by Joan Wolf
“No, thank you, sweetheart. Do you have something to work on for Mr. Ludgate?”
“Yes, I do, Mama.”
“Well, why don’t you do your schoolwork. If you need my help I will be in the guest room. The earl and I are going to paint.”
Nicky’s blue eyes grew huge. He looked at the tall aristocrat standing at the foot of the table. “Are you really going to help Mama paint, sir?” he asked in awe.
“I can see that if I don’t do a decent job with this painting, I shall never live it down,” Savile said. “Why are we standing here dawdling, Mrs. Saunders? There’s work to be done!”
* * * *
I had been working on the bedroom next to Nicky’s for about a week, so all of the furniture was pushed into the middle of the room and swathed in covers. The floor was also covered so that I didn’t splatter it with paint, and a ladder was propped against one of the walls.
I had begun my painting project five years ago, when I finally realized that if I kept waiting for my landlord to paint the house, I would wait forever. This particular bedroom was the first room I had done, and this winter I had decided to do it again.
I had swathed myself in a smock and was briskly stirring my bucket of blue paint when the door opened and the Earl of Savile came into the room.
He had removed his coat and his shoes and his neckcloth and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. As he crossed the room toward me on silent feet, I thought fleetingly that he moved with the fluid strength and grace of a lion. I stood with the paint stirrer in my hand and looked up at him as he came to a halt beside me.
He was a full head taller than I, and without his coat I could see how slim he was through the waist and hips. The skin exposed by his open shirt collar was faintly golden, and the crisp hairs on his bare forearms were the same color as the hair on his head.
I felt almost overpowered by the sheer masculine force of him and had to exert all my willpower not to betray myself by stepping back. My fingers tightened around the paint stirrer.
Savile slowly looked around the room, taking in the fresh white paint on the moldings, the two windows, and the mantelpiece. Finally his eyes settled on my face. “I’ll take the ladder and start painting the upper part of the walls,” he said. “Why don’t you begin to outline the window frames, Mrs. Saunders.”
I replied in a voice that was supposed to sound repressive but unfortunately just sounded breathless, “I rather thought you were working for me, my lord.”
His eyes crinkled faintly in amusement. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. What would you like me to do?”
“Oh, go ahead and paint the upper walls,” I said irritably, and was relieved to hear that my voice sounded normal once more. “You have a longer reach than I have.”
“Such was my reasoning,” he returned with that faint amusement I found so disconcerting.
I set my lips and handed him the smock I had brought for him. As soon as he slid one arm into it, it became obvious that it was not going to fit across his shoulders.
“I shall be fine without it,” he said, stripping the smock off and handing it back to me. “Now, if I can just pour a little of this splendid paint into another bucket, I shall be ready to start.”
I went to fetch the second bucket, he poured the paint, and we began work.
Fifteen minutes or so went by in silence. I was carefully outlining the first window in blue, and thinking about how I was going to break the news to Nicky that I would be leaving him for a few days, when I was struck by another uncomfortable thought.
I turned to look up at the earl on the ladder. “My lord,” I said, addressing his broad back, “it has just occurred to me that you could not have had an opportunity to inform your wife that you would be bringing me to Savile Castle. What if she… I mean, suppose she—
I broke off, scowling, unable to find a tactful way to say that perhaps Lady Savile would not find Mrs. Abigail Saunders a respectable enough person to be welcomed into her home.
The earl did not stop painting as he answered, “Since I am not married, Mrs. Saunders, there is no reason to concern yourself with my wife’s supposed sensibilities. I can assure you that my housekeeper is perfectly prepared to welcome any guests I might suddenly introduce.”
“I see,” I said. But as I turned back to my window I was conscious of feeling surprised that a man who bore such an ancient title and lineage was not yet married.
* * * *
The morning went by in relative silence as we worked carefully to smooth the fresh blue paint over the cream color that I had originally painted the room five years before. While I painted, I cudgeled my brain for some way to explain to Nicky that, once the weather cleared, I would be going away with the Earl of Savile.
At the end of two hours I still had not found an answer. I had finished outlining the two windows, however, and had begun to paint carefully along the molding at the edge of the floor. When I looked up to inspect Savile’s work, I had to confess that he had gotten much farther than I ever would have in the same amount of time. He had, in fact, managed to finish the top third of two of the walls and was a quarter of the way across the third wall.
The quiet concentration of our work had been broken only twice—both times by Nicky, who had come in from his bedroom next door with some questions about his schoolwork. One of the questions I had known the answer to, the other I had not.
“Persepolis was the capital of Persia,” Savile had informed us from the heights of his ladder.
“But what was Susa then?” Nicky had asked. “It says in my reading that the king lived in Susa.”
“Susa was the capital until Darius built Persepolis,” Savile said. “The Persian kings spent part of the year in both places, but the ceremonial capital was Persepolis.”
“Oh,” Nicky said happily, “thank you, my lord,” And he had returned next door to write down his newly acquired information.
At eleven-thirty Mrs. Macintosh came to the door to announce the time. I straightened up from my kneeling posture and stretched my cramped back and legs.
