Chapter 7: Bandstand complete
Joseph woke up. The room was grey with pre-dawn light, the shapes of his rented room familiar and foreign all at once. He lay there for a long time, staring at the crack in the ceiling plaster, his body humming with a phantom memory. The scent of her skin, the taste, the muffled sound she’d made against the garden wall—it all played behind his eyes on a relentless loop. He finally pushed back the thin blanket, the morning chill biting immediately. He dressed mechanically: work trousers, a thick cotton shirt, boots laced tight. Each movement felt deliberate, an attempt to anchor himself in the mundane.
He gathered his tools from the corner—his hammer, a coil of wire, pliers—and headed out. The morning air was sharp, scented with baking bread and damp cobblestones. Willow, his mare, was tied to a post where he’d left her, lazily lipping at a patch of weeds. He untied her, the leather of the reins cold in his hands, and led her through the quiet streets toward the town square.
The bandstand stood in the center of the plaza, a skeletal structure of aged wood against the brightening sky. He got to work. The repetitive motion of climbing the ladder, securing a hook, stringing the next section of delicate fairy lights, was a welcome numbness. He lost himself in the pull of wire, the tap of the hammer, the rough grain of the wood under his palms. For whole minutes, he could forget. Then a scent on the breeze—lavender from a nearby window box—would hit him, or the memory of silk under his fingers would flash, vivid and tactile, and his hand would pause mid-air.
The sun climbed, warming the oak wood of the bandstand roof. He was perched on the top beam, carefully threading lights along the central crown, when he saw her.
She walked across the cobblestones with the purposeful, measured pace expected of the Governess. Her dress was a sensible grey, her hair neatly pinned. She looked like a sketch from a different life. His mind flashed with images of last night—the cream silk pooled at her feet, the shadows playing across her bare skin, the raw sound of her breathing. Vivid, relentless. He pushed them away, a violent internal shove that made his knuckles whiten around the wire in his hand.
He climbed down the ladder, his boots hitting the stones with a solid thud. He wiped his hands on his trousers, a pointless gesture. She stopped a few feet away, a polite, public distance. Her eyes found his, and for a fractured second, the woman from the garden was there, blazing in her hazel depths. Then it was gone, sealed behind a calm, pleasant expression.
“Good evening, Ma’am,” he said. The formality of the title tasted like ash.
“Joseph,” she replied, her voice even. She clasped her hands in front of her. “The lights are coming along nicely.”
“Thank you. Should be finished by tonight.”
A silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. The distant strum of a guitar from a street musician felt obtrusively loud. A group of children chased a hoop nearby, their laughter sharp in the air.
“I wanted to…” she started, then stopped. She glanced around the square, ensuring no one was within earshot. Her voice dropped, just a fraction. “I needed to see you. In the light.”
He understood. Last night existed in a shadowed vacuum. This was the reckoning.
“I see you,” he said softly, his own voice low.
She swallowed, the movement visible in the line of her throat. “What happened…”
“I know what happened.” He cut her off, not harshly, but with a firmness meant to spare her the struggle of naming it. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice further. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than it was. It can just… be.”
She studied his face, searching for dishonesty. He held her gaze, letting her see the conflict, the desire, the grim acceptance. He meant it. He would take that single, stolen hour and live on it for the rest of his life if that’s what she needed.
“Just be?” she echoed, a faint, incredulous twist to her lips. “Joseph, I can’t even look at a stone wall without…” She trailed off, colour rising in her cheeks. She looked away, towards the old oak. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know it’s not.” He picked up a stray piece of wire, twisting it between his fingers. “But I’m not asking for anything. You don’t owe me explanations. Or… anything else.”
She turned back to him, her composure cracking at the edges. “That’s the hell of it,” she whispered, the words fierce. “I want to owe you. I want to… explain. To talk about it. And I can’t.” Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, and the mask snapped back into place, smooth and polite. He followed her glance. Old Mrs. Dempsey was hobbling across the far end of the square with her terrier. No threat, but a reminder. The walls had eyes.
When she looked back at him, her expression was arranged into one of mild, administrative interest. “The governor was pleased with the repair on the stable door,” she said, her voice carrying just enough to be heard by anyone passing. “Very sturdy work.”
“Glad to hear it, Ma’am.” He played along, the charade making his skin crawl. “The hinge was rusted through. An easy fix.”
