Page 49 of Miss Vincent’s Vow

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.