There was an apple orchard in bloom. The blossoms were exquisite.
The sun was lowering into late afternoon as she walked back up to the house to the kitchen entrance. She greeted Betsey and Bill and the two more servants Daniel had hired for the duration of their stay, a cook and another maid. She begged a meal from them, as she had stayed out over luncheon.
Order and social division had been reestablished in the household, and that night, Betsey helped Eliza dress in one of her altered evening dresses and did her hair becomingly. Eliza forced down trepidation and went down for a dinner that would be only between her and Daniel.
He had not yet come down. She entered the empty drawing room and ran her fingers over the harpsichord keys without pressing. She didn’t want to disturb the silence of the house by the struck keys ringing out.
A flash of color caught her eye. Daniel’s sketchbook and drawing tools were resting on the settee, waiting for his return.
He drew her, he said. Curiosity filled her.
She looked back at the empty doorway. He would come down at any time, but for now, she was alone.
With guilt and a thrill of nerves, she walked over to the settee and pulled the book up. The leather cover was well-worn and stained. Some of the pages inside crinkled as if they had gotten wet, thickening them and bowing the cover.
She opened the sketchbook. The first sketch was rough. A village. Perhaps in Spain, though she was no judge of such things. She turned to the next page.
A soldier, rough and grizzled, gazed at her. A portrait drawn of one of his men, perhaps.
The next, a pretty Spanish girl, the strokes rough and imperfect, with a feeling of abandonment to the drawing, It wasn’t finished. But the page beside it had been cut out with a blade. Had he drawn the girl again, and gifted the more perfect drawing to her, as he had once done for Eliza?
An unexpected and uncomfortable emotion stabbed at her heart.
It could not be jealousy. That was ridiculous. Surely not. He had been free to draw any number of pretty girls, and give them his drawings.
But to imagine him looking with the same intensity and soulful focus, like he could see into her heart, with another person, suddenly filled her with a feeling of betrayal.
A ridiculous, irrational feeling. She would discard it and not let it linger.
She turned the page. Better. Horses. Very good. Horses were quite safe.
More pages of horses, and then a battle scene spread over two pages. No, the aftermath of a battle. It was a rough drawing, hard to make out, but touches of vivid red paint marred the surface, crinkled the paper, and made the scene gory and disturbing.
She quickly changed to the next page.
A young woman stared back at her. Large-eyed, small-mouthed, with straight brows and dark hair. A too-perfect face, too idealized to be real.
But was it? The brows were hers. The shape of the lips, they seemed familiar to herself, though her mouth was not that small and budlike. The eyes . . . too large. But the shape . . . It could be her eyes, drawn from memory.
Her chest tightened. She lingered on the drawing.
The next page, several of the same idealized girl, from profile, from three-quarters portrait view. Smiling, pensive, sad—different emotions on her face.
She frowned and turned the page.
It was Daniel. A self-portrait.
And it was very like. Her heart gave a throb. That was his soulful expression, his determined mouth. Yes, he had captured himself. A haunted look in his eyes. She had seen that expression there.
The next page, another battle, better delineated this time, and Eliza’s imaginings of Daniel—the determined man with inner tenderness and sensitivity shining through his eyes—in the midst of that maelstrom of death and spilt red heart’s blood made her sit down, weak-kneed and distressed, taking large breaths.
He had to go back to that. Because he had married her. The long war with Napoleon was over, but another war could spring up anywhere, at any time.
She quickly turned the page. The ideal lady was there, tears in her overly large eyes, her face upturned and hands clasped as if in prayer.
Eliza went faster, going through the sketchbook. Happier scenes, more portraits of soldiers, children, horses, a few landscapes, more of the idealized lady that must be his clumsy representation of her . . . And then, finally, to the portrait at the harpsichord today.
It was rough, unfinished, but she could see her features, similar to the ideal girl, but not so youthful. She was older, more formed, a woman grown. The proportions of her eyes to her face, and her lips and nose, were more true to life, less an ideal fantasy.
Her arms and the outline of the harpsichord were barely touched by a few strokes, but her face he had lingered on, focused on. Yes, that was more herself.
She sat back, feeling better. He had seen her as she really was, and not some idealized icon of beauty.
Her shoulders relaxed a tension she’d been holding.
A bit of hope rose up in her. She was a real woman to him again, perhaps.
Was that the last drawing in the sketchbook?
She turned the page and stared. Her breath caught.
It was her. Not drawn from life. No, this was an expression she was quite sure she had never had on her face before.
Never to her mother or father or grandparents—the only people she had loved with her whole heart—had she given this expression of love, devotion, and . . . desire . . . as was portrayed here.
But it was her face. It was not the idealized beauty anymore.
He must have drawn this this afternoon, after having studied her true features, for she could not deny it was herself portrayed. The proportions, from the upper lip to the nose, the pointed chin, the width of the mouth—wider than he had remembered when away from her—the size of her eyes: still large but not so extreme.
Yes. This was her, if she were in love.
It was too intimate. Her hair was down, for goodness sake! She looked wanton.
