Loving February: The President's

Daughters, Book Two M.K. Moore &

Chashiree M.
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LOVING FEBRUARY
THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTERS
BOOK 2
CHASHIREE M.
M.K. MOORE
BREEDING NATION PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2024 by ChaShiree M. & M.K. Moore
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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 CONTENTS

Blurb

Prologue
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Epilogue

About the Authors

 BLURB

February
Searching for my dad wasn’t going to be easy. Going on this journey with the man I'm secretly in love with? What could go
wrong?
Connall
Loving February was easy. It's all-consuming, and it's time she knows it.
Journey with February to find her father.
This is book two in The President’s Daughter Series by ChaShiree M. & M.K. Moore
PROLOGUE
 FEBRUARY GRAHAM

I half-heartedly listen to what’s happening on the phone, instead, I’m drawing hearts all over my desk calendar. Not just any
hearts, but full-on middle school Mr & Mrs hearts. See, I have a problem, well, several problems, but the main one is that I’m
in love with my boss. The head-over-heels, unrequited but no less real kind of love. It doesn’t keep me from doing my job, but
it’s on my mind every minute of every day. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be Mrs Connall Ahearn. I can’t
help wondering what he’d feel like inside of me. What it would feel like for him to take my virginity, which I saved for the man
who would make me feel alive. It’s him. He’s what makes me feel alive.
“Are you listening to me, February Irene Graham?”
“Yes, of course,” I lie when she jostles me back to the present.
“I don’t understand why you want to do this now, " my normally sweet mother, Donna, shouts at me over the phone. Last
night, I told both of my mother’s that my sister contacted me. My bio dad was never, ever mentioned in our house. I never
needed a dad, but I’ve been thinking about him lately. Mostly, I just want to ensure there are no illnesses I could pass on to my
future children. I’ve been thinking about children more and more lately. I’m too young for my biological clock to be ticking,
right?
“We went over this last night. It’s just something that I need to do. It has nothing to do with you.” We went over this at
length last night over dinner. I don’t live at home anymore. I have an apartment near downtown, but we try to have dinner a few
times a week. They weren’t interested in what I had to say. They were very vocal about it, and there were tears. Ultimately, I
decided I had to do this with or without their support. I won’t love them any less than I do if I find this out. I won’t. I don’t
know why they can’t see that, but honestly, that’s their problem. They’re my mother’s; nothing will ever change that.
“If you love us, you won’t do this,” she says, sniffling. I can’t believe she’s crying again. God, the mom guilt trip has begun.
Is there a class new moms take to learn how to do this so accurately?
“That’s very manipulating,” I tell her. They raised me to speak my mind, but when I do, they hate it. I can’t win, not in this
situation. What can I do to let them know that I love them? I don’t understand why they are so insecure. I’ve given them no
reason to think I would stop loving them. I could never.
It’s not like my whole life has been like this. My mother’s met in college during a time when they couldn’t get married.
They didn’t have to hide their love, but they couldn’t express it like they wanted to. My birth mom is Donna. I call her Mama.
My other mom, Mommy, is Martha. They wanted me so badly that they went to a sperm bank. My childhood was full of love
and laughter. I never wanted for anything, and I got away with murder. So, I can understand why they are upset, but at the same
time, I have to do this. I have to know where I come from. I did a DNA test, and the ball got rolling. My sister, January, started
looking for him. He left us some pretty vague clues to find him if we wanted to. January is pregnant right now, so I’m taking
over the list she and her fiancé put together.
“I’m at work right now, Mom. I can’t get into this again.”
“You’re being ungrateful.”
“I’m being ungrateful?” I shout. “I’m being ungrateful? You have no idea what ungrateful is, Mama. I’ve been a perfect
daughter. Perfect. I have to do this. If you and Mommy can't be on board, then we have nothing else to discuss.” I slam the
phone back down on the receiver, spilling my coffee in the process.
I’m so angry, I’m shaking. I’ve never done anything like that in my twenty-three years. It takes me a second to calm down
enough to remember that I’m at work at the job I love. I’ve been working at Ahearn Investments for a year. I’m Connall’s
personal assistant/secretary. I keep his professional and personal calendars. I know how he takes his coffee and what his
favorite meal is. I know everything about the man, and to say that I’m in love with him would be an understatement. See the
hearts on my desk… He’s starred in every single dream I’ve had since I met him. He’s got this whole Jeremy Sisto, Law and
Order, thing going on, meaning he’s hot as hell, but it’s so much more than that. He helps old ladies cross the street and donates
tons of money to charities all over Kansas City. He also doesn’t date. Ever. I’ve never had to buy his girlfriend flowers or little
trinkets because he doesn’t have one. Believe me, I’d know if he had one. I know everything. Everything.
I’m staring at the phone I just slammed down, remembering the conversation I just had, and that’s when the tears start
streaming down my face. I hate that tears are my go-to when I’m frustrated.
“February, what’s wrong?” I close my eyes in shame. I hate that he’s going to see me like this. My mascara is surely running
down my face. When he puts his hand on my shoulder, my pussy clenches. What’s wrong with me? Now is not the time to be
turned on.
Shit, this sucks, I think as I turn to look up at him. The look of concern on his face surprises me as we rarely discuss
anything personal, but I know that I need to answer him. Is it crazy that all I want him to do is sweep me up into his arms and
hold me? I bet he gives great hugs, among other things.
PROLOGUE
 CONNALL AHEARN

I run out of my office when I hear the keeper of my heart screech. My first thought is that she is hurt, which I don't think I could
handle. Seeing her in pain would be unbearable. Hell, as it is, she requested an extended leave starting next week, and I did not
decline the request. But then that would make me an asshole since she never misses a day and has a ton of vacation time. I just
want to know where she is going and with whom, but now is not the time to figure that out.
When I make it out of my office to her desk, I find her not injured but instead staring at her phone, with tear tracks down her
face. This makes my heart ache, and then my hands turn to fists. Who the fuck made my February cry? “February, what’s
wrong?” I touch her shoulder and try not to make this about me and the spark going through my arm when touching her for the
first time. Her shoulders sag, and she looks so defeated.
“I just got into an argument with one of my mom’s.” I start for a second, the shock on my face obvious at the revelation that
she has two moms, but I recover quickly. “I mean why can’t they see how important this is to me? I mean, I get it, but they
should know by now no matter what I find I love them,” she babbles for a few minutes before I try to interject.
“It sounds like you need to talk. How about I take you to lunch and let you vent?” I see her contemplating this, but then she
shakes her head.
“No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been having this conversation with her at work. It was unprofessional of me. You don’t
have to worry.” She all but dismisses my suggestion and without thinking, I grip her elbow to prevent her from walking away.
“It's a done deal. Grab your purse,” I tell her with a little more force than I mean to. Her eyes widen at my demand before
she nods and does as I have said. I don’t want to have to drive, so we walk down the street to this Italian place we always
order from and sit. Once our orders have been taken, I turn to her and place my hand on hers. “Now talk to me.” She swallows,
fighting a battle with herself about confiding in her boss and just having someone to talk to. I know the moment having a willing
ear wins.
“As you heard I have two moms. Obviously I have always known there was dad out there somewhere. A little while ago I
finally decided to go to the sperm bank and get his profile. I knew it wasn’t going to tell me his name but just having some
information like his height, ethnicity and his goals was more than I could hope for. Until the nurse at the clinic told me he
allotted twelve deposits that could be made and then his specimen should be destroyed. During that visit she asked me if I
wanted to be included in this chat that could bring me in contact with any other children born from his sperm and that is how I
found my older sister January.” I look at her and smirk.
“You are both named after a month. Is that a coincidence?” She shakes her head.
“No, that was one of his caveats, if you will. Of course he would be able to do nothing if they didn’t, but my mom felt it
was the least she could do to honor the man who made her, and my mom Martha’s dream come true.”
“That makes sense.”
“Anyway, January went on a six-week-long journey following clues trying to find him. When she fell in love with a retired
soldier who was helping her and now she is pregnant, so her search has stopped, and I offered to pick up where she left off.”
That is when the lightbulb goes off.
“Is that why you requested seven weeks' leave?” There is no way she will traverse the country without me to protect her
and stamp my claim.
“Yes. I am going to make it an adventure, only my mom’s see it as betrayal to them and all they have done.”
“I’m sorry. I think it is just a shock. I am sure they will come around. In the meantime, how about I help you?” She looks at
me like I am crazy.
“How? You don’t have time for that.” I would cancel every meeting I have for her.
“I can fly you in my jet. That makes it faster and cheaper.” Her mind starts ticking, and then she looks at me.
“If I can plan it. I need to plan out everything around your meetings. Ones we can do via Zoom and ones we might have to
put off. Those are my terms.” I am not surprised. She is incredibly organized, which makes her the best PA. I hold my hand out.
“Deal.” She shakes my hand, and then my cock congratulates me.
We finally have a way in.
CHAPTER
ONE
 FEBRUARY

