Читать книгу The Designs Of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh: #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with an uputdownable new historical romance - Stephanie Laurens, Stephanie Laurens - Страница 11
ОглавлениеRand followed William John into the front hall. The younger man led the way to the wooden door Rand had earlier noted.
Someone had shut the door, no doubt against the still-definite smell, but apparently oblivious, William John lifted the latch and started down the stairs. “Our laboratory-workshop takes up most of the lower level of the house. My father set it up when he was a young man, and it’s been in use ever since.”
Descending the spiral stairs on William John’s heels, Rand asked, “How do you get heavy machinery into the workshop?” The stairway was too narrow to get even a smallish engine down.
“Ah. As I said, it’s a lower level of the house—not a cellar. The land behind the house is lower than in the front, so we have a pair of double doors that open to a paved courtyard at the rear of the house—we just roll the engines in and out.”
They rounded another curve, and William John halted. “Damn!”
Rand stopped two steps up and looked over William John’s head at the drifting murk blanketing the enclosed space below them. A noxious stench, sulfurous and metallic, rose from the cloud. The miasma wafted, veiling benches and the large bulk of an engine, plus any number of other contraptions dotted about the wide, stone-walled chamber.
“I forgot the door was shut.” William John clapped a hand over his nose and mouth and plunged into the fug. He rushed across the room to a pair of large wooden doors, fumbled with the latch, then pushed the doors wide.
The cloud of heavy gases shifted, then settled again. William John stood on the flagstones outside and frantically waved his arms, attempting to encourage fresh air to flow in, but his efforts were largely ineffectual.
He dragged in a breath, then rushed back through the haze to the stairs. Climbing to where Rand had waited, William John sighed. He looked down and across the room. “Perhaps we’d better leave any inspection until tomorrow.”
Rand grunted in agreement. “I doubt inhaling tainted steam will do either of us any good.” He turned and led the way back up the stairs.
William John followed; even his footfalls sounded disappointed. “My man, Corby—well, he used to be Papa’s, so he’s accustomed to dealing with explosions. He’ll see to getting the place tidied up first thing tomorrow.”
Rand merely nodded. He emerged into the front hall to find the butler hovering.
At the sight of Rand, the butler—middle-aged, tallish, of average build, with thinning brown hair and a stately manner—came to attention and bowed. “Lord Cavanaugh. Welcome to Throgmorton Hall.” The butler straightened. “I regret we were somewhat distracted when you arrived. My name is Johnson. Should you require anything during your stay, please ring and we will endeavor to meet your needs. Miss Throgmorton asked for a room to be prepared. If it’s convenient, I can show you to your room now.”
Rand realized he felt as if, in driving up the Throgmorton Hall drive, he’d stepped into some strange and unpredictable world; a butler who, despite appearing strictly conventional, referred to dealing with an in-house explosion as being “somewhat distracted” seemed all of a piece. “Thank you.” Taking a few moments to reassess the situation appealed to his naturally cautious self. “I would appreciate shedding the dust of my journey.”
Johnson bowed again. “Indeed, my lord. I’ll have a maid bring up some water. If you’ll follow me?”
Rand turned to William John; the younger man was standing, frowning at the floor. “I expect we’ll meet at dinner.”
“What?” William John blinked owlishly, refocused on Rand, then his face cleared. “Oh yes. I’ll look forward to it.”
Rand resisted the urge to shake his head, nodded instead, and followed Johnson up the stairs. One thing he’d already ascertained: William John was as vague and as given to fits of absentmindedness as his father had been.
The room the butler led Rand to was a pleasant bedchamber located in the northwest corner of the first floor. Comfortably furnished, with upholstery, curtains, and bedspread in a striped fabric that was neither masculine nor feminine, the room felt airy and was blessedly uncluttered. The bed was a half tester, wide and well supplied with pillows. Two side tables flanking the bed, an armoire, a tallboy, a desk with a straight-backed chair set beneath one window, plus a small dressing table tucked into a corner with a stool before it, rounded out the furniture.
Two windows looked out over the grounds, one facing north, the other west. Late-afternoon light streamed into the room through the west-facing window. Noting that his bags had already been unpacked and his brushes and shaving implements laid ready on the dresser, Rand dismissed the hovering Johnson, then crossed to look out of the west window. As he’d expected, that window afforded an excellent view of the drive leading to the forecourt, plus the woodland beyond, and, farther to the north, the shrubbery.