Another pause, filled with the ordinary sounds of the town. The unspoken words screamed between them.
“Charles is away on business for the next ten days ,” she said suddenly, the information offered like a thrown gauntlet. Her voice was still pitched for public consumption, but the meaning was crystalline.
Joseph’s breath hitched. He stopped fiddling with the wire. He looked at her, really looked, and saw the silent plea layered beneath the calm veneer. She wasn’t here for absolution or an ending. She was here for a possibility.
“The garden gate,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “the one near the old well. The latch is loose. I noticed it last night. Could be a safety issue. I should probably come by and fix it. This evening, perhaps, after I finish here.”
Her eyes held his. A thousand conversations passed in that look. Fear, hope, a reckless, terrifying hunger. “That would be… prudent,” she said, her tone perfectly even. “A loose latch is a danger. We wouldn’t want anyone… wandering where they shouldn’t.”
“No, Ma’am,” he agreed, his heart pounding against his ribs. “We wouldn’t.”
She gave a small, formal nod. “Carry on, then. Don’t let me keep you from your work.”
“Ma’am.”
She turned and walked away, her grey skirt swaying, her posture straight and correct. He watched her go, the ghost of her taste on his lips, the echo of her whispered I can’t in his ears.
He climbed back up the ladder. His hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he reached for the next bulb. He slotted it into place, the tiny glass cool against his skin. The simple, practical task felt charged now, every connection of wire a countdown. The sun beat down on the back of his neck. The guitar player started a new tune, something slower, with a melancholy chord progression.
He worked, the rhythmic motions calming the riot in his blood. But his mind was already in the shadowed garden, the cold stone, the scent of night-blooming jasmine. He wasn’t fixing a loose latch. He was walking toward a cliff edge, and the strange, quiet terror of it was that he wanted to fall. The twilight couldn’t come fast enough.
He worked with a frantic focus, tying off wires and testing each bulb until the entire bandstand glimmered like a captured constellation against the deepening blue. The town square emptied, the merchant stalls shuttered, and the guitarist packed up his case with a final, wandering chord that hung in the quieting air. Joseph coiled his remaining wire, his tools clicking into their leather roll with a sense of finality that felt like a door closing on the daylight world.
He led Willow back through the cobbled streets, the clip of her hooves echoing off the shuttered storefronts. His rented room was a cold, silent box. He lit a single lamp, the pool of light doing little to push back the shadows crowding the corners. He stripped off his work clothes, the fabric smelling of sweat and cut wood, and poured water from the pitcher into the chipped basin. The water was bitingly cold. He scrubbed the day’s grit from his face and neck, the rough cloth a welcome abrasion against his skin, washing away the sawdust but not the lingering sensation of silk.
He dried himself, the coarse towel catching on his palms. From his small wardrobe, he pulled the blue slacks, a soft grey shirt, and a navy coat of finer wool than anything he owned for labor. Dressing felt like putting on a costume for a role he hadn’t rehearsed. He checked his reflection in the small, cloudy mirror above the washstand. A stranger looked back—a man purposefully assembled, every button fastened, every strand of black hair subdued.
He blew out the lamp and closed the door behind him. The night was clear and sharp, a spill of stars overhead. His footsteps were the only sound on the residential lane leading to the Cardwell residence. The grand house loomed at the end of the drive, a few windows glowing softly behind drawn curtains.
He didn’t approach the front door. Instead, he followed the gravel path around the side, the stones crunching softly under his shoes. The garden gate, with its allegedly loose latch, was just ahead.
A warm, yellow light spilled from a fixture mounted on the garden wall, painting the flagstones. His pulse jumped, a quick, hopeful thrum. He pushed the gate open—the latch was, in fact, perfectly secure—and stepped into the walled garden. The bench sat empty, a silhouette against the dark laurels.
The place felt utterly still, haunted by the ghost of her gasp against the cold stone. He stood there, adrift. The plan, the unspoken arrangement, curdled into doubt. Then he saw it. Farther back, beyond the formal flower beds and past the old well, where the garden softened into a wilder copse, a soft glow emanated from a small, single-story cabin he had never noticed before.
Its windows were shuttered, but light bled around the edges, and a lantern hung from a hook by its sturdy door, casting a welcoming pool on the stepping stone path. He walked toward it. The crunch of gravel gave way to the whisper of grass underfoot. No one called out.