I immediately go into full planning mode using his current schedule. I move what can be moved and set up virtual meetings for
those that can’t. It takes me about two hours to get everything sorted for the next few weeks. Once I’m satisfied, I move on to
the next item on my to-do list.
Since we can both work from the plane, I arrange everything with his flight attendant, Carlos, to ensure that the bigger desk
areas are in place instead of the intimate dining areas. Carlos assured me that everything would be in place by the time we take
off at seven tonight. That leaves me two hours to rush to my apartment and pack my bags. I park my car in the parking garage
and take the elevator up to my apartment. I decide to pack light, only taking one suitcase, but I do pack for all kinds of weather.
I take an Uber to the municipal airport just outside the city limits. Connall is already there, waiting for me. He’s standing just
outside the plane by the stairs. God, he looks handsome. He’s not wearing the suit he had on earlier, and I’m here for it. He
looks good in the football jersey and jeans. I’ve only ever seen him in suits, and one time when he walked by my desk after
using the gym at the office. He was so sweaty. That fueled a lot of fantasies.
“Is this all you brought?’” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at me while taking my single bag from me. “More in the car?”
“Do you mean the car driving away?” I ask, pointing to the retreating SUV.
“Right. It’s just that I’ve never seen a woman travel so light.”
“I don’t know how I feel being compared to another woman,” I say, moving up the stairs when he gestures for me to. I can
feel him close behind me and smell his cologne all around me.
“No. God no. There is no comparison, February. I meant my mother used to travel with trunks, as in multiple trunks.”
“Oh, I don’t think I own enough things to fit in a trunk.”
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Ahearn, Ms. Graham.”
“Thank you, Carlos,” Connall says, handing him our bags.
“Hello, Carlos,” I say.
“Hi. I’ll get these stowed away.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Mr. Ahearn?” We both turn toward the cockpit to see the captain.
“Captain,” Conall says, shaking his hand.
“Ma’am. I’m Captain McTavish. I received the very through and impressive itinerary you emailed over. I have prepared the
flight plans accordingly.”
“Please call me February,” I say, extending my hand, which he shakes.
“Of course, February.” His voice is huskier than it was a moment ago, confusing me.
Connall clears his throat loudly and puts his hand on my back. I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I don’t hate it.
“When are we taking off?”
They stare at each other weirdly before the Captain finally says, “ten minutes.”
“Excellent. February?” Connall says, gesturing to a seat by the window. I sit down.
I smirk to myself as the captain goes back into the cockpit, slamming the door behind him.
“He doesn’t seem happy,” I say.
“He never is. As long as he gets us to where we’re going safely, I don’t give a fuck if he’s happy.” He reaches over me and
buckles my seatbelt for me before buckling his own.
“Tell me how you really feel,” I say, smiling at him.
“You’re not ready for me to tell you how I feel,” he says. I want to say something back, but I don’t get a chance to before
Carlos appears with two cups of coffee. I guess it’s a bit too early for champagne, which is what I always imagined people
drank while on private planes.
Once we are in the air, I pull my laptop out and get to work.
Once we land in California, we stop in LA to meet with Wayne Robles. He was a bit of a jerk, and I honestly thanked God
that he wasn’t the one. We got back on the plane and headed for Sonoma. We checked into the hotel, and though we have
separate rooms, I know he’s right next door to me. After being so close to him all day, it feels off that I’m not near him now. I
lie in bed, thinking about him. I have been on edge all day. My pussy is soaking wet, nothing new there, and I need to relieve
the ache. Reaching under my nightgown, I rub my clit wishing it was him on top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
That does it. I come, moaning his name.
Somehow, it’s not enough. I’m afraid nothing will be good enough unless it’s him. Inside me. Owning me.
CHAPTER
TWO
 CONNALL

Yesterday was a long day. Not only did we make the trek to Los Angeles, California, going straight from the airstrip to meet the
first guy, Wayne Robles, but we barely made it to the hotel before we had to dive into work and send off these estimates. The
following day, we took the scenic drive to Sonoma, California, to meet the second guy, Cody Durham, who, if I may say so
myself, has done well for himself in the wine business. Hell, he has done more than well, and when he found out who I was, he
damn near fangirled over my reputation in the investment industry. Right then and there, he asked me to take on his account. He
found it more than humorous when I had to look at February to see if I even had the space to take on another client.
Needless to say, it was a bust in one way but good in another. We could have left California after that, but as she has never
been here, we decided to take the rest of the week here. So, here we are on a wine tour of Sonoma, planning our next
excursion, and I am busy trying to think of all the ways I can murder and hide the body of the tour guide who keeps eye-fucking
my woman. “Connall, are you listening to me?” She scolds, nudging me in the side. She follows the scowl of my eyes and rolls
hers. “Stop looking at him like that. He has done nothing,” she says, going back to the activity book.
“Yeah, if he did more of nothing, you’d be damn near naked in his mind,” I growl, giving him my death glare.
“Men are so confusing,” she mumbles under her breath. Now I feel like an asshole.
“I’m sorry. I’m listening. What do you want to do next?” Her face brightens and I have to remind myself she loves it when I
give her my undivided attention, something she usually has when we are closed off in my office.
“Well this tour is usually followed by cheese tasting.”
“Not with this fucker,” I say louder than I mean to, which is evident by the way the woman in front of me looks at me.
February giggles beside me, covering her mouth with the brochures; like it always does, her giggles make me chuckle myself.
“No grumpy. We switch at the end of the wine tasting to the cheese maker.” Thank fuck I don’t know how longer I could
have held out.
“Then let’s do it. I love cheese.”
“Me too,” she says, licking her lips. Logically I know she is thinking about the cheese, but my cock twitches, picturing her
licking my pulsing prick with those puts on her. Shit. There is nowhere for me to adjust myself right now.
For the next hour and a half, we sample wines. Some are fantastic, and I order cases for my own collection; others haven’t
aged well. I am more than impressed with her palate. “Where did you learn about wine?” I ask, Clamoring to know all I can
about the woman who is the center of my world and doesn’t know it.
“My grandfather owned a vineyard in Iowa. He was the only vintner in that part of the country.” My mind goes over what I
know about wine, and then I look at her in complete shock.
“Holy shit. Your grandfather was William Bragden?” She looks surprised that I know who he is.
“Yes. How do you know that?”
“His wine was the first one I had ever tasted. When he decided to sell it, I had made my first million, and the first thing I
did was buy the vineyard from him and keep him on so he could continue to do what he loves but not have to carry the burden.
How is it I never saw you there?” I can see tears forming in her eyes, and on instinct, I pull her into my arms and wrap all I
have around her until she stops shedding those offensive things that make me feel like shit.
“He and my mother had a falling out. I used to spend my summer with him, and I loved it. Before I was old enough to know
what wine was, he showed me how to age, smell, and sip it. My mother’s didn’t approve when they finally got wind of it and
forbade me to come back. I cried every summer and begged for them to let me go, but then one day…” Her words faded off,
and I knew what she was going to say because the day he died, sitting on the porch of his home, I left exactly the same way.
“Oh, sweetie, I am so sorry. That would explain the sad look he would often get out of the blue, and when I would ask, he
would just say, " Fight for the things that matter, boy. They are the only reason to keep going.” She gasps and puts her hands to
her mouth, hiccupping.
“Oh God. He still loved me. I missed him so much.” She is once again in my arms sobbing, and the only thing I can think of
to make it stop is to kiss her. So that is what I do. I lift her chin and plant my mouth on hers. I know she has stopped crying, and
I can lift my head, but now that I have her like this, I can’t talk myself down. When she gasps, I use the opening to slide my
tongue into her mouth.
“Kiss me back, baby,” I whisper against her sweet lips. She hesitates, and I fully expect her to slap me or something, but
then her hands grip my jacket, and the heat factor goes up. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pull her into relishing the
evidence of her innocence. Slowly with actions, I show her how to kiss me back, and thank fuck she is enjoying this as much as
me. I damn near forget where we are until dipshit clears his throat.
“If you two are quite done.” Butt hurt asshole. I look down at my girl's flushed cheeks and swollen lips and smile at her.
“Not by a long shot,” I say, staring right at her before following the group to our next destination. One place I am going for
sure is inside of her, sooner rather than later.
CHAPTER
THREE
FEBRUARY
ONE WEEK LATER
The view from my room is lovely. The hotel I wanted to book was full, so we’re in an Air BnB. It’s the first time I’ve stayed in
one. I had my doubts before, but there is something to be said about privacy. I’m drinking coffee, and wearing a bathrobe; the
sun is shining down on my face. The sandy beach and water look so inviting. I slept in for the first time in years, and it was
wonderful. Last night, we stopped in Mississippi and spoke to Chris Leonard, who emphatically did not donate sperm back in
the day, but now we’re in Gulf Shores, Alabama, and all I can think about is putting on my bathing suit and heading down for a
swim, so I do just that. It’s Saturday, and for the first time in forever, there’s no work to do.
I quickly change into my suit and knock on his closed bedroom door. He gave me the master, thankfully. All I can think
about is that kiss we shared. My first kiss ever, and I swear, though it’s been days, my lips are still tingling from it. We haven’t
talked about it. Do I really want to? Do I want him to tell me it was a mistake? I want to do more of it, but I have no idea how
to bring something like that up. Before I can a second time, the door flies open.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. I feel my eyes widen as I take in the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt. Holy shit. His muscles
have muscles. “Feb?”
“Ummm… Nothing is wrong. I was headed to walk on the beach and then hit the pool. I wanted to see if you wanted to join
me.”
“Of course. Give me a few minutes. I was just having coffee.”
“Same.” I love the fact we are leisurely doing this. We could just as easily move quickly through my list, but Connall wants
to have fun. With me. I’m trying desperately not to read too much into that, but it’s hard. I watch him walk away, and I stand
awkwardly in the open doorway between our rooms, staring after him like an idiot. I force myself to make myself busy by
tidying up the desk, getting rid of his coffee cups.
When he comes out of the bathroom, he’s wearing swim trunks. I almost swallow my tongue. “Ready?”
“Absolutely.”
We walk down to the beach in silence. It’s a little too cold to go into the ocean, but the house we are staying in has a heated
pool. We walk back to the pool and move to the lounge chairs. I drape a towel over the chair. I kick off my sandals and pull my
cover-up over my head. I hear Connall gasp behind me. He grabs my arms, pulling me closer to him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my mind immediately going to him, thinking that I look terrible in my bathing suit. This is the first
time I’ve been brave enough to wear a two-piece, and maybe I shouldn’t have.
“What are you wearing?” he growls. That growl goes all through me and tells me that I don’t look bad. I breathe a sigh of
relief.
“A bathing suit.” My deadpan delivery makes him smile.
“I can see that, but so can anyone else.”
“Well, it’s a pool and a private one at that,” I reply, laughing.
“You don’t even know, do you?” he asks, letting me go. I do not want him to let me go.
“Know what?”
“Never mind,” he says, striding toward the water. I follow him like a freaking puppy.
After swimming, we hit up a putt-putt golf course and an arcade. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.
Later, we have a surprisingly romantic dinner before he walks me to my bedroom door. Just when I think he’s going to kiss me
again, he says good night and turns on his heels.
What the hell? Today was so… intense. Everything about it was, and yet, and the same time, I was so comfortable with him.
Something has got to give.
CHAPTER
FOUR
 CONNALL