After surveying the scene, he moved to the other window. From there, he could see the eastern edge of the shrubbery and the stable and stable yard more or less directly ahead. Farther to the east lay a structured garden. From the profusion of blooms and their sizes and colors, Rand suspected it was a rose garden.
As he watched, a lady walked purposefully from the rear of the house toward the arched entrance of the garden, a basket swinging from her hand. Despite the distance, Rand recognized Miss Throgmorton.
He’d been acquainted with William Throgmorton for over four years. Rand had known William had a son, of whom he was quite proud.
The old inventor had never mentioned a daughter.
Rand watched as Miss Throgmorton halted in the middle of the garden, dropped her basket, then set about attacking the tall bushes with what, from her rather vicious movements, he assumed was a pair of shears.
He focused on her, his senses drawing in to the point he didn’t really see anything around her. Just her, her lithe figure topped by her flaming red-gold hair, lit to a fiery radiance by the warm rays of the westering sun. Regardless of the distance, he sensed the vitality that animated her; for some reason, she all but shone in his sight, a beacon for his senses.
A magnetic, compelling, distracting beacon.
How long he stood and stared he couldn’t have said; footsteps approaching along the corridor had him shaking off the compulsion and turning to face the door.
After the briefest of taps, the door opened, and Shields—Rand’s groom, who, in a pinch, also served as his gentleman’s gentleman—came in.
“Ah—there you are.” Bearing an ewer, Shields nudged the door closed, then advanced to set the ewer on the dresser. “I’ve unpacked, and I brushed that blue coat of yours for the evening. If that’ll suit?”
Rand nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.”
“Are we staying for a while?” Shields asked.
Rand frowned. “A few days at least.”
Shields grunted. “Just as well we were on our way to Raventhorne, then. At least we’ve both got clothes enough for a stay.”
Putting his back to the view, Rand leant back against the windowsill. “What are your thoughts on the household here?”
“Despite what we saw when we drove up, it’s a well-run house. Calm and well-ordered, even if a mite eccentric. The staff are longtimers, all of them—and if they’re not that old, then their parents were here before them. Very settled, they are, and... I suppose you’d say they’re content.”
“The explosions don’t trouble them?”
“Seems they’re used to them—and apparently, there’s never been anyone hurt. Just lots of noise and nasty smoke.”
Rand nodded. A well-run household and contented staff were excellent indicators of the qualities of a house’s master. Or mistress, as the case might be.
He straightened from the sill and turned to look out of the window again.
“Country hours here, so dinner’s at six.” Shields retreated toward the door. “Do you need me for anything else?”
Rand shook his head. “Not today.” His gaze flicked to the stable. “How are the horses?” He’d purchased the pair only two months ago; they were young and still distinctly flighty.
“They didn’t approve of the bang and the smell, but the stable’s well away from the house, and they settled happily enough.”
“Good.” Rand paused, then said, “I doubt I’ll need the horses for the next few days at least. Other than keeping an eye on them, I won’t need you for much, but let me know if you see or hear anything that strikes you as odd.”
“Aye. I’ll do that. I’m off for my tea, then.”
Rand heard the door open and shut. His gaze had already found and refocused on Miss Throgmorton.
She was still attacking the roses.
Rand wavered, prodded by an impulse to go down and speak with her. About what, he wasn’t all that clear. Judging by the energy with which she was clipping, she was still distinctly exercised over what his arrival had revealed.
She’d had no inkling of Rand’s or the syndicate’s existence. More, Rand sensed her antipathy toward inventing—an attitude that had reached him perfectly clearly during their meeting in the drawing room—had a deeper source than mere female disapproval of such endeavors.
Yet her support would be vital in keeping her brother’s nose to the grindstone, and they all needed William John to finish the invention within the next three weeks.
Rand wasn’t sure how much he could actively help William John—that remained to be seen—but at the very least, he could ride rein on the younger man and ensure he remained focused on solving the issues bedeviling his father’s machine. William John had already shown strong signs of the absentminded mental meandering Rand had observed in many other inventors.
In his experience, time was the one dimension to which inventors rarely paid heed.
Yet in this case, time was very definitely of critical importance.
Rand refocused on Miss Throgmorton.
He drew out his fob watch and checked the face, then tucked the watch into his pocket and headed for the door.