Savile looked down at us from his ladder. “Do we have to stop already? I was hoping to get all of these walls finished this morning.”
“Noon is lunchtime in the stable,” I explained, looking up at him. He did not look as tidy as he had two hours ago. A lock of hair was hanging over his forehead, and his shirt was pulling loose from the waistband of his pantaloons.
“When is lunchtime in the dining room?” he asked.
“One-thirty, my lord,” Mrs. Macintosh said.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll continue working here for a while longer, Mrs. Macintosh. Mrs. Saunders can go and see to the horses.”
While I did not at all enjoy being dictated to in my own home, I had to admit that I would be extremely happy to have the top part of all the walls finished. I didn’t mind doing the trim, but I found the process of covering vast spaces of wall with a small, four-inch brush extremely tedious. It was tiring as well.
I said, “Very well, my lord. I will have Mrs. Macintosh call you an hour before lunch so you may change your clothes.”
“Mmm,” he said. He brushed his forearm across his forehead, trying to push back his hair. Then he dipped his brush into the paint bucket once more and lifted it to the wall. “Do that, Mrs. Saunders.”
I scowled at him, but he had his back to me and didn’t see.
Chapter Four
Snow was letting up as I walked down to the stable with Nicky and Grove.
“If the snow stops soon, the roads might be passable by tomorrow, ma’am,” Grove said.
I certainly hoped they would be. Having made the decision to go with Savile to hear the reading of George Melville’s will, I wanted nothing more now than to get it over and done with.
“The Brighton Mail goes through Highgate,” I said. “Once the snow stops, I’ll ride into the village and ask Walker, the blacksmith, to let us know as soon as he has seen it go by. If the mail can make
it through, then his lordship’s chestnuts should be able to get through as well.”
“That is so, Mrs. Saunders,” Grove replied with obvious pride in the quality of his master’s horses.
Nicky gave a little bounce and said, “We shall miss you and Lord Savile, Mr. Grove. It has been fun having guests in the middle of winter.”
“Thank ‘ee, Master Nicky,” Grove said gruffly. “You’re a good lad.”
Once more I worried about how to explain to Nicky that I would accompany the earl while he would remain at home.
I put my mare and Nicky’s pony out together in the side paddock and Polly and Fancy together in the back paddock.
While I carried piles of hay to the horses in the paddocks, Grove and Nicky picked out the stalls, gave hay to the horses in the stable, chopped through the thin layer of ice in the water buckets, then filled them to their tops.
I then returned to the house and went upstairs to wash my hands. Before going down to the dining room, I decided to take a quick look to see how far the earl had progressed on the guest-room walls.
To my amazement, he was still up on the ladder.
“Good heavens, my lord!” I said. “Did Mrs. Macintosh forget to call you?”
He didn’t even spare me a glance; all his concentration was on the even strokes of his brush. I had to admit that he was working as easily and efficiently as any tradesman.
He said, “I told Mrs. Macintosh I would get something in the kitchen later. I want to finish this last wall before I eat.”
“I can’t believe how much you have done in just one day!” I confessed.
He lowered his paintbrush, turned to look down at me, and smiled ruefully. “My sister could tell you that once I begin something, I’m a bear until I finish it.”
He had a long streak of blue paint along the line of one chiseled cheekbone and a daub on his chin. I laughed. “Wait until you see your face, my lord. It is very artistically decorated.”
He chuckled. It was a deep, warm, utterly delightful sound.
The part of the wall behind me that Savile had painted was well above my head, so I leaned against it, folded my arms, and gazed up at him. “I have to admit that you have surprised me, my lord,” I said. “I never dreamed you would be so accomplished.”
He lifted his brush. “Thought I was useless, did you?” he said as he began once more to apply the blue paint.
His shoulder and back muscles moved smoothly under the thin cotton of his shirt as his arm went up and down, spreading paint evenly on the wall. He certainly did not have the physique of a “cursed dandy.”
I said, “Well…let us say, rather, that I did not picture you as a painter.”
The brush continued its up-and-down motion, and I noticed that he had an impressive set of muscles in his upper arm as well.
I realized what I was thinking and blushed.
Good heavens, Gail! I scolded myself. Stop staring at the man. You see bigger muscles than that every time the blacksmith shoes your horses.
Savile said, “It is not that difficult to apply paint to a flat surface, ma’am.”
I cleared my throat and fixed my eyes on an expanse of wet blue wall. “Not difficult, no. But it is a tiring sort of thing to do. Not at all the sort of activity that one would choose if one had other options open to one.”
“It is not precisely enjoyable, I will agree,” he said. He lowered his brush and turned his body a little so that he could look around the room. “But I must say that it is rather satisfying to see how well the room is looking. This is a very pretty color you have chosen.”
He had a rather disconcerting way of saying things that did not at all coincide with my image of a great earl. After a moment I admitted candidly, “I have often felt that way myself.”
He looked up. “You didn’t repaint the ceiling.”
“Painting ceilings is horrid,” I said firmly. “I did it five years ago, when I first painted this room, and I have no intention of ever doing it again.”
He nodded, then said, “Go and have lunch, Mrs. Saunders, and don’t worry yourself about me.” I took him at his word, and went.