The main house was a distant, dark mass behind him. This felt separate, secret.He reached the door, the lantern light warm on his face. He raised his hand, hesitated for only a second, and knocked twice, the sound firm against the thick wood.
The door opened almost immediately, as if she had been waiting on the other side. Anastasia stood there, framed by the golden light from within.She had changed out of the grey dress. She wore a simple, cream-colored blouse and a long skirt, her hair down, flowing over her shoulders in soft brown waves. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the memory of the previous night a live wire between them in the quiet dark.
“The latch wasn’t loose,” he said finally, his voice low. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “No,” she agreed quietly. “It wasn’t.” She stepped back, holding the door wider. The invitation was clear, terrifying, and absolute. The interior behind her glowed with lamplight and the crackle of a small fire. He crossed the threshold.
He stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click. He took off his coat and hung it on the rack by the door, his movements automatic in the newfound quiet. The space was a workshop, warm and cluttered, the air rich with the scent of cured wood, linseed oil, and the faint, clean smell of her.
Towering bookshelves, crammed with volumes and curios, leaned against one wall.A worn leather armchair sat near a stone fireplace where low flames whispered over logs. The opposite wall was all practicality: a long workbench littered with woodworking tools, half-carved bowls, and curl of pale wood shavings.
“My sanctuary,” Anastasia said, watching him take it in.She leaned against the workbench, arms crossed loosely.
Joseph turned from the rack, the domesticity of hanging his coat feeling profoundly intimate. “It smells like you,” he said, the words leaving him before he could stop them. “The real you. Not the lavender soap.”
A faint blush touched her cheeks. She nodded toward a small kettle steaming on a cast-iron stove nestled in the corner. “I made tea. I didn’t know what else to do with my hands after I… after I lit the lantern.”
“Tea’s good.” He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. The space between them vibrated with everything unsaid. “You said ten days.”
“I did.”
“This is a terrible idea.” His voice was low, not quite a whisper. “I know.” She didn’t move. “We could stop now. I could say the latch was fine and leave.” He made no motion to go. The fire crackled, popping a pocket of sap.
Anastasia pushed off from the bench and closed the distance. She reached out, her fingers brushing a stray wood shaving from the shoulder of his grey shirt. “But you won’t.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.” He caught her hand, pressing her palm flat over his heart. “I really won’t.”
The fear in her eyes was honest, bright, and mixed with a determination that mirrored his own. She laced her fingers with his. “Last night… I needed you to be a fantasy. Something that happened in the dark.” She took a shaky breath. “Today, I needed to know you were real.”
“I’m real.” He brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “I’m also the guy who fixates on the fact you taste like spring, even when I’m trying to hammer a nail straight.”
A surprised laugh escaped her, light and genuine. The sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Spring, huh?”
“Maybe a specific, secret spring. One nobody else gets to drink from.” He tugged her gently, pulling her into the circle of his arms. She came willingly, resting her head against his chest. They stood like that for a long moment, swaying slightly, not dancing, just existing in the same breath.
“This is where I build things,” she murmured into his shirt. “Where I try to fix what’s broken in my head.I carve birds. It’s quiet.”
“Can I see one?”
She pulled back, her hazel eyes searching his face. Nodding, she led him to a shelf above the workbench. A row of wooden birds stood sentinel—a robin with a cocked head, a sparrow mid-preen, an owl with wise, deep-burned eyes. Each was exquisite, full of captured life.
“Anastasia,” he breathed, touching the owl’s head with a reverent fingertip. “These are… you made these?”
“My hands get bored.” She shrugged, but pride glowed softly in her expression. “They need to do something.”
He turned from the birds to look at her. “So do mine.”
He cupped her face then, his thumbs tracing the arches of her cheeks, the determined set of her jaw. This kiss wasn’t like the desperate hunger in the garden, or the grateful seal by the wall. It was slow. A deep, savoring exploration. He learned the softness of her lower lip, the slight catch of her breath when he angled his head.
She made a soft sound and melted into him, her hands coming up to frame his face, her fingers spearing into his dark, fluffy hair. The world narrowed to the warm slide of her mouth, the press of her body along his, the faint taste of bergamot from her tea.
When they finally parted, they were both breathless. Her lips were slightly swollen, her eyes dark. “The chair,” she whispered, nodding toward the leather armchair by the fire. “It’s more comfortable than a wall.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. He took her hand and led her the few steps to the chair. He sat, pulling her down onto his lap, her legs curled beside her. She fit perfectly, her head tucked under his chin. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the fire warmed their shins.
