her hand and worked the bricks free from the mortar in a single irregular shingle, revealing the cavity within. “You see? There’s a hollow here, as if the builder forgot to put in a few bricks. Well, he didn’t forget. I got to know the architect a little bit, when they were building this place, and he showed me. I guess he liked to do that when he designed houses, to put in some little secret. So, if you need anything, if you want to leave me a message of any kind, just put it in here. I’ll find it, I promise.”
Olive stared at the hole, unable to speak. Unable, almost, to breathe. I got to know the architect a little bit. Oh, Papa. Papa, my God. Papa knew Harry. Papa made a little secret and shared it with Harry. Shared it—maybe—with her, with Olive, from wherever his soul now existed? To tell her—what? To perhaps say: Harry is a fine man, a man who can keep a secret, a man you can trust, Olive.
A sign. This is the way, Olive.
If she looked hard enough inside this small cavity in a brick wall, would she see her father inside?
At last, a whisper: “Yes.”
“And I’ll do the same. I’m sure you can find an excuse to sneak up here during the day, can’t you? Just check behind the bricks, and I’ll be there.”
“Right under Saint George,” said Olive. The fire warmed the flannel of her dress, or maybe it was Harry, robust and full of life, inches away.
Harry replaced the bricks. “Three up, five over. Now let’s get to work, shall we? I don’t want to keep you up too late. I know you start work early around here.”
They returned to the cushions. Olive lay on her back, still stunned, leaning slightly to one side. Harry drew one arm above her head and arranged her hair around her shoulders. His hand touched the drawstring of her nightgown. “May I?” he asked solemnly, and she thought about the cavity among the bricks, and she nodded.
He untied the ribbon, and the nightgown loosened about her chest. Without touching her skin, Harry slid the gown over her shoulder, so that it pooled loosely around her breasts. Olive stared upward at the tin ceiling, the neat repeating pattern of squares, stamped with scallops and intricate trailing vines, and tried not to think about how she must look. Like a wanton, like one of those bad women you read about in novels and magazines, a cautionary tale. Was this how August’s housemaid had fallen? One little step at a time, until she lay half-naked and helpless on a cushion at midnight. Stupid Olive. Thrilled and daring Olive. Who knew she had even existed until now?
A pair of large hands touched her cheeks, dry and warm and inexpressibly gentle.
“Olive, look at me.”
She turned her eyes.
“Do you know what captivates me? This. You, like this. I don’t know what to call it. Your artlessness, your decency, it’s everything I’ve been dreaming of, the exact opposite of that world downstairs, the world I’ve been living in all my life. Every night this week I have lain in my bed, thinking about you. How I want to paint you, to capture—no, that’s not the right word. To express this essence, this wonderful nobility here”—he drew his thumb along her cheek and jaw—“and here.” He touched her collarbone.
“I’m not noble,” she whispered.
“That’s what’s so innocent about you. You don’t realize. You don’t know what you are; you don’t realize everything you could be. You think you’re one thing, but my God, you’re another. I want to show you what I see.” He picked up her hand and kissed her fingertips. “I want to thank you for showing yourself to me.”