Free Pamela Sherwood by A Song at Twilight

intriguing.
    “Oh, I tried on a number of dreams for size,” he replied. “I went up to Oxford when I was eighteen and considered the law or even taking Holy Orders. Then, one summer, I went abroad to France and fell head over ears in love with Norman cathedrals.” His expression grew abstracted, even dreamy, and she knew his thoughts had flown back to that time. “I don’t exaggerate, Miss Tresilian—it was a passion as sudden and blinding as any schoolboy’s. I abandoned Oxford and apprenticed myself to an architect in Rouen for the next four years.”
    Sophie’s eyes widened. “Good heavens! Were your mother’s family very upset by this?”
    “Well, they weren’t pleased, at any rate. I wasn’t disinherited or cut off in any other way, but my uncle did tell me he thought I was being quixotic and impractical, and that I’d rue the day I embarked on such a course.” His mouth quirked. “And as it turns out—he was right.”
    “He was?” Sophie felt obscurely disappointed. The look on his face when he mentioned the cathedrals had been so rapt, almost exalted; he’d clearly loved his time in France. How sad that his dream hadn’t lived up to its promise!
    “More than he knew. Oh, I won’t say those years were entirely wasted, or that I learned nothing of use, but much of that time is—best forgotten, I think.”
    Sophie eyed him more closely; his face had grown shuttered, even remote, during those last words, and his voice was similarly neutral. Something must have happened in Rouen. A professional setback, perhaps? She knew little beyond general details of what an architect’s career might entail, but she imagined it must be a demanding and competitive profession. “So, you returned to England?”
    “In time. And I found some work as an architect in London—mostly doing the sort of thing I’d done in France, helping restore homes and the occasional parish church. I even resigned myself to not being the next Christopher Wren,” he added with a wry smile. “There’s not much call for building cathedrals in England these days, but everyone needs a place to call home.”
    And home would hold a special meaning for him, when he’d spent so much of his childhood moving from place to place. “They’re building a cathedral right now in Truro,” Sophie told him. “It’s not complete yet, but it looks to be a handsome building. And there must be churches all over the West Country in need of renovation or restoration. You could find plenty of work here—that is, if you mean to continue as an architect, now that you’ve inherited,” she added hastily, remembering that many landed gentry considered it a comedown to have to work at all.
    His brows drew together in a faint, abstracted frown. “It’s strange, but I never imagined myself not working, not even when I found out I was the heir three years ago. I don’t think I’m made for idleness—the prospect of doing nothing day in, day out holds no appeal for me. Nor do the usual fashionable pursuits—I’m no sportsman, and I have no aspirations to join the Marlborough House set, or any other such circle.”
    “You sound like James. My cousin, James Trelawney,” she explained at his blank look. “You might have met at New Year’s. He inherited an earldom in January, most unexpectedly. Before, he was just a partner in the family mine and an investor in some local industries. Now he’s a peer, with an estate to maintain, and he’s having the same problem adjusting that you are.”
    “Ah, yes. Now I remember. His accession was quite the nine days’ wonder, I hear.”
    “No one was more surprised than James himself. His cousin was only thirty, and robust.”
    “I know. We met briefly—the previous earl and I. Great-Uncle Simon was his godfather.” Mr. Pendarvis’s gaze had gone cool at the memory. “I can’t say I was much impressed by him.”
    “Harry knew him a little and thought poorly of him too. All the same, it’s a shock that