He had time for a stroll before dinner.
* * *
In the rose garden, Felicia deadheaded roses with a vengeance. With her left hand, she gripped the next rose hip; with her right hand, she wielded the shears. Snip! She dropped the clipped hip into her basket and reached for the next.
She’d hoped the activity would allow her to release some of the emotions pent up inside her. And, in truth, simply being out of the house and breathing fresher air had eased the volcanic anger, fueled by hurt, that had welled within her on learning of her father’s and brother’s subterfuge.
Snip.
Her father was dead; she couldn’t berate him. As for her brother...while she could berate him, she and the household—not to mention the too-handsome-for-his-own-good Lord Cavanaugh and his syndicated investors—needed William John to keep his mind on his work. Berating him wouldn’t help.
Snip.
Besides, she knew her brother well enough to know he would feel no real remorse; encouraging her to believe that the funds she’d been drawing on to keep the household running had been royalties from previous inventions would have seemed to her father and William John to be the easiest path.
They wouldn’t have wanted her to worry over using money received from others for an invention they hadn’t yet got to work.
Their sleight of mind still hurt.
And she was now quite worried enough, and in that, she wasn’t alone. Even William John was uncertain. Unsure.
He’d been growing steadily more nervous over recent weeks—more nervous than she’d ever known him. She’d wondered why. Now, she knew.
This time, her father and brother had embarked on a gamble that might not pay off.
She nudged the basket along with her foot and reached for the next dead rose.
Unlike previous projects, where she’d insisted they worked only with capital they already possessed and also left untouched a cushion of funds on which the household could fall back on should the project fail, this time, there was no cushion. No funds to fall back on.
No way to keep going.
Snip.
This time, if the invention failed, they would have to sell the Hall and let the staff go. There’d been Throgmortons at the Hall for generations; everyone would be devastated. The loss of their home would hurt William John even more; without his laboratory-workshop, he would be rudderless. As for her...she had no idea what such a future would hold for her, other than that it would be bleak. She’d had her Season in London and hadn’t taken—and she hadn’t taken to life in the capital, either; it had been far too superficial for her taste. Now, at the age of twenty-four, the best she could hope for was a life as a paid companion or as an unpaid poor relative in one of her distant cousins’ households.
If she’d been a different sort of female, she might have given way to despair, but she didn’t have time for any such indulgence. As far as she could tell, there was one and only one way to avoid the abyss that had opened up before them—William John had to get the dratted modified steam engine to work.
Snip.
If she wanted to save the household, the Hall, William John, and herself, she needed to do all she could to keep her brother’s mind focused on that task and ensure that all possible burdens were lifted from his shoulders.
William John was a year older than she was, but it had long been she who managed everything around him.
A distant step on the gravel path circling the house had her raising her gaze. Lord Cavanaugh—he who, from her year’s experience of London society, she had instantly recognized as belonging to the too-handsome-for-his-own-good brigade—was crossing the lawn. He wasn’t out strolling; there was nothing idle about his stride. He’d seen her and, apparently, was intent on speaking with her.
While ostensibly clipping another dead rose, she watched him approach. Over six feet tall, with wide shoulders, a well-muscled chest, narrow hips, and long, strong legs, he cut a powerful figure, well-proportioned and rangy. Also distinctly mature; she judged him to be in his early thirties. He was still wearing the clothes he’d arrived in—a fashionably cut coat over a fine linen shirt, a neatly tied ivory cravat, tightly fitting buff breeches, and top boots. The subdued style, exquisite cut, and expensive fabrics marked him as a gentleman of the ton’s upper echelons, yet it was his features that had prompted her to give him the label she had; his dark, walnut-brown hair, the thick locks fashionably trimmed, framed a face of cool calculation tinged with the autocratic arrogance often found in those of the higher nobility.
He was a marquess’s son, after all.
The long planes of his face were spare, even austere, with sharp cheekbones on either side of a patrician nose, and firm, chiseled lips above a squarish chin. Straight dark-brown eyebrows and surprisingly thick dark lashes set off those eyes of molten caramel that she’d already discovered were unwarrantedly distracting.
Those eyes were currently trained on her. Trapped under his gaze, to her irritation, she felt her lungs contract until breathlessness threatened. And the closer he came, the worse the effect grew.