“Alright, are you ready?” She is about to knock on the door of Albert Jackson in Gulf Shores, and for every disappointment she
gets, I get more and more protective of her heart and her hopes.
“Yep. I have no expectations,” she says but I see a little light leave her eyes with every revelation that this guy is not it, last
the one a few days ago. She said she wasn’t expecting it to be him, and he was a nice enough guy. Polite, ambitious, and even
complimented her, but it wasn’t him. She put on a brave face the entire time we were there, but when we walked out his door, I
watched her shoulders deflate.
“Good.” I don’t say much else because I can hear someone from inside call out.
“Who's there?” A gruff voice asks behind the door.
“M-My name is February Graham. I am looking for Albert Jackson.” See. I can hear the hope. Suddenly, the door opens,
and a man in a wheelchair answers.
“Whose looking for him?” I know immediately it is him, but his disposition is making me feel uneasy. I grip her hand,
hoping she can feel my warning and my need to console her.
“Uh, I was wondering if, by chance, you donated sperm before you joined the military?” I can tell she is nervous because
she doesn’t normally lead with that, but at the same time, it doesn't look like this old man is going to let us like in the others
have so far so why not get it over with?
“Who the hell knocks on a man’s door asking personal questions like that? Y'all some sort of bible-thumping reprobates
trying to recruit me into your cult? Cause let me tell you, me and God ain’t got much else to say to one another since he took my
legs from me so you can get your nonsense off my porch before I reach back and shoot some buckshot into both of you.” She
opens her mouth to say something else, but I grab her hand hard and shake my head before practically pulling her off that man’s
porch.
“Jesus,” I say when we get into the rental car. She says nothing. Once we are out of his driveway, and down the street, I
finally take a look at her and see her biting her lip. I am about to say something dirty when I realize she is silently crying, and
tears have fallen while she is looking at her phone. “February, what’s going on?” She wipes her face and shakes her head. I
don’t like her keeping shit from me, not when my job is to stand between her and pain of any kind. “Come one. What do you say
we get some ice cream and talk? How does that sound?” She looks at me, her smile not reaching her eyes, but with her puffy
eyes, she has never looked more beautiful.
“Sure,” she says before putting her phone back.
We drive a while before coming to their downtown area, and I see an old-fashioned type of ice cream place. We order it
and walk outside to see at one of their umbrella stands. “Are you going to talk to me, beautiful?” She blushes and takes a lick of
her cone. I watch her moan when the caramel praline hits her tongue. “Fuck,” I groan, wiping my hands down my face. She
looks at me like she doesn’t know exactly what she did, but I'm not buying it.
The thing is, neither of us has spoken of that kiss, and it is not because I don’t want to, but I also know she is dealing with a
lot, and I don’t want to be the creep trying to get into her panties while she is emotional and shit unless I am the one who made
her that way. “Sorry,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, trying to hide her smirk. Yeah, my ass.
“You’re not now, but you will be, baby.” Her mouth forma an ‘O’, and I can’t miss the chance. “Yeah, that will be one of
the ways I show you who is in charge.” She basically chokes on her ice cream before she looks at me.
“I cannot believe you said.”
“Really? Seriously? You are the one making the very same noises I can't wait to hear from your fucking mouth when I am
balls deep in that pussy so don’t act shocked.” Her mouth opens and closes as she tries to think of something to say. Clearing
my throat, I attempt to convert the conversation. “What upset you on your phone?” The tension leaves her when I change the
subject.
“Just an email from one of my mom’s. They are still upset, telling me I should stop this childish expedition and come home.
Apparently a grown woman shouldn’t be worried about trivial things like the other side of her DNA.” I can hear the anger in
her voice, and it pisses me off for her. I try to think of something to do, so I do what I know.
 “Give it a few days, baby. I promise they will be the last thing on your mind.” Yeah that got her mind on something else.
Hopefully, my cock.
CHAPTER
FIVE
FEBRUARY
ONE WEEK LATER
As soon as I step on the plane, I regret all my life choices. Cupid’s Cove, Maine, is cold as hell. I pull my coat tighter around
my body and walk down the stairs. Connall is behind me, close. I can feel the heat rising off of him, enveloping me.
The driver of the car he hired is waiting in the car, but he jumps out of the driver’s seat and opens the back door for us.
“Mr. Ahearn. Welcome to Maine.”
“Thank you, Foster. Here is the address we need to go to.”
“Right away,” he says, taking the Post-It I wrote the address on.
I slide into the car and Connall slides in beside me. His thigh is touching mine. It’s so hard to believe that this little touch
makes me so wet. My pussy throbs like a fucking heartbeat.
We pull up in front of a small house. There are children’s toys in the yard, covered in a layer of snow that’s lightly falling. I
smile when I see the Little Tyke wagon I used to have. Connall takes my hand and leads me up the icy driveway. I knock on the
door, and a frazzled-looking woman with a baby on her hip opens the door.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
“Uh, is Nathan Harper here?”
“He’s not at the moment, but come in out of the weather. Nate will be home soon. He went to the store to pick up some
bread and milk. We are in for some weather. I’m Nessa, Nate’s wife. How do you know my husband?” she asks, leading us to
the living room. There are two older, but younger than ten, children sitting on the floor watching TV. I begin to wonder if we
have the wrong person. Nessa is barely older than me.
“We don’t. I just need to ask him a question. I’m February Graham, and this is Connall Ahearn.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
“Nate texted when he left the store. It’s just ten minutes away. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, juice, something
stronger?”
“Coffee would be great,” I say.
“No problem. Here,” she says, handing me her baby.
“Uh…” I cradle the baby. My eyes fly up to meet Connall’s, and he’s looking at me weirdly.
“You’re not a serial killer, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
“I didn’t think so. I’m an excellent judge of character. She’ll be fine until I get back.”
“Okay. What’s her name?” I ask, still in shock. I’ve never once held a baby before. I babysit when I was younger, but they
were always older kids.
“Sunny. Miles and Tyler are on the floor.” She leaves the room.
“That was weird.”
“Maybe not. She’s probably been stuck inside with them all day,” I whisper.
“Probably.”
“Hello, Miss Sunny. I’m February,” I babble. She’s too young to understand me, but I do it anyway. The boys notice
Connall and get up and go over to him showing him their toys. It’s fucking adorable.
“I’m home,” a man’s voice calls from by the front door. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Nathan Harper?” I ask, standing.
“Yeah, who’s asking?”
“I’m February Graham.”
“Okay. Why are you holding my baby?”
“Be nice, Nate. She just needs to ask you a question,” Nessa says, bringing in a tray with coffee on it. She sets it down on
the coffee table. Huh, why is it this the first time that it’s dawned on me that’s why it's called that? “Give me those bags and sit
down.” He stomps the snow off of his boots and does what she asks. I hand him Sunny.
“There’s no easy way to ask this, so I’m just going to come right out with it. Did you donate… sperm,” I whisper, “in the
late nineties.”
“What? No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I think I’d remember if I’d jerked off in a cup before.”
“Okay. Sorry. I’m trying to find my father and I have very little to go on.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but you folks should get where you’re going for the night. The snow is coming down
hard out that.”
“We’re staying at the bed and breakfast off of Main Street.”
“That’s not far.”
“Thank you so much for the coffee,” Connall says, shaking Nathan’s hand. “It was nice to meet you.”
“You too. Be safe out there.”
“We will,” he says, taking my hand and leading me out of their warm house and back into the car. Foster drives us over to
the bed and breakfast.
“Hello. Welcome to Cupid’s Cove Bed and Breakfast. I’m Lisa. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes. Ahearn and Graham.”
“I have Ahearn in the Aphrodite Suite, but no Graham, and we are sold out. You could try the hotel down the street if you
need another room,” Lisa says unhelpfully.
“No. That’s fine. The Aphrodite Suite will do.”
“Excellent. I just need the credit card you’d like to use and your driver’s license. Will you be parking a car with us?”
“No. Here you go.” I watch as he slides over a Black American Express Card and his driver's license.
“Alright,” she says, typing ridiculously fast. “Here’s your key. Enjoy your stay. Three meals a day are served in the dining
room. Take the stairs up to the second floor. The Aphrodite Suite is the last door on the right.”
“Thank you,” we say at the same time. Connall takes the key and my hand again. I’m totally loving this hand-holding thing
he’s doing.
Once we are in the room, I immediately notice that there is only one bed. I can do this.
He drops our bags on the floor; the thud reverberates loudly, making me jump.
“Did I scare you?”
“Yes, no, maybe,” I breathe.
He pulls me closer to him. I’m too stunned to do anything but let him take my coat off. He tosses onto the chair, his follows.
He kicks off his boots, and I do the same. Then his lips are on mine. I moan into his mouth, and he deepens the kiss. My hands
dive into his hair. The next thing I know, I'm pinned to the wall to the left of the door and my hands are entwined in just one of
his larger hands above my head. His other hand reaches down and pulls the hem of my knee-length black skirt.
“Is all this wetness for me?”
“Who else would it be for?” I moan as his fingers pump shallowly inside of me.
“I'm gonna destroy this pussy for any other man,” he says, pulling his fingers from me.
“What other man?” I ask.
“Any of them,” he says, putting one of his fingers into my mouth. The very same fingers that were just swiping through my
wetness. I groan and lose my mind. My lips devour his. His deft fingers find the eye hook above my zipper, and he opens it,
then slides the zipper down. My skirt pools at my feet. He pulls away from my mouth, leaning away from me. I lift one bare
foot, then the other, kicking away the garment. I still have my white button-up shirt on, as well as the corset, thong, and garters I
normally wear.
Once he sees the garters hanging down on my thighs, he mumbles something, but I can't understand what he's saying. I'm
pretty sure I can hear my heart pounding; anything else is impossible.
Suddenly, he grips my shirt and rips it open. I moan as buttons fly away from my chest and make little pinging sounds as
they land.
“No fucking way,” he curses.
“What?” I ask, reaching for him.
“Is this always what you’ve got going on underneath your clothes?” He runs his hands over my body reverently.
“Yes, why? Do you not like it?”
“I fucking love it, but if I knew this was waiting for me to unwrap, work would never get done. Now, take it all off. Let me
see what’s mine,” he says, and I strip it off for him. “God damn, babe. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself?” I ask as he peels the torn shirt off of my body. I reach for his shirt, pulling it over
his head. I move to his belt. Despite never having done this, I open it easily along with his pants, and they hit the floor. He’s not
wearing any boxers or anything, so his hard, huge cock springs forward. “Oh God,” I say, biting my bottom lip. He wraps his
fist around it, pumping his hand up and down. I can’t take my eyes off of him.
I’m not at all prepared for him to abruptly stop. He drops to his knees in front of me. He licks around my belly button
before diving into my pussy. His tongue feels like it's everywhere at once. I’m fucking coming before long and want more as
soon as he’s done.
“Wow,” I murmur.
“Let me have you,” he says. “Please.”
“I’m yours.” I move into his arms, and he lifts me up, carrying me to the bed.
“I’m taking you bare because I want there to be no mistaking that you’re mine,” he says, dragging his cock through my folds
before slamming into me. I cry out in momentary pain, but it feels so good. “Fuck, babe. I’m sorry. I never thought…”
“Don’t worry about it, Connall. Fuck me, please. I need you,” I say, and he begins to push in and out of me.
Getting snowed in with him is going to be so good.
CHAPTER
SIX
CONNAL
TWO DAYS LATER
Waking up with her in my arms the last few days has been the stuff of dreams. Who knew that being snowed in in a town
catered to love would be so much fun? I mean, who the hell knew a place named Cupid’s Cove existed? I sure as hell didn’t,
but wish I had. This place is amazing and when I say they go all out for Valentine’s Day, they take it seriously.
“Mmm,” she moans, stretching beside me. The sheet moves slightly, uncovering her pink-dusted nipples that I have
memorized, and I can’t stop myself. I lean over and wrap my mouth around one of the hardening buds and suck on it like a baby
cow. “Oh God, Con,” She runs her fingers through my hair and smashes my face into her chest. Lifting my head, I switch to the
next one while moving over her and nudging her legs open.
“Good morning, baby,” I say right before I kiss her mouth and slide my cock into her already wet pussy.
“Why does it always feel so good when you are inside of me?” she whines, her back arching off the bed. My hands slide
under her ass, and as I rock in and out of her, I move her body the way I want, pulling her into each thrust.
“Because we are made for each other, beautiful.” My hand slides to the untouched part of her, and I rub my finger around
the rosebud, and her pussy clenches, squeezing me tighter. “Fuck. Your snatch loves it when I play with her forbidden button,
huh, babe.” She doesn’t answer. She can’t. She is so busy mewling for me, her head rocking back and forth. I feel her body
pulse, and I know she is about to come. She has a hair trigger and I find it sexy as hell. All it takes is for her to go off, and I am
right behind.
“Con, I'm about to come. Oh, yes. Yes,” she screams when I grind against her clit. I know the minute she hits the peak
because her pussy floods me, and I flood her. “Man. Does it just get better?” she asks, barely able to speak. I kiss her shoulder
and pull her into my arms, where she fits perfectly.
“Yes. As we get to know one another’s bodies, it becomes more intense.” She nods, nodding off, but I can’t have that. “Hey,
none of that. We have a whole other week of fun stuff before we can get a flight out of here on account of the snow and go to
Augusta.” We still have one more man to see in Maine. We have been in this state a week longer than we planned but I am not
complaining. As a matter of fact, I should thank the weather.
“I can’t move,” she says, putting a pillow over her head. Smack. I hit her ass and laugh when she shoots up. “Did you
just…spank me?”
“I sure did. And I will do it again if you lay back down, beautiful. Come on. Let’s go out there, get cold and have fun so I
can bring you back in here and warm you up.” She rolls her eyes at me, but I see the smile she thinks she is hiding.
Once we are wrapped up and covered in winter gear, we head out of the bed and breakfast run by a man named Pedro
Garcia and his wife, Harvest. The first thing we see is a string of balloons and streamers, all red and pink, blowing in the harsh
winter breeze. “Ah, so good to see you two out and about.” Mark greets us from a booth selling authentic Mexican food. I
assume the older woman is his mom doing all the cooking.
“Yes. We didn’t want to miss all the festivities.” HFe nods.
“Well, dive in; there is much to do.” Pulling February into my arms, I kiss the side of her head and look at her.
“Anything you want to do right away?” She smiles and points to the sign that says, ‘Sweet Sisters.’ With my hand on her
back, I lead her to the stand.
“Welcome. We haven’t seen you two before. Tourists?”
“Yes. We got snowed in.” She smiles, obviously knowing what that led to. I watch my beautiful woman pick out several
chocolates, some cocoa-covered popcorn, and a scoop of ice cream, which I look at her like she is crazy for. It's cold as hell,
and she wants ice cream.
Finally, we make it over to the picture booth and let them take our photo under the Valentine’s Day arch. A keepsake I am
going to keep forever. We hit three more booths before both of us are too cold to enjoy ourselves. My mind of course, is on
many ways I am going to warm us both up when my thoughts are interrupted by a man in an apron once we enter the B&B.
“Ah, welcome back. I see you have been enjoying our festival. You are just in time for dinner.” Damn. Food is definitely
not what I had on my mind.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
FEBRUARY
TWO WEEKS LATER
Washington, DC, is amazing. I went on a class trip in seventh grade, but it’s nothing compared to seeing it with Connall. For
one, I can drink now, so bars are totally cool. He took me to an especially old bar, The Founders, where many presidents drank
and talked shop. It was a history buff’s dream. I’ve also never walked so much in my life. We went to all the monuments and
took pictures. The memories we make here will last me a lifetime.
I love hanging out with Connall. It’s more than just the sex, which, of course, is out of this world. He’s funny and caring. I
already knew that, but it’s more than that, really. He makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the world. Just earlier, a
ridiculously hot waitress threw herself at him, and he didn’t even notice.
“You ready, baby?” he asks as I put my earrings in. He told me we were going somewhere special for dinner tonight. I
would have been fine with room service, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Earlier today, while he was on a conference call, I went
out and got my nails done. I haven’t done that in so long.
“Yes.” I take his outstretched hand, and we walk out of the hotel. The heels I have on better not kill my feet,
“Welcome to Congress Bar and Grill. I’m your server, Jamila. What can I start you for drinks or apps?”
“We’ll take the 2012 Lafite Bordeaux and the bruschetta,” Connall says. I only know what one of those things is, but he
hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
“Coming right up. The chef’s special tonight is veal parmesan.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Over the meal we discuss work and what we’re going to do after this.
We continue with more drinks at a club, where Connall stays by my side the entire night. We dance until the wee hours of
the morning. His body grinds against mine, song after song. My pussy is so wet, and it throbs for him. On the dark dancefloor,
his fingers snake up my skirt, and he finger fucks me right there in front of all those people. They couldn’t see anything, but it
was still a thrill. I could feel his cock digging into my ass and wanted nothing more than to take it any way he would give it to
me. I would do anything for this man,
After dancing, we walk back to our hotel. As soon as we are inside, I drop to my knees in front of him and pull his cock
out. I suck him down my throat, using my fist to stroke what doesn’t fit. His hands are in my hair as he roughly guides me.
“Fuck, babe. You’re such a good girl. Suck my cock, just like that,” he praises. My pussy is dripping, so I use my free hand
to rub my clit. “Are you playing with your pretty little pussy?”
“Yes,” I moan with a mouthful of his big hard cock.
“Fuck. What did I do to deserve you?” he asks as he pulls me off of him and onto my feet. He kisses me, and then we spend
the rest of the night in each other's arms. My whole body hurts. Muscles I didn’t know I had hurt, but I wouldn’t change a
moment of this for anything.
It can’t last, can it?
CHAPTER
EIGHT
 CONNALL