“I keep waiting to feel guilty,” she confessed, her voice a murmur against his throat. “It’s not coming.”
“It might.” He stroked her hair. “Mine comes in waves. Then I remember the sound you made, and it just… evaporates.”
She pinched his side lightly. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” He smiled into her hair. “Your honesty is the most terrifying thing about you. The most beautiful, too.”
They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the fire and their synchronized breathing. His hand drifted up and down her arm, tracing the shape of her through the soft fabric of her blouse. The ordinary act felt monumentally tender.
The fire popped, sending a spark against the screen.The sound made her flinch, a tiny jump against his chest. Her stillness had been a lie; a current ran beneath her skin, urgent and unspent.
“I can feel your heart,” she murmured. “It’s beating so fast.”
“That’s yours,” he said, his voice low. “Mine’s farther down.”
She shifted in his lap then, turning to face him properly. The leather sighed beneath them. The practiced calm she’d worn in the square was gone, stripped away by the firelight and the locked door. What remained was a raw, beautiful anxiety. She looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes. “I don’t want to be the Governess right now,” she whispered.
“You’re not.”
She grabbed his hands, placing them at her waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. It wasn’t a question or an exploration. It was a demand for confirmation, solid and hot and real. His fingers clenched in the fabric of her blouse, crushing the soft cotton at her sides.
He met the demand, answering with a force that tilted the chair. The world narrowed to the slick heat of her mouth, the taste of tea gone bitter, the faint tremble in the arms locked behind his neck. One of his hands slid up her back, finding the row of tiny buttons that held her blouse together.
His fingers worked the first one free, then the next. The sound of the buttons slipping through the holes was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He broke the kiss to look at what he was doing, his breath coming in ragged pulls. Her eyes were wide, watching him.
She pulled her blouse over her shoulders, letting it fall behind the chair. The firelight danced over her skin, gilding the slope of her shoulders and the plain cotton of her chemise. She was more exposed now than she had been in the garden, and the vulnerability was dizzying.
He stood, lifting her with him, and stripped his own grey shirt over his head in one quick motion. It landed on the floor with a soft whisper. The cool air raised goosebumps on his arms, but the heat from her gaze was a tangible thing. She reached out, her fingertips tracing the line of lean muscle that ran from his hip to his ribs.
He pulled her back into him, skin to skin this time, the shock of contact a minor electric storm. He kissed her throat, her collarbone, the frantic pulse at the base of her neck. His hands found the hem of her skirt, bunching the heavy fabric in his fists.
He didn’t push it further, just held on, his forehead pressed to her sternum as he fought for control. His breath washed hot over her skin. “Tell me this is still okay,” he muttered, the words vibrating through her ribs.
“It’s more than okay.” Her voice was thin, strained. She carded her fingers through his hair, tugging gently to make him look up.“Joseph, look at me.”
He did. His blue eyes were wild, dark with a need that mirrored the ache pooling low in her own stomach. The gentleman warred with the man, right there in the open. She saw the question before he voiced it. His hands trailed up from her skirt, over the curve of her hips, to the hem of her thin chemise. He paused, his fingers curling into the cotton.“May I?” he asked.
She nodded, a quick, certain dip of her chin. He lifted it over her head and tossed the shirt to the floor. The air in the workshop was cool on her bare skin, raising gooseflesh. He didn’t speak for a moment, his gaze traveling over her with a reverence that stole her breath.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the statement simple, factual, and devastatingly sincere.
He kissed her neck, a soft press of lips against her frantic pulse. Then he kissed a trail down to her shoulder, his mouth hot and insistent. The sensation was a live wire straight to her core. A sharp gasp escaped her. The rocking of her hips back and forth twice was involuntary, a physical echo of the pleasure sparking under his lips.
“Fuck,” he breathed against her skin, the crude word a shock of heat. He understood the language of her body perfectly. His arms locked around her, one hand splayed against the small of her back, holding her firmly against the hard line of his body. The other stayed tangled in her hair, guiding her mouth back to his.
This kiss was pure fire. There was no more hesitation, no more space for doubt. It was a consuming blaze. She matched his desperation, her hands scrabbling at the waistband of his trousers, fumbling with the fastenings. He helped her, his own fingers clumsy. The buckle gave way with a metallic scrape that seemed enormously loud.