Her father’s cousin, Flora, who lived at the Hall and was nominally Felicia’s chaperon, had already been won over by Cavanaugh when, in the immediate aftermath of the recent explosion, he’d attentively assisted her to the bench by the front steps.
Flora had heard his name when he’d introduced himself; as soon as she’d caught her breath, rather than join Felicia, Cavanaugh, and William John in the drawing room, Flora had rushed upstairs and combed through her correspondence.
Flora’s correspondents numbered in the multiple dozens, all ladies like herself for whom keeping abreast of everything to do with the haut ton was a lifelong occupation.
Courtesy of Flora, Felicia now knew that Lord Randolph Cavanaugh was the second son of the late Marquess of Raventhorne and was wealthy and eligible in every way—no real surprise there—but to the consternation of the grandes dames, Lord Randolph tended to avoid the ballrooms and, consequently, was as yet unmarried. That, she had to admit, was surprising and had raised a question—purely a curious one—in her mind. What would it take in a lady to interest Lord Randolph Cavanaugh?
The object of her purely idle curiosity reached the entrance to the rose garden. From the corner of her eye, she watched as, his gaze fixed on her, he ducked beneath the archway and slowed to a prowl. He pretended to glance at the roses, then, as he halted a yard away, returned his gaze to her.
She really did not like the way her nerves were tightening in response to his focused look. Before he could speak, she briefly glanced his way. “We keep country hours. Dinner will be served at six o’clock.”
One of his dark brows faintly arched. “So I’ve been informed.”
His voice was deep, a purring rumble.
Lips and chin firming, she reached for another rose hip. Anything to force herself to look away from him—to give herself a reason for doing so. Admittedly, in the drawing room, he’d almost flabbergasted her by asking her opinion—asking for her agreement in forging on as they were—yet she wasn’t at all sure that had she disagreed, he wouldn’t simply have ignored her stance.
Gentlemen like him might well possess ingrained manners and act on them without thinking. That didn’t mean he’d actually cared about how she felt, and she would be a fool to further encourage him.
Snip.
“I saw you out here and thought I’d get some air—and kill two birds with one stone.”
Inside, she stiffened. Air she understood, but what else was he thinking to slay?
When he didn’t immediately offer up a clue, her wits—unaccountably skittering in myriad directions though they were—came up with the answer. She debated for only a second; better she keep the reins of any conversation in her hands, and she stood to learn as much about him from his questions as he stood to learn from any answers she deigned to give. Pausing in her pruning, she slanted him a glance. “What do you wish to know?”
A faint smile edged his lips—and her eyes and her senses found another point of distraction. Luckily, he’d relaxed somewhat and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he glanced down as if marshaling his words.
Rand had looked down to hide his satisfied smile. Her response to his vague allusion confirmed his initial assessment that Miss Throgmorton was a lady of uncommon intelligence. That was hardly surprising given she was William Throgmorton’s daughter, but it was one of the points he’d wanted to verify. Her being intelligent would make working alongside her in managing William John and the completion of the steam engine a great deal easier.
Regardless, he took a second or two to consider his next words. She was...prickly. Somewhat unaccountably, and the reason for that was a part of what he needed to learn. He drew breath and, without looking up, said, “Forgive me if I misread, but during our meeting in the drawing room earlier, I got the impression that you were...shall we say, opposed to inventions? Whether specifically your father’s and brother’s or in a more general sense, I couldn’t tell.” He looked up and met her green eyes—summer green, the soft green of summer grass. “However, given the present circumstances, I’m curious as to your attitude, and why you seem to have taken against inventions.”
And if, therefore, you’re going to get in my way. Mine, my investors’, and William John’s.
He didn’t say the words, but as her eyes narrowed on his, he felt confident she understood.
She stood with her shears held laxly in one gloved hand and stared into his eyes. Then her lips firmed, and she turned back to the rose bushes. “I am not against inventions.” She reached for a dead rose. “It’s inventors I have little sympathy or time for.”
She paused, the fingers of one hand cradling the withered bloom; her shears remained raised, but didn’t sweep in. He could almost hear her debating whether or not to explain her stance to him. He knew when she accepted that, given the circumstances, he had reason to ask and, possibly, a right to know.