We were thrown off schedule because of the snow and now our time frame is further going to be off. I have a client named
Bosco Drydak, a robust Russian oligarch, who wants to buy a casino in Atlantic City. I was scheduled to see him in two
months, which is when he and his mistress were going to come back from the Alps. As luck would have it, while Feb and I
were in the air on our way to D.C. to see Mitchell Bailey, he called, telling me he was already at the casino and demanding I
come. Feb is the keeper of my schedule, so I looked at her, and she reluctantly told me we could squeeze in a short detour to
New Jersey.
Now we are at the timeshare house I keep here, unpacking, when her phone rings. I am on alert initially, thinking it might be
her mom’s, but when she smiles, I relax. The only other person it could be is her sister, January. Giving her some privacy, I
walk out of the room and grab myself a water. A few minutes later, she walks into the room. “How is your sister doing?” I pull
her into my arms and simply hold her.
“She is doing fine. She said the morning sickness hasn’t come yet.”
“Ah.”
“She wanted to know about our progress. She asked me if I had given any thought to the one name on the list.” Nodding my
head I know which she is referring to. I mean, wouldn’t it be cool if he was her father?
“And what did you say?”
“I told her it couldn’t be. Right? I mean there is no way he would be the potential sperm donor to twelve kids, would he?” I
don’t know. I am just as unsure as she is, but rather than let her stew in it, I have a bright idea.
“Hey, you know what, I have to go to the casino to appraise it. Why don’t we take advantage of it and have a good time.”
Her entire face lights up.
“I have never been to a casino, but ever since I watched Ocean’s 11 I have always wanted to get dressed up and hit the
tables. That’s what they call it, right?” She is so fucking adorable when she is thinking.
“Yeah, babe. That is what they call it. I will tell you what, I have to make some calls,” She gives me a look like, ‘duh, I
was the one who scheduled them,’ and it makes me laugh. “When I am done, I am going to take care of everything, including our
attire.” She bites her lip and wraps her arms around my neck.
“Like Pretty Woman?” I nod my head and kiss her strawberry-flavored lips, biting her bottom one before sliding my tongue
into her mouth.
“Yes. Only the difference is I am not going to let you go.”
“Is this your idea of seduction, Mr. Ahearn?”
“Maybe. Is it working?” She hops into my arms and wraps her legs around my waist.
“Most definitely. Now get to work,” she says before dropping to her feet and sashaying her sexy ass out of the room. I have
to adjust my cock, moving it to the side because when she is in the room, it is always trying to bust through my pants.
I work for a few hours until my client calls telling me to meet him on the casino room floor in two hours. Smiling because
that is exactly the timeframe I needed, I tell him I will be there. As if I conjured them up, the bell rings, and I hear a squeal.
Knowing exactly why she did that, I walk out of the room with my hands in my pockets to a room filled with racks of dresses
and a stylist complete with someone to do her hair and makeup, depending on what she chooses to wear.
I watch her cheesing from ear to ear, moving clothes after clothes, not realizing I am in the room watching her. I am simply
enjoying the happiness on her face. That is what I aim for every day of our lives. Suddenly, she turns and sees me. Her eyes
brighten, shining with elation, before she runs across the room and launches herself into my arms; I hold her under her ass and
laugh when she peppers my face with kisses.
“Are you happy, beautiful?” She looks at me like I am crazy before, finally, her kiss lands on my lips.
“I am, Con. Thank you so much for making this entire experience so amazing.” God, this girl is going to make my chest hurt.
“I’m happy I can do that for you, baby. Now, we have two hours to get ready and be on the casino floor. Get busy.” She
smiles once more before her feet touch the floor. I watch her walk away and feel my chest thumping with love. Fuck I love her
so much.
 Exactly an hour and a half later, I walk into the room to tell her we have to leave and before I can get the words out, the
breath is taken from my lungs and replaced with a possessive rage. She sees me in the mirror and turns. “Is it time?” I nod my
head, unable to speak until she stands up and then the words are readily available.
“What the hell are you wearing?” I growl, rushing at her. She has on this little red dress that hugs her in all the right places
for my eyes only, but the wrong places for all the limp dick assholes who are going to be there. The dress hits mid-thigh, and
the gold-glittered shoes bring more than enough attention to her long, thick legs. Her hair is up with little tendrils framing her
perfect face.
I am standing in front of her an inch apart, and my body is jacking up to take her right now. I need her to go to the casino
floor with my come running down her leg. Reaching for her, I kiss her possessively.
“What’s up? I thought we had to go?”
“We do,” I say, turning her away from me. I bend her over the back of the sofa. I pull her dress up over her ass and pull her
panties down to her knees. Pulling my cock out, I run it up and down her ass crack before slamming into her soaking wet cunt.
“Fuck, Feb. How are you so fucking perfect?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she moans, taking my cock like the good girl she is.
It doesn’t take long before I’m filing her with my seed, and her little pussy is coming on my cock. I pull her panties back in
place, and we head out.
I have been with Bosco for the last hour; my mind is not on him at all. Feb has been out of my sight for most of that time,
and I am anxious to get to her. “So, what do you make of the place, mal’chik?” He asks in his heavily accented voice. It grates
me when he calls me a boy in his language, but I also know he doesn’t mean it with disrespect.
“I think this place is a money pit. I am looking around and although it is packed right now, that is due to the concert
happening. I went through their reporting for the fiscal year, and they barely break even.” he grunts and nods his head
disappointedly. Anxious to get to my woman. I shake his hand and walk away.
I assume she is going to be at the slot machines or the roulette wheel. When I don't see her there, I begin to panic. Did
someone kidnap her? I mean, that is not outside the realm of possibility. Who wouldn’t want her for themselves? I am headed to
security when I hear her squeal at the blackjack table. “What the fuck!” I say to myself. I see a guy way too close to her, trying
to see down her dress. He touches her arm which she slyly moves away from him. He whispers something in her ear, and I can
tell it is making her uncomfortable. No one gets to whisper in my woman's ear but me.
Swiftly, I make my way over to them. “Hey, buddy.” I tap him on his shoulder.
“Dude, don’t you see I am busy with this thick piece of steak,” he says, licking his lips. She looks at me shaking her head so
only I can see it because she knows what is coming.
“Yeah, That is my woman.” I am trying to not beat his ass but quickly lose that battle.
“Yeah, right,” he says and reaches for her ass. That’s it. I spin him around, and my fist lands on his face. He wobbles back,
holding his jaw, blood spewing from his nose. He gives his best shot and swings at me, which I dodge. I double-punch him
right in his face before striking his neck. I watch him go down like the piece of shit he is and pull my woman into my arms.
“I can’t fucking leave you alone for a minute, can I?” Her eyes are hazy, heavy like they are when she is turned on.
“Is it wrong that I think that was hot as hell?” she asks, licking her lips. I don’t answer. I just throw her over my shoulder,
find the nearest VIP bathroom, slide my card through it, and place her on the counter.
“You’re going to get someone killed with this curvy as sin body, February,” I growl as I push her dress up. She scoots to the
edge of the counter and wraps her legs around my waist. Reaching between us, she opens my belt and pants and strokes my
cock, before lining it up with her little pussy hole.
“Too bad,” she moans as I push into her.
Yeah, my girl is a troublemaker, but I love it.
CHAPTER
NINE
FEBRUARY
ONE WEEK AND TWO DAYS LATER
Charlottesville, North Carolina, is way bigger than I thought it was. We pull up to a big house in the suburbs and get out. There
isn’t anyone on the street, but it’s still daylight. Connall takes my hand in his and we walk up the driveway. He rings the
doorbell, and a tall African-American man answers the door.
“You lost? The interstate is two miles east,” he says, going to close the door in our faces.
“Are you Jarrell Collins?” I blurt.
“Who’s asking? You selling something I don’t need?”
“No, sir. I’m looking for my birth father. He donated sperm in the late nineties and my mom’s used it.”
“Well, no darlin’. It wasn’t me,” he says, chuckling. “Come on in. Have some tea. My wife will want to hear the story.”
“Thank you,” I say. We go inside. Every bit of the house that we can see is decorated with apples. Like apples are
everywhere. Green ones, red ones, yellow ones, and even pink ones.
“Who was at the door, Jerry?” a beautiful woman comes around the corner. She looks like a Jazzercise girl from the 80s.
Big hair and spandex as far as the eye can see.
“February and Connall,” Connall says, answering for the both of us.
“Well, aren’t you a cute couple?”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Nonsense with that ma’am stuff. I’m Janice. Come in. I just made some fresh sweet tea.”
“Thank you, ma’am… Janice,” I quickly correctly when she looks at me.
We spend forty-five minutes in the apple orchard with Jarrell and Janice. They were probably the nicest people we’ve met
with yet.
“Do you have any children?” Janice asks as she sits down on Jarrell’s lap.
“No,” I say at the same time Connell says, “not yet.”
“Our youngest just started high school in the fall and our oldest just got married.”
“That’s nice. I’d like to have a large family myself,” I say. Connall looks like a deer in the headlights.
“Have not you talked about that yet?” Jarrell asks, laughing.
“No,” I say embarrassed. “We haven’t.” Connall grabs my hand.
“We will,” he says reassuring me.
“So how did y’all meet?” Janice asks.
“Oh, Connall is my boss.”
“Oooh. There’s nothing like a workplace romance. It’s one of my favorite genres.”
“Surprisingly enough, me too,” I say laughing.
One glass of ice tea turns into two, which turns into lunch. I even exchanged numbers with Janice. I promised to keep in
touch with her.
We check into the hotel and decide to stay in. We order room service and climb into bed. The hotel provided us with a deck
of cards when Connall asked for them. We played Rummy and War for a while until I was ready to lie down. He lets me watch
the Food Network until I can’t take it anymore. He’s been steadily stroking his hands on my body for hours now. I turn the TV
off and roll on top of him. He pushes my robe open. I’m naked underneath. Ready for him. I’m always ready for him.
“Fuck, babe,” he groans as his hands cup my breasts. He rolls my nipples around his fingers until they are tight buds. I push
his robe open and fist his cock. His perfect, perfect cock. “You want to ride my cock?”
“Oh my god, yes. Please let me ride your cock. I need it. I need you,” I breathe.
“You beg so prettily, babe. Are you wet for me?”
“Always.”
“Good girl. Raise up onto your knees.” I do, and he grips his cock, guiding it into my pussy.
“Yesss,” I hiss as I fully seat myself on him. I feel so full this way. So powerful.
I ride him for long minutes until he flips me onto my back and pounds into me. Harder and harder, the headboard hitting the
wall. Over and over, he drives into me, leaving me breathless and reaching for more. He owns me body and soul, and I never
want that to change. I’m his in every way.
“Take my cock, babe.” He grunts above me. He’s sweating, a drop hits my belly, and instead of being grossed out, it turns
me on more. I tighten my legs around his waist and take the railing he gives me. I’m so close to coming. When he strums my
clit, I lose my mind.
“I love you. I love you. I love you,” I shout.
He leans down and kisses me.
 “Sleep, my love,” he whispers into my ear sending shivers down my spine. He pulls the covers over us and me closer to
him.
I really do love him, I think, as I place kisses all over his chest. I really, really do. I always have and I always will.
CHAPTER
TEN
 CONNALL