Strange emotions strained Eliza’s chest, throbbed in her heart. Outrage warred with . . . what? Flattery? Vanity? Which conflicted with a tender emotion she dared not touch, dared not linger on for examination.
Outrage. Outrage was the emotion she would latch onto.
Was he quite done?
She turned the page, sure he must be done.
But he had not been.
She stifled an indrawn gasp, and her lower stomach tightened in a startling spasm she didn’t understand.
It was a couple in an embrace. A swirling maelstrom surrounded them, strokes of power and emotion. Only vague shapes of their bodies were visible, flowing clothing moving around them, obscuring details except for hands and faces.
The lady was above, her eyes towards her lover, her face filled with tenderness, her arms around him, her hands visibly clasping him to her.
And the man’s face was tucked into her neck, one eye obscured, but the lower half of his face was an expression of heart-pounding happiness, his hair upswept by wind. Her hair flowed around them both, long and dark.
The faces, with their expressions of heart-aching love, were also clear.
She noticed the detailing on the lady’s neckline was reminiscent of that on the nightgown she had worn for the first time when sharing the inn room with him.
Her heart lurched.
It was him and her. Eliza and Daniel, as they had never been in life.
This was his hope and his dream. She stared, her face and body feeling hot and cold in turns, the blood rushing in her veins.
What should she do with this? What could she do?
A strange pang, an aching longing inside her, rose to the surface as if it had been there for days, but had only now been let loose.
This is what he wanted. This is what he dreamed.
It wasn’t her dream.
Or was it?
To be held, to be loved. To be touched with tenderness. And with honor.
A
terrible longing filled her. She pushed it away, tried to suppress it. She didn’t like it, didn’t trust it. Why was her heart aching like this?
A noise sounded behind her. She slammed the book closed, pushed it away from her, and stood too quickly, her face flaming.
“Eliza?”
It was Daniel’s voice.
Oh no, she could not face him now. She kept herself turned away. She strode from the settee, needing distance from the sketchbook. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that she had been looking at it.
But then a slide and thunk sounded behind her, and she closed her eyes in consternation. The sketchbook had fallen to the carpet.
She marked his progress into the room by sound. She covered her face with her hands and breathed too fast. She tried to slow her pounding heart.
“Eliza? What is wrong?” A pause. “Ah. I see.”
“I apologize, I—”
“No, no need. I failed to put it away. So you have looked at my sketchbook?”
She couldn’t find her voice. She could only nod, still turned away.
“Eliza, please look at me.”
She shook her head.
“Oh.” His voice was smaller. “I have offended you. I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” he stuttered. “I apologize. I didn’t even think, when I left this out . . . I shouldn’t have left this out. I did not intend . . . to shock you. I know you don’t feel the same way as I do.” A note of pleading entered his voice. “Please, accept my apology.”
He had gotten closer. She stiffened as she felt his presence close behind her. The energy coming off of him pulled at her.
It eased some. He had stepped back.
His voice was from farther away, but there was an edge of panic in his words. “I will not touch you, my lady, if you do not wish it. I will not approach you. I am a man of honor and capable of restraint, though you have seen little of it. I apologize.”
Her shoulders were high. She had hunched into herself, and could not seem to straighten. She had no words. She would give him no words.
His voice came from even further back in the room. It was calmer but still sounded strained.
“Would you be more comfortable with a tray sent to your room, my lady?”
A sob caught in her throat. “Yes, please.” Her voice was no louder than a whisper.
“Then I will have one sent up. Please, you are not obligated to stay. I . . .” He trailed off.
“Thank you.” She had to turn to get to the door. She forced herself. Her face was now cold, the furious blush had gone, replaced with woozy uneasiness.
He stood still and straight. She let her eyes run up his frame from his formal slippered feet, stockinged calves, satin breeches, waistcoat, and dark evening jacket. He was a lord, even if only by courtesy of birth and not by land and inheritance. His face, sensitive and on the edge of handsome, his mouth pressed tightly closed, and his eyes wide and full of pain.
She swallowed down the lump that constricted her throat and turned away.
“Your pardon,” she whispered and rushed from the room.
She pounded up the stairs and threw herself onto her bed, sobs afflicting her chest and catching her throat, but her eyes too dry to cry.
She stared up at the top of the canopy, and let her incomprehensible emotions prey on her.
Chapter 30
The next morning, a letter was slipped under her door. She picked it up, examined the simple “Eliza” written on it, and broke the wafer.
A shot of nerves hit her. It was from Daniel.
Eliza,
My deepest apologies. I promised both you and myself that I would wait on you, your wishes and your readiness. I have not kept that promise well. I will from today on do so. Bredon Wold is both too big and too small to avoid each other indefinitely, but I will occupy myself elsewhere during the day.
I hope to see you at dinner in the evening, but will not seek you out, touch you, or otherwise force my presence and attention on you.
We will be here for several weeks, with the intention to wait for the interest in us to have calmed down in London.
I hope you will feel at home here. Please tell Betsey if there is more you are needing for your comfort.