“There’s a truth I learned long ago.” Her tone had hardened; her diction was clipped. “When it comes to anything that impacts on their inventing, inventors like my father and my brother are inherently, innately selfish. They live and breathe their work and are deaf and blind to all else about them—to house, estate, staff, friends, family. Everything. Were the house to literally crumble about them, they wouldn’t notice—would pay it no heed whatever—not unless and until it directly interfered with their work. Only then would an issue other than the invention itself become important—important enough for them to afford it an iota of their attention.”
Now that Felicia had finally faced the question no one before had ever thought to ask her, and had started to answer and, in doing so, had opened the box into which for so many years she’d stuffed all her resentments, she discovered that continuing was easier than curbing her tongue. “I saw what my father’s unswerving devotion to his inventions meant for my mother. She was a Walpole, higher born than Papa, but theirs was a love match—and of that I am sure, that there was love on both sides to the very end. Yet my father’s inventions always came first. Throughout all my mother’s life, Papa’s inventions kept eating up all their funds, leaving Mama cut off from society—even the small circle of local society. She couldn’t entertain, sometimes not for years. People were kind, but she wouldn’t attend dinners on her own, and Papa would never make the time to accompany her. For years, we lived under the most straitened circumstances, with Mama’s constant role being to pinch and scrape and eke out the funds left after Papa’s depredations, just to keep up appearances and make sure there was food on the table. Not that Papa or William John ever noticed what they were eating. Our staff, bless them, have stuck with us through thick and thin, but through most of my parents’ marriage, times were far more thin than thick.”
Cavanaugh shifted. “Your father is considered a very successful inventor. I know he had many successes.”
She made a scoffing sound. “He did, indeed, but, monetarily speaking, virtually all his successes were minor. All brought in some funds, but it was never enough to cover my father’s—and more recently, William John’s—hunger for the latest valve or piston or cylinder or gear. There’s always something they simply must have. The drain on our funds was—and still is—never ending.”
She sensed rather than saw him lift his head and glance around—at the well-maintained house, the grounds, the gardens.
“Yet you seem to have managed well enough.”
She laughed cynically. “Up to now.” She paused, then in a quieter tone went on, “I saw what inventions made of my mother’s life. I learned that the obsession with inventions isn’t something even love can triumph against. When she fell ill, at her request I took up the reins of managing the household. Unlike Mama, I have a good head for numbers—and I was more than up to the task of arguing and nagging my father until he agreed to set aside funds for keeping up the house. Mama died eight years ago. Papa’s successes mostly occurred after that, and I managed to cling to sufficient funds to keep the good ship Throgmorton on an even keel.” She paused, then snipped another dead rose. “At least, so I thought.”
After a moment, she turned, dropped the dead rose into her basket, then raised her gaze and met Cavanaugh’s eyes. “I might as well confess that I hold a deep and abiding antipathy toward inventing—the process. Had I known how matters stood, if it had been up to me, after Papa died, I would have drawn a line under the steam engine project and returned the unused funds to you and your syndicate.” She paused, then inclined her head and swung back and shifted to face the next rose bush. “That said, I know William John wouldn’t have agreed, and quite aside from being male, he’s also older than me.” She cut another dead rose and more evenly said, “In addition to the reasons he gave—of wanting to establish himself—I suspect he feels a certain filial obligation to get the engine working as my father envisaged as a form of tribute to Papa—a final triumph.”
His gaze fixed on her profile, Rand murmured, “I can understand that.”
“It might be understandable, but is it sensible?” She snipped another rose, resurgent tension investing the movement.
Before Rand could formulate any answer, she shot a sharp glance—one a very small step away from a glare—his way. “After Papa’s death, the only reason I gave way and acquiesced to William John continuing to work on the steam engine project was because there was money still coming in—as I thought, from royalties from earlier inventions.”
She turned back to the bush; he could only see her profile, but even that looked flinty. The next dead rose fell to a savage slice of her shears.
“Both Papa and William John lied to me about the source of those funds. They didn’t just encourage me to believe something that wasn’t true—they lied. Directly. Several times each. They intentionally deceived me”—Rand almost winced as she took off another dead rose—“so that I would think there was enough money—sufficient money, at least—to be made from inventions after all. They bought my support with lies.”
Rand suddenly found himself skewered with a green gaze that was all daggers.
“You can imagine how I feel about that.”
He could.
“And”—she turned back to the rose bushes—“how I therefore feel about everything to do with inventors and inventing.”