Raleigh, North Carolina, is also turning out to be unsuccessful, but it is also lots of fun. We met with Edmond Handcock, who
was a riot. Apparently, after he left the service, he realized he was gay and loved to dress in women's clothes, so we were
greeted by a drag queen. He told us in the only way he could that he never donated but that he wished he had because that
would have been his only chance to have a baby. He invited us to a drag show which we gladly went to and had a wonderful
time.
With only two days left in this state before we move on to the last place, we decided to go to the North Carolina Museum of
Art for today since we both have a love of all art, and she is hell-bent on driving two and a half hours tomorrow to hit Pit Road
Bar & Grill in Charlotte, a place Guy Fieri went to of course.
Right now, we are standing in front of Pierre-Jacques Volaire’s Eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. “It’s so strong,” she whispers in
reverence. “I mean, you can see the panic in the shading. The way he captured the cover of the city in fire.” I nod my head. I
know what she means. I have always loved this painting, but right now, I am more focused on her. This woman consumes my
every thought, and now that we have shared the ultimate connection, all I want to do is lock her down and make her my wife.
The problem is, we haven’t said I love you outside of being in the throes of passion. I have been waiting for the right moment.
I watch her move on to Portrait of a Woman by Gerrit van Honthrost. This one I am intimately acquainted with because it
used to sit in my grandmother's sitting room. “Do you see the resignation in her eyes?” I whisper in her ear, sneaking a sniff of
her scent that has soaked into my skin.
“You see resignation?” she asks, looking at me. I nod my head, looking back at the painting, remembering how she
reminded me of my long-suffering grandmother, forced into marriage for a merger of families and made to endure the many
infidelities of my grandfather and all of his illegitimate children.
“I see a woman embracing her fate and choosing to hold her head up.” Hearing her vision of the work also makes sense. I
guess I never looked at my grandmother like that, but that could also be her legacy. Strength.
“I never looked at it that way. Thank you,” I say to her, meaning it. She gave me another view of the woman I was so fond
of.
We spent another two hours there before leaving to grab a bite at one of the food trucks on the street. “What would you
like?” The owner asks, looking her up and down. She is so unaware of the attention she receives and that is the only thing that
saves half these men.
“I will have the stuffed gyro,” she says, bouncing on her feet. I chuckle because that is typical of her. She loves anything
with a ton of cheese. I get a hamburger with gruyere cheese, bacon and salami. “Wanna sit over there?” she asks, pointing to a
seat.
“Sure, babe.” We sit and dive into our food, which I have to admit is delicious. I look up and see she has cheese hanging
from her lip, and I chuckle, wiping it away. She laughs when she realizes it and suddenly, I can no longer hold it in. “God, I
love you.” I confess, smiling at her. She is mid-action, taking another bite, when she sits her sandwich down and looks at me. I
can see the confusion on her face and the battle within herself, and I don't want her to feel that. “You don’t have to say it back,
babe. Not until you are ready.” Her shoulders relax, but my stomach churns. Am I alone?
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 CHAPTER XX.
STUDIES INTERRUPTED.