Your abject servant,
Daniel
She stared at the note, her feelings a tumbled tangle she didn’t want to interpret. She chose out of the mixture relief. She would focus on feeling relieved. Cultivate that emotion.
Daniel kept his word. She did not see him at breakfast, nor at midday. She asked, and was told by Bill that m’lord had gone out.
* * *
Four days later, a clopping of hooves brought Daniel to the open window of the armory where he had retreated for the day. Caring for the aging weapons lining the hunting box, and finding a suitably remote location to practice his pistol shooting away from Eliza’s hearing, had been the sole occupancy of the last few days.
He was avoiding his wife. A pitiful existence, but a necessary one.
He looked down on the weed-ridden graveled approach to Bredon Wold and saw two horses approaching, one with a rider, the other led. He watched with a furrowed brow as they came closer, until he recognized both rider and horses. He slapped his hand on the window ledge with a grin and hurried down the stairs and out the front to greet the new arrivals.
“Ho, John!” he called out as he trotted down the outer grand staircase.
John, a Kentworth Stables groomsman, looked up and greeted him with a hat tip and a smile. “M’lord! A good day to you!”
“And to you! Are you a welcome sight! And these handsome bits o’ blood and beauty.” Daniel grinned at the lovely horses.
The groomsman drew up the sorrel stallion he rode and dismounted. The stallion snorted and the mare being led behind pranced. It was Firebrand and black-coated, white-stockinged Maribel, two of Daniel’s sister Cassie’s finest horses. He had met John and the horses the two weeks he had spent at home in Kentworth before joining Frederick and the marchioness in London.
“What is this? A most unexpected surprise.” Daniel came up to the red sorrel stallion. Firebrand sniffed him for sugar and nipped at him when he found none. Daniel evaded the bite, grabbed Firebrand’s bridle, and rubbed his nose. “I wasn’t prepared for you, you handsome fellow.”
The sturdy young groomsman gave Daniel a bow and rummaged in his saddlebags. “Lady Cassandra sends her congratulations, and,” he pulled forth a letter, “this missive.” He handed it to Daniel.
Daniel took it with anticipation. “Is she terribly cross with me for marrying without her input?”
“I couldn’t say, m’lord. But she did send me with these fine ones.” John gave a smile.
Daniel grinned, broke the wafer on his elder sister’s letter, and set to reading. He skimmed over her terse greetings and exclamations over his turning the family on its head with a hasty marriage.
Consider these not quite a wedding present, but merely a honeymoon diversion. I know you go mad without a mount. Continue Firebrand’s training. I expect him returned to me in tip-top shape. I plan to sell him as a hunter in fall. If you find yourself too occupied otherwise, John will do the daily work.
The mare is for your lady, if they take to each other. Maribel’s a smooth walker and too dignified to become easily riled.
I don’t fair remember if the former Miss M. was much for horses or not, but I do recall she being a rather reserved, stately female, so here is another stately female for her to ride—they will either get along famously or not at all.
Daniel grinned over his sister’s words and went over to greet Maribel with a friendly pat on her proud neck. She was a fine lady and accepted his touch with a gentle blink of long dark lashes.
He looked up to see Eliza and her maid Betsey at the top of the entry stairs.
Daniel caught Betsey giving a flirtatious smile to John. The tips of the young groomsman’s ears turned red.
He hid a smile and called to his wife. “Eliza! Come see. My
sister Cassie sent us two beautiful mounts.” He led Maribel forward. “Is she not just the prettiest mare you’ve seen?”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “That was kind of Lady Cassandra, but . . .” She looked away from him. “I am not much of a horsewoman.” She turned and reentered the house with rapid steps.
He pushed back disappointment.
But if he was to stay away from Eliza as he promised her he would, what better occupation than two gorgeous horses?
* * *
The next day, two letters arrived for Daniel from London.
He broke the wax seal on the letter from Frederick and scanned over the words written in his brother’s small, spare script. He frowned at the news.
We have not prevailed in the case of the young ruffians who attempted to kidnap Eliza.
When set before the judge, the scoundrels claimed they were only seeking some “enjoyment with a young woman known to be free with such attentions.” The judge, through, I’m sure, the influence of their high family connections, was sympathetic to “young men on a lark.” The charges have been dismissed and they have been released to their families.
Daniel smacked his leg in frustration.
I regret I was not able to see justice done in this, but there is hope in the other matter I am pursuing for you. I have located the articles governing the entailment of Arne Park—Eliza’s father’s ancestral home, that had been inherited by her cousin Broughton—I am having a copy made, and will inform you soon what is to be discovered therein.
Daniel hoped for better news in Thomas’s letter. He snapped the wafer sealing it, and skimmed over his friend’s apologies on hearing the estate was in such neglect, and his permission for Daniel to hire new caretakers.
I regret to say that Crewkerne remains elusive. I have not been able to ascertain if he is still in London, or has escaped to the country. The letter for him you entrusted me with remains undelivered.
Daniel scowled down at the letters.
They would find that villain, and Daniel would have his duel. He would have justice for Eliza, one way or another.
Beneath Spring's Rain (Ashton Brides Book 1) Page 18