He’d wanted to know, and now, he did. Rand looked down, studying the edge of the flagstone path while he absorbed all he’d heard, all he’d sensed behind her words, and readjusted his strategy.
He knew too many inventors to doubt anything she’d said. The emotional and physical neglect she’d described wasn’t uncommon but an all-too-frequent outcome of inventors’ single-minded focus on their works.
As for her hurt on learning she’d been lied to... He knew all about betrayal by one’s nearest and dearest, those a man—or a woman—should have been able to trust.
The realization left him feeling a closer kinship with her than he’d foreseen.
Unfortunately, he could do nothing about what lay in her past, any more than he could do anything about what lay in his.
Experience had taught him that forward was the only practical way to go.
He raised his head, studied her for an instant, then quietly said, “Just for the record, although I might fund inventions and intend to work alongside your brother in bringing his current project to fruition, I would definitely notice if the house started to crumble in even a minor way.”
She glanced at him sidelong and briefly met his eyes. “You’re an investor, not an inventor.”
He smiled tightly. “Indeed.” He didn’t want her tarring him with that brush.
She gave a small humph and turned back to snip another dead rose.
Rand studied her face, the flawless complexion—milk and honey with a golden tinge courtesy of the summer sun—framed by a wealth of tumbling red-gold locks that made his fingers itch.
And I would definitely notice if you were unhappy or distressed or under pressure of any sort, especially if it was due to something I’d done.
The words remained a quiet statement in his mind; he was too wise to utter them.
He straightened and caught the swift glance she threw his way. “Thank you for confiding in me.” He held her gaze. “I can’t promise that this will pan out as we all hope, but rest assured I will do everything I can to ensure the weight of your father’s last invention is lifted from you, your family, and the household as soon as possible.”
Openly, she searched his eyes. “Do you think it’s possible? That at this late stage, William John can sort out the mechanisms that to date have eluded him?”
He didn’t look away. “I can’t say. However, I can guarantee that our only option is to forge ahead and do everything possible to assist William John in that endeavor.”
She looked toward the house. For a moment, he thought she would merely nod in dismissal, but, instead, she raised her chin and said, “Thank you for the assurance of your support.” She paused, then went on, “While I might not be overjoyed about the project continuing, I understand the situation and accept that it must. That, as matters stand, we all need this invention to be a success.” Finally, her eyes touched his again, and she gracefully inclined her head. “Rest assured that I’ll do nothing to make the road to success more difficult.”
Rand tipped his head in response. “Thank you.” That was the assurance he’d come to the rose garden hoping to get. He stepped back. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She murmured an agreement and returned to trimming the roses.
Rand turned and walked out of the rose garden, then he slid his hands into his pockets and strode across the lawn. On his way to the rose garden, he’d passed the still-open doors of the workshop; a breeze had sprung up, and the sulfurous fog had almost cleared. He turned his steps west. Circling the house would afford him time to sort through his thoughts as well as giving him the lie of the land.
Speaking of which, he should learn Miss Throgmorton’s given name. Not that he expected to get all that much closer to her, fascinating creature though she was. She was intelligent, prickly, and capable—more than clever enough to manipulate any man.
Precisely the sort of clever lady he’d long ago barricaded his heart against.
And if his heart wasn’t involved...given the circumstances, pursuing any sort of relationship with her was entirely out of bounds.
Yes, he was aware of the visceral tug he felt in her presence, but that didn’t mean he had to do anything about it.
Aside from all else, he was there, walking the lawns of Throgmorton Hall, for one burningly urgent reason. He had to ensure the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage made its debut in appropriate style at the upcoming exhibition.
If he failed...
Unlike the Throgmortons, he wouldn’t be ruined, but the setback would be severe.
Clearly, he and William John would get no active help from Miss Throgmorton, not that he could imagine how she might actively assist. But she’d agreed to manage the household around them, around the completion of the invention, and that was really all he could hope for from her.
He walked on, boots crunching on the gravel of the forecourt as he approached the front door, through which he’d left the house.
As he started up the porch steps, he inwardly admitted he would have preferred Miss Throgmorton to be more engaged with the project—to be an invested supporter, rather than a highly reluctant one.
But he’d gained a clear statement of commitment, and having heard the reasons behind her attitude to inventing, that was realistically all he could hope for.
It’s enough to go on with. The words rang in his mind as he opened the door and walked into the front hall.