A few days after this conversation a considerable number of troops

traversed the country. The Germans were manœuvring on both
sides of the Loire, and were threatening Tours. A general officer was
quartered at M. de Gandelau’s who was acquainted with Eugène.
The latter was impatient at the inactivity to which he had been
condemned since the war had begun to take so fatal a turn.
In the evening he had a long conversation with this officer, and
next morning announced to M. de Gandelau that he was intending to
set out with the corps which was traversing the country; observing
that officers of the Engineers were wanting, and that he could at
need fulfil their functions; that his friend, the general, very much
approved his determination; and that in circumstances of such
gravity he thought it his duty not to hesitate to go, as he might
possibly be of some service. M. de Gandelau did not attempt to keep
him; he understood too well the sentiments by which his guest was
influenced.
“What shall we do with Paul?” said he to Eugène.
“I believe you have Vitruvius in the original in your library?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you will let me have it for an hour before I go, I shall be
able to explain to Paul how he should set to work with this treatise:
that will prevent him from forgetting his Latin, and further him in the
studies we have commenced.”
“An excellent idea.”
“You will require Paul to give you, twice a week, the translation of a
chapter, with explanatory drawings: that will keep his hand in and
occupy his mind. I do not suppose his translation will supersede
even Perrault’s; but that does not matter, he will not be losing his
time absolutely. As soon as I can return you shall see me again.”
 Paul was disconsolate at his cousin’s departure, and at not being
able to accompany him; he would have greatly liked to follow up his
studies in the art of building by a course of military engineering in the
field, but this would have embarrassed his cousin, and Madame de
Gandelau would scarcely have survived her anxiety. Paul was
furnished with the edition of Vitruvius, and the work to which he was
to devote himself was explained to him.
Two hours after, Eugène, provided with a small portmanteau, was
on his way with his friend, the general; whose corps was en route for
Chateauroux. Promises to write as often as possible had been given
on both sides.
We can easily imagine the gloomy aspect which M. de Gandelau’s
house assumed after this hasty departure. At the very beginning of
the war he had equipped and despatched all his able-bodied
dependants. There remained only two or three old men-servants,
and some female domestics whose husbands or children were for
the most part in the army. Monsieur and Madame de Gandelau
ceased to use the drawing-room, in which beds had been placed for
the wounded in case any should come. The family used to assemble
in Madame de Gandelau’s room, and took their meals in a small
apartment that usually served for a pantry.
Paul, when his cousin was gone, went to pay a visit to the works.
They were deserted; snow covered the heap of walling stones, the
cut stones, and the scattered timbers. The walls, which had reached
a certain height, protected by straw and surmounted by a crest of
snow—their surfaces showing brown in contrast with the white veil
that mantled them—and some pieces of wood black with damp, gave
to these incipient constructions the aspect of the débris of a
conflagration.
Although at Paul’s age young people are not very accessible to
sombre thoughts, the poor boy could not restrain his tears in
presence of this scene of desolation. He recalled in thought this spot
so animated a month before with its bands of active workmen. All
were gone, and the soul of this habitation, which he had begun to
associate with all the joys of family life, had just quitted him.
 In spite of the cold he seated himself on a stone, his head in his
hands, overwhelmed with gloomy thoughts. This was the first deep
grief, the first severe disappointment, he had experienced: it seemed
to him that all was over, and that there was no more hope nor
happiness possible for him in this world.
A hand laid upon his shoulder made him start; he raised his head
—his father was behind him. Paul threw himself into his arms at
once, sobbing.
“Come, Paul, my boy, calm yourself,” said M. de Gandelau to him.
“We are living in a time of trials; who knows what are reserved for
us? For us, indeed, they have scarcely begun. Think how much
suffering there is in France now! What are our anxieties and griefs
compared with the anguish suffered by others! Reserve your tears;
perhaps you will have only too frequent occasion for them. We need
not be in a hurry to despond. I observed you going in this direction,
and followed you, anticipating your melancholy feelings. But, after
all, what is there to grieve over? Nothing, or only a trifle. Set to work
again courageously, alone, since our friend has been obliged to quit
us to fulfil a sacred duty. He will return; you have learned to love and
esteem him more: prove to him that you are worthy of the affection
he has exhibited to you by showing him some thoroughly good work
when he comes back.
“Certainly he would be touched by your grief, of which his absence
is to a great extent the cause; be assured that he would be still more
touched to see that you had scrupulously followed his last
instructions, and that his presence is not the only inducement to
make you like work.”
Father and son regained the house. The counsels of M. de
Gandelau, and the pains he took to give Paul a glimpse of brighter
days, had by degrees restored to him, if not gaiety, at least
tranquillity of mind and the desire to do his best. M. de Gandelau
most dreaded for his son a feeling of despondency—that vague and
sterile sadness on which youth sometimes loves to feed, and which
enervates the most gifted minds.
 He therefore entered Paul’s room, and taking up Vitruvius, which
had been left on the table, began to look through it. M. de Gandelau
was a good scholar, though he never made a parade of his
acquirements. They were a possession he reserved for himself.
Familiar with the classics, he could read the text of Vitruvius, if not
explain it architecturally in all its parts. “Stay,” said he to Paul, “here
is a chapter which must be interesting, and which may teach you
many things; it is Chapter VIII.: De generibus structuræ et earum
qualitatibus, modis ac locis. How would you translate this title?”
“Of the kinds of constructions, and their qualities, according to
customs and localities,” replied Paul.
“Yes, that is the translation. But on looking through this chapter, I
see that masonry only is considered; the author, in making use of the
word structura, seems to me to have wished only to treat of
constructions of brick or stone. It would be better, doubtless, to
render the passage thus: Of the different kinds of masonry, and the
properties of this structure according to local usages and
circumstances.
“Well, set to work to translate this eighth chapter. I see that the
author has described the kinds of masonry whose use he
recommends on such or such occasions. You will therefore have to
illustrate your translation by sketches. Come! take courage, and
imagine your cousin at hand ready to rectify your mistakes.”
Paul therefore set himself to work, endeavouring to embody in
sketches each of Vitruvius’s descriptions. This gave him no little
trouble, of course; many words were new to him, and the dictionary
helped him only very imperfectly when it was necessary to know
their exact sense. Nevertheless, by degrees the work acquired a
charm for him. To further his comprehension of the author he tried to
recall to mind buildings he had seen; he remembered some
instructions given by Eugène; and put on paper, to the best of his
ability, opposite the translation, sketches tolerably drawn, if they
were not the true expression of the descriptions in the original.
Thus, during the end of the month of December and the
commencement of January, he succeeded in translating a dozen
chapters which his father selected for him, giving illustrations of the
text. This gave him a great desire to become acquainted with the
buildings existing in his author’s times, and he examined attentively
a set of engravings by Piranesi descriptive of ancient Rome, and
which his father possessed. M. de Gandelau had advised Paul to
write down the questions which his reading suggested to him, so as
to submit them to Eugène on his return. Thus the days passed
rapidly away: and although sadness and anxiety darkened every
hour, yet, as M. de Gandelau was incessantly occupied in relieving
the misery around him and organizing the struggle against the
invaders, while Paul was working with energy and seeing his results
accumulating, and Madame de Gandelau had organized a workroom
in which the women of the village were engaged in providing linen for
our unfortunate and destitute soldiers, when the evening arrived, the
members of the family could still assemble with that feeling of secret
joy which duty accomplished procures. Towards the close of January
the inmates of the château learned from the newspapers that an
armistice had been signed. Though this news announced the end of
the struggle, it presaged the commencement of the severest
humiliations. It produced, therefore, a sad, rather than consolatory
impression.
A few days afterwards Eugène returned to the château. It need not
be said that he was welcomed with open arms, and that Paul
especially manifested his joy. They talked of resuming the works.
The last letters of Madame Marie announced that she would be
home again towards the end of the following winter. These letters,
filled as they were with expressions of the anxiety—the anguish—felt
by the writer in her absence from France, said nothing of the future
house. If then it could be finished, the surprise would be complete.
While Eugène was enjoying the rest he so much needed, he looked
through and revised Paul’s translation, and corrected his sketches. A
fair copy was made of the whole; and the first days of March drew
on, when it was decided to recommence the works.
 CHAPTER XXI.
BUILDING RECOMMENCED—THE TIMBER WORK.