* * * *
I didn’t see the earl again until a bit later in the afternoon. I was sitting at my desk in the corner of the drawing room, going over bills, when he came in. He made scarcely a sound, but such was the forcefulness of his presence that he had advanced but a few steps before I felt him there behind me.
I turned to look at him.
“Don’t disturb yourself, Mrs. Saunders,” he said. “I found an interesting book last night and am just going to sit here in front of this nice fire and read for a while.”
He was wearing a black cutaway coat, and the blue paint no longer adorned his face. I nodded at him a little distractedly, my mind on the sum I had just toted up.
Surely the hay bill can’t have been that high! I thought in dismay as I turned back to my desk.
The winter was always the hardest time for me financially. My income stopped in the autumn, along with my clients, leaving me with approximately a third of the year to get through on my savings alone.
I added up the bills for hay and straw and grain once more and got the same depressing answer.
I thought bitterly that I would have to dip in to the money I had been putting aside for Nicky to go to Oxford.
I must cut costs, I thought.
But where?
There’s Maria, I thought for probably the two-hundredth time since Tommy had died. I don’t need a horse of that quality. I know I don’t. I could sell her for a nice sum and buy myself something else at a quarter of the price I realize.
But I knew I wouldn’t sell Maria. She had been Tommy’s wedding present to me, a beautiful bay Thoroughbred with nearly perfect conformation.
“She reminds me of you, Gail,” my husband had said when first he had taken me to see her. “She looks so delicate, with that exquisite head and neck, and those elegant long legs, but her heart is full of courage.” He had given me his endearing, mischievous grin. “Not to mention the fact that she has such a fiery temper that I got her at a steal from Rogers’s, who didn’t know what to do with her!”
I knew she would have magnificent babies, and every year I had hoped to find enough money to pay the stud fee to breed her to a Thoroughbred stallion.
Every year I had failed to do so.
Maria was twelve now—growing old to have a first foal.
I chewed on the end of my pen and stared at the sums listed before me.
If I used George’s money to pay for Nicky’s education, I would have those savings available to put toward operating costs.
The idea popped into my mind before I could block it out.
No. My lips moved to form the word, although I did not speak it aloud. I did not want to take anything from George. I would not take anything from George.
I would manage.
I always had.
Savile’s voice came from behind me. “I was talking to Nicky in the kitchen a while ago, Mrs. Saunders, and I received the distinct impression that he does not yet know that you plan to accompany me to Kent.”
I turned in my chair to face him. “I haven’t told him yet,” I confessed. “I have been trying to invent a reason for my making such a trip, and so far I have not been able to come up with anything satisfactory.”
“Telling him the truth is out of the question, I gather.” The ironic note in Savile’s voice was unmistakable.
“I do not want Nicky to know anything about Lord Devane.” I scowled in sudden alarm. “You didn’t say anything to him, did you, my lord?”
He was sitting in one of the fireside chairs, a book that looked like my well-read copy of Lady Greystone’s On Equitation in his hands. He said, “No, I held my tongue. I do not agree with your decision, Mrs. Saunders, but I will respect it. Nicky is, after all, your son.”
“Thank you,” I said in an ironic tone that matched his.
He changed the subject. �
��Was that your mare I saw out in the paddock earlier? The bay Thoroughbred?”
I smiled. “Yes, that is Maria.”
“She is beautiful.”
“Thank you. I agree, she is beautiful.”
His long fingers smoothed the red leather cover of the book. “She looks as if she would be fast.”
“She has never raced, so I don’t know how fast she is,” I replied. “I got her when she was three.” I heard my voice soften. “She was a wedding gift from my husband.”
A little silence fell, then he said, “Have you bred her?”
I carefully placed my pen back into its holder. “No.”
“Does she have any vices?”
“No,” I repeated. “She is a trifle hot at hand, but that is only because she is full of courage.”
His golden eyes looked puzzled. “Then why haven’t you bred her, Mrs. Saunders? The foal of a mare like that would go for a very handsome price.”
“I can’t afford the stud fee,” I said baldly.
He raised his brows. A little silence fell.
I was about to turn back to my account book when he said thoughtfully, “Do you know, I rather think I might just have discovered an acceptable reason for you to accompany me to Savile Castle.”
I stared at him blankly.
“You are going to look at my stallion to see if he will be an acceptable mate for Maria,” he explained.
“Do you have a stallion?” I asked in surprise.
A log fell and he got up to poke it deeper into the embers. “Not at Savile Castle,” he replied, “but Nicky does not need to know that.”
I turned his suggestion over in my mind and could find only one flaw in it. “If I am going to look at a horse, then Nicky will never understand why he cannot accompany me.”
Once again the straight, dark gold eyebrows lifted. “What about his studies with this Mr. Ludgate?”
“Mr. Ludgate is always flexible.”
The earl shrugged, his big shoulders moving easily under his superbly fitted coat. “Are you required to produce a reason for leaving him behind, Mrs. Saunders? I have no children myself, but I have a number of nieces and nephews, and I know that they would never expect to accompany my sister and brother-in-law on all of their jaunts, even when school is not in session.”
