A Pursuit of Home

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  “The church.” Derek pointed to the picture, trying to focus on the unique angled structure of the St. Augustine’s Church bell tower and not look at the people. A bridal party walked away from a group of funeral mourners. Rosemary branches lay across a fresh grave, and wheat and flower blossoms trailed behind the bride as she walked down the road, head bowed.

  Derek pulled out his sketchbook and began drawing the scene.

  The details were difficult to see and nearly impossible to capture in a quick sketch, but he was almost certain that what was important was the church. There wasn’t another one like it in the world. The bell tower consisted of three angled tiers, like cones stacked atop one another. The distinct porch and the rough rock walls extended out from there.

  Silence pressed in on him as the others looked over his shoulder at the book. He spoke as he drew. “Did you know the sheep that graze on Romney Marsh are bred for meat and wool? Some of the best long-staple wool comes from there.”

  Two heads turned slowly in his direction.

  “It’s also a known smuggler’s landing,” Jess said. “What has that to do with anything?”

  “The church. Brookland is in the Romney Marsh.” Derek pointed at the picture, where a few sheep straggled along in the retreating wedding party. “There’s sheep in the picture.”

  “Does that tell us what it means?” Jeffreys asked.

  Derek looked up at their faces, but they only stared blankly at the book. Couldn’t they see the story in front of them? The bride burying her groom instead of marrying him? Walking away because she was still alive? It fit the story Jess had told of a queen fighting for the revival of a lost country so well that Derek could only stare in awe at the skill and imagery.

  They didn’t appear to share his fascination.

  “I don’t think so.” Derek cleared his throat. “I think the sheep are just part of the painting. My guess would be they’re there to help establish the location. The painting is a point and a direction like The Grace of Oceans Breaking.” He paused. “I think.”

  It was the best guess he had. The theory worked so far, anyway.

  Jess stood up and looked around the library. “Is there a book of maps in this place?”

  “I brought Ryland’s map of England along. It’s in the carriage. We can use that copy to keep track along the way if this theory proves correct,” Jeffreys said.

  “We might as well look at the other painting on our way back to the carriage, then.” Jess moved toward the door, her skirts not even making a swishing sound as she walked.

  Derek quickly replaced the book on the shelf before rushing to move ahead of her. They’d seen no one when he’d slipped them in the back of the library, but that didn’t mean the passages had remained empty. He wasn’t going to breathe easy until he knew he wasn’t going to have to explain the presence of unauthorized visitors.

  The freedom of sunshine put a bit more spring in his step as they walked the short distance to the Ashmoleon. Clearly he was not meant for a life of whatever it was Jess had done on a regular basis.

  “Which one is this?” Jess asked as they stood before the painting a short time later.

  “A Work Completed.” Derek had been viewing this painting since he was a little boy, would have said he could sketch it from memory except that he could recall nothing about it that seemed to match the significance of the other two. Even as he pulled out his sketchbook to record the scene, he didn’t see how they all fit together.

  There was nothing identifiable in the field of piled-up hay. A farmer sat on one of the piles, while a woman poured water into his cup.

  Other than the sensation that one could reach into the painting and feel the water, there was nothing particularly striking about the picture. Still, he sketched.

  Back at the carriage, Jeffreys pulled the book of maps from his trunk and joined them inside. Using their knees as a table, they opened the book.

  Jess pulled ribbons from her leather satchel. She laid a yellow one across the bottom of England. “That would essentially be the direction Queen Jessamine was looking in Ryland’s painting.”

  Derek took a blue ribbon from her and placed it where he’d thought the painting from the book indicated.

  “They don’t meet,” Jess said with a frown. “How are we supposed to know where those haystacks are?”

  “I don’t think the haystacks matter,” Derek said, pulling out his notes. “Not all of the paintings are written about the same way. There are four others, perhaps more, that mention traveling or departure in addition to The Grace of Oceans Breaking and The Day That Never Was. There are