Towards the middle of March, the weather being fine, the works were
resumed, and instructions for executing the floors and roofs had to
be given to the carpenter, that no time might be lost. Paul was
beginning to understand his cousin’s sketches more readily, and to
be able to make himself useful. Besides, he had acquired the
excellent habit of asking for explanations when he had reason to
suppose on a first view that he could not faithfully interpret a rough
sketch; and Eugène was not sparing of explanation and
commentaries. His patience was inexhaustible. Nevertheless, every
time Paul was embarrassed and was unable to solve a difficult
question, before putting him in the way to do so, Eugène used to let
him try for a reasonable time.
“Reflect,” he would say to him, “and you will be sure to find some
solution. If it is not the right one, I will help you; but you must get
some result for yourself. It is impossible to have a clear
understanding of a solution given by a person who understands the
matter, until we have thoroughly considered it, and made some
efforts to solve the given problem ourselves. This is a necessary
preliminary exercise, and one which puts the mind in a right state for
comprehending. Draw a general section of the main building through
the billiard-room and your brother-in-law’s study: I mean a transverse
section which will indicate the walls, the floors, the fireplaces, and
roofs. You have nearly all the necessary elements. Endeavour to
arrange the whole in proper order, that you may make all the parts of
the building clear to yourself. I do not wish to see this section till you
have finished it. Not till then shall I correct it; and that correction will
be of advantage to you.”
Making use, therefore, of the details already drawn, Paul drew the
transverse section, not without difficulty; but the roof-timbers were
singularly conceived,—their composition appeared to him difficult
and complicated. He did not know how to close the wide opening
between the billiard-room and the drawing-room. The dormer-
windows of the roof embarrassed him considerably. Besides, he had
much difficulty in realizing the junction of all these parts. In spite of
all his efforts he could not succeed in representing clearly their
relative positions. He was not satisfied, and frankly told his cousin
so.
“I am very glad,” replied the latter, “that you are not satisfied. It
would be a bad sign if you were, for it would prove that you had not
made any great effort. Your walls are fairly in their right place
according to the section we have taken. But the timbers, the dormer-
windows!—this could not hold together, and is wanting in simplicity.
Why so many pieces of wood?... Have you assured yourself of their
utility? We have walls; let us make use of them. Why not make use
of the wall which separates the billiard-room from the study to bear
the roofing timbers in part?—especially as this wall receives chimney
flues, which must surely be carried up through the roof. You did not
remember the chimneys; that is thoughtlessness, for you see them
marked in the plans of the ground floor and of the first and second
floors.”
“I certainly thought of them,” replied Paul; “but I did not know how
to carry them up through the roof.”
“And so you did not draw them; that is certainly a way of avoiding
the difficulty; but yet you know they must go up through the roof.
That I cannot approve of; putting aside a question is not solving it.
Come, let us revise all this together.”
 Fig. 46.—Transverse Section of the House.

The section was soon corrected (Fig. 46), and Eugène did not fail
to furnish it in detail, according to the uses of the apartments through
which the section was drawn; which pleased Paul greatly, as he
could thus realize the billiard-room completed, with its opening into
the drawing-room, his brother-in-law’s study, with its doors; then
above, his bedroom, dressing-room, and the two attic rooms. This
drawing appeared to him charming; he could fancy himself already
entering the apartments and enjoying his sister’s surprise on
examining these interiors. He was wanting to show all these pretty
things to Madame de Gandelau directly, but Eugène persuaded him
to have a little patience.
“All this,” he said, “is a mere trifle indeed—nothing but fancy; we
shall have to furnish the details of the woodwork and internal
arrangements, and when we come to study them we shall find much
to revise. Leave off looking at these interiors for a few minutes, and
let us examine the timber-work of the roof. Let us draw it in plan.”
(Fig. 47).

Fig. 47.
“The walls a b are the gables which are to support the purlins. We
have at c d two cross-walls, which also form gables, and will also
receive the purlins. But the spaces e c are too wide for purlins from e
to c. They measure 22 feet between; now the purlins must not have
a bearing of more than 13 feet if we would avoid their bending.
Intermediate principals are therefore necessary at g h, against the
sides of the middle dormers i. The purlins from a to g will not then
exceed 13 feet in length, and we shall be able to strengthen them by
means of struts from the end gables. From k to l there will be valley-
rafters at the penetration of the roofs. Let us first consider the
principals g h (Fig. 48).
 Fig. 48.
“The height between the floors of the story in the roof should be 10
feet. We will put two main supports a, fixed into foot-pieces
connected by a tie-rod, which will pass under the floor; upon these
supports a tie-beam b; then to secure the tie-beam to these
supports, clip-braces c. On the ends of this tie-beam will rest the
purlins d. The blades e will fasten into this tie-beam and into the
king-post f. Beneath the second purlins h, it will be necessary to put
clips g, forming a collar-beam. The ridge-pole i will be carried by the
king-post, with diagonal struts. The other ends of the purlins will rest
in the gables. Thus we shall be enabled to fix the rafters which will
receive the battens and the slates. These timbers (tie-beams, collar-
beams, and blades) may pass through the longitudinal wall k,
containing the chimney flues, and in turn the roof-timbers will stay
the wall, while the wall supports and stiffens the roof. As to the
middle of the building, having the two walls c d, it will suffice to rest
the ridge-pole l across, and relieve its bearing with two struts m,
tenoned into the ends of a beam n, which will prevent their
spreading. At the level of the latter we will place the beams a b (see
Fig. 47), which will receive the ridge-poles o of the cross-roofs.
These beams will also be relieved by struts r. On the ridge-poles o
will come the meeting of the valley-rafters s (shown in elevation at
s). Thus the raftering will be everywhere well supported; and,
relatively to the surface of the building, we shall use but a small
quantity of timber, since we take every possible advantage of the
support afforded us by the interior walls. The gables will enable us to
avoid the necessity of hip-roofs, which are difficult to contrive and
require a good deal of timber. There remains the roof of the
staircase. In order that you may understand how to construct it, I am
going to draw it for you in perspective. This roof is supported by
walls which rise above the cornice of the building, but it penetrates
the main roof at x (see Fig. 47). If you examine the drawing (Fig. 39),
you will observe that the walls of the staircase leave an angle without
any vertical support over the entrance-hall. It will be necessary then
to provide a bearing for the hip of the roof which comes over that
space. To effect this, we will place on the two wall ends a small
principal which shall receive the foot of the hip-rafter v, denoted in
Fig. 47. This arrangement is apparent in the perspective drawing
(Fig. 49), which gives the square tower of the principal stairs with its
roof-framing. We will raise the oblong newel a of this stairs up to the
level of the cornice. Upon the walls we will lay the wall-plates b; then
from the three angles to the newel, the foot-pieces c. On the ends,
halved together, of these foot-pieces we will erect the two king-posts
p, and the three hip-rafters e. The feet of the two king-posts will be
connected by the clips f. As to the back hip-rafter g, it will fix into the
front of the king-post of the little principal, as I show you at g´; and in
order to hinder the principal from being thrust out by this hip-rafter,
clips h will connect the head of the king-post of the little principal with
the king-post d of the roof. On the angles of the hip-rafters at i, it will
be necessary to fix some blocks to carry the ends k of the purlins,
which will support the bearing of the rafters.
 Fig. 49.

“At l you see the gable which has to join the roof of the staircase;
and do not forget that stone filletings m must be built into the walls
against which roofs abut, forming a weather-moulding above these
roofs, to hinder the rain-water from getting in between the slating and
the wall. Filletings are most commonly made with mortar or cement,
on the roofing itself; but as that is subject to movement, these
filletings break away and have to be constantly renewed. Built into
the masonry above the slope of the roofing, they cover the junction
of the slate or tile with the walls, and, being independent of the roof,
they cannot suffer from any giving in the timbers.
“You will draw the roofs to a scale of a quarter of an inch to a foot;
I will correct your drawings, and we will give them to the carpenter, in
order that he may prepare his timbers as soon as possible. We will
figure the scantlings of these timbers. Thus, the blades on the
principal rafters should be 8 inches × 7 inches, the collar-clips 3½
inches × 7 inches, the king-posts 7 inches × 7 inches, the tie-beam
the same, the main supports 8 inches × 8 inches, the rafters 3
inches × 4 inches, the purlins 8 inches × 8 inches, without sap or
flaws.”
“What do you mean by flaws?”
“Depressions; deficiencies of material apparent at the corners
when timbers are squared which are rather crooked, and which
thereby leave sap visible on these corners and even a hollow place,
such as I mark here at a (Fig. 50). You will be careful not to allow
flaws in timbers which the carpenter may employ for the roofs and
joists.

Fig. 50.
 Fig. 51.
“In considering our floors, I see that for the billiard-room, the
dining-room, and the drawing-room, we shall do well to have in each
of these apartments two beams to take the joists, on account of the
width of bearing, and the partitions which come over these floors.
You remember that we deferred this question, and that in the detail
(Fig. 42), and in the section (Fig. 46), we have supposed the
existence of these beams. The joists in these three rooms, instead of
bearing from one side wall to the other, will bear from the gable walls
on to the beams. But these beams, though cut from the best oak,
invariably deflect sooner or later; which, to say the least, looks very
bad. We will therefore make them each in two pieces, sawn through
in the manner I showed you for lintels, and between the two pieces
we will interpose a thin plate of iron. That will enable us to treat the
beams like the wall bearers, and fit the joists into their sides, instead
of laying them on the top, and consequently avoid a too great
projection below the ceiling. Thus (Fig. 51), having two pieces of
timber a, 12 inches × 6 inches, we will put between them a plate of
iron ⅛th of an inch thick. We will bolt the whole together at regular
intervals as marked at d, and, in the notches c, we will fix the ends
of the joists e. A few iron straps will be nailed across to connect
these ends one to another, and we shall obtain in this manner
perfectly rigid floors. The beams will be supported in their bearings
by corbels, and will not go more than six inches into the wall. This
then is another detail to be got ready for the carpenter. Mind and see
that the ends of the beams within the wall have a coat of red lead,
and are enclosed in a box of sheet zinc, No. 14, to prevent the
moisture of the wall from penetrating the grain of the wood. Well! that
is something done: draw it all out neatly. To-morrow, when I have
looked over your drawings, we will send for Jean Godard, and we
will go and select the wood in your father’s timber-yard.”
Next day Paul presented his drawings. Many corrections were,
indeed, necessary, still on the whole his cousin congratulated him on
the result. Paul was taking pains, and was endeavouring to
understand everything thoroughly; and though he could not always
find the simplest and most natural solutions, he showed at least that
he had reflected before putting anything on paper.
Jean Godard having been summoned, the drawings were
presented to him. Some explanations were given him, after which
Eugène asked him if he had any observations to make. Jean Godard
was scratching his head, but said nothing.
“Is there anything in all this that you do not clearly understand, or
that seems faulty?” said Eugène to him.
“No, sir; but yet these are floors that are out of the common way; it
will be difficult—we are not accustomed—and you see—it isn’t what
we generally do in carpentry.”
“Which means that you must be paid more than for floors made in
your way.”
“Yes, to be sure—you understand—there is labour to be
considered—all these timbers here must be sawn—planed,
perhaps.”
“Consider well, Jean. The joists must be sawn on two faces only—
the two faces that are seen; but all joists are sawn out. If we asked
you to supply the wood, you might say that you would not find joists
of this kind; but in this case you have to select from our wood. If you
use small timber it will be enough to saw two faces thus (Fig. 52):
you may, if you like, leave the faces a roughly squared and only
cleared of sap. If you cut your joists out of large timber (Fig. 53) you
will only have to run the saw-cuts as I have sketched here at b. But I
prefer to use small timber, because it does not crook in drying, as
timber which is quartered is sure to do; and I think we shall have
enough of the former to prevent us from being obliged to employ this
last method. We shall have, then, to pay you only for the sawing of
the two faces, as for the joists you usually employ. As for the beams,
they will be also sawn on two faces only, for if we cut them from a
single trunk we shall put the two sawn faces outside (Fig. 54), and
the plate of iron being interposed at d we shall put below a moulded
board c, to cover the joining, and the flaws, should there be any.
With regard to the triangular notchings to be made at e, they are less
difficult to fashion than mortises, and as the joists bear in full they
have no tenons. It is the same with the bearers which, along the
walls, receive the ends of the joists, and take the place of cornices.
—Well, what do you say about it?”

Fig. 52. Fig. 53. Fig. 54.

“Why—still it isn’t flooring such as we see everywhere.”

“What does that matter, if it gives you no more trouble to make?
We shall take account of the time you spend, as we furnish the
wood; consequently you are secured against loss. Make a careful
estimate, and if you like we will make a bargain. We will pay you by
the cubic foot as for ordinary flooring, or take account of the time
employed in working and pay you for that time. Make your choice!”
Jean Godard twirled his cap about some time, looked at the
drawings in every possible way, scratched his right ear again, then
his left, and after a good half-hour declared that he consented to be
paid for floors of this kind at the same rate as for ordinary floors
according to measurement.
“And you are right,” said Eugène; “for if you manage your work
well, if there is no bungling, you will gain more by this bargain than if
we paid you according to time, because there is less work in flooring
of this kind for the same quantity of material than in those you are
accustomed to make, especially in this neighbourhood.”
Jean Godard, however, asked for an additional consideration for
the bearers that were to be substituted for the rough fixing in the
walls.
“Granted,” said Eugène; “we save plaster cornices, and it is right
that we should make you an allowance on that account.”
It was therefore resolved that they should make a separate
payment for the labour on the bearers, that is, for their notches and
chamfers.
Next day four pit-saws were at work, cutting up the timber that had
been stored. The scene of labour had resumed all its activity. In the
masonry department a design for a dormer-window remained to be
furnished, but which was soon supplied (Fig. 55), and besides this
the direction of the chimney flues.
Eugène on giving Paul the particulars of the dormer-windows,
section a and exterior elevation b, drew his attention to their
construction. Raised on a gutter-wall 20 inches thick, they were to
consist of two jambs of three courses each. On the first two courses
would be left a string-course c, designed to cover the slate of the
roofing and to form a filleting. These two jambs would carry the lintel
and two stones forming corbels. Two pieces on this lintel would
receive the gable knees, and would form the jambs of the higher
opening designed to ventilate the attics. The gable would consist of
two courses surmounted by a finial. The section indicated how the
slopes of the coping would form a filleting on the small roofs of these
dormer-windows behind, and a drip in front, to hinder the rain-water
from running down the faces of the stone-work.
Fig. 55.
 CHAPTER XXII.
THE CHIMNEYS.

“Why do chimneys smoke?” asked Paul of his cousin.

“You mean rather to ask me,” replied the latter, “why some
chimneys smoke. Many causes contribute to make chimneys smoke,
while there is only one condition which must be observed if they are
not to smoke. We must therefore do our utmost to fulfil that
condition, viz. a flue proportioned to the fireplace, and the supply of a
quantity of air to the latter proportioned to the combustion. If the flue
is too narrow for the amount of smoke given off by the combustion,
this smoke does not rise easily enough, its advance in ascending is
checked by friction, and the discharge being insufficient for the
production, the smoke comes out into the room. We can stimulate
the combustion, and consequently the ascent of the smoke by a
current of external air directed towards the wood or coal. When the
fire is well lighted it warms the column of air that fills the chimney,
and the warmer this column is the lighter the air is, and the more it
tends to rise.
“That is why in some ill-built chimneys a certain time is required
before the smoke will take its proper course—that is to say, the
column of air must be warmed. And until it is so, the smoke passes
not into the flue, but into the room; then we open a window to supply
the fire with air, which brightens it up so as to warm the flue and
allow the smoke to take its proper course. For the same reason all
new chimneys smoke. Flues carried up in masonry are damp and
cold, and the air they contain is heavy; it takes some time to warm
and lighten it.
“Instead of opening a window to stimulate the fire (which is a
rather primitive method), we supply each grate with an air draught—
that is, we give it a channel which conducts the external air to the
combustible as soon as the least heat is developed, that, e.g. of a
piece of paper lighted. Immediately this exterior air is called in to fill
the vacuum produced by the commencement of combustion, and it
stimulates the fire by bringing it oxygen. The livelier the fire the more
rapid is the draught; and the more rapidly the air comes in, the more
brightly does the wood or coal burn. The air-channel is to a grate
what a pair of bellows are to a forge fire. But the air-channel, as well
as the flue, must bear a due proportion to the fireplace. If the flue is
too narrow, the smoke is obstructed, and comes out into the room; if
it is too wide, it is not uniformly heated, and the external currents of
air—the winds—exert a pressure at its upper extremity which
neutralizes the effect of the draught, and the smoke is beaten down.
If the air-channel is too small for the extent of the grate, it does not
bring the quantity of air necessary for combustion; the fire
languishes, it heats the flue imperfectly, and the lukewarm smoke
does not ascend rapidly enough. If the air-channel is too large, or
brings in too considerable a volume of air, the oxygen of which is not
completely taken up, then a part of the cold air enters the flue and
does not stimulate the draught; or, if there are changes in the
temperature, the air-channel attracts the air from the chimney
instead of bringing in air from the outside. The process is reversed,
and the chimney smokes dreadfully.”
It was in the evening, after dinner, and when the family were
seated around the hearth, that Eugène was propounding this theory.
“That appears to me simple enough,” said Madame de Gandelau;
“but then why does the chimney in my room, which I have had
altered several times, smoke on certain days?”
“Because your room, Madame, is situated in the new wing of the
house, the roof of which is lower than that of the older part. They
could not carry the flue high enough to rise above the ridges of the
roof of the old building, for that isolated chimney would not have
resisted the squalls. When the wind comes on your side it finds the
obstacle presented by the loftier building, and rebounds: an eddy is
formed, and whirling about on itself it becomes engulfed in your
chimney-flue, or at least obstructs for a time the passage of the
smoke. In such a case the flues should bifurcate; as the pressure of
the wind is never exerted equally in both orifices, the air rushing into
one makes the smoke issue violently through the other. I know of no
other plan: I have already proposed it to you; but you have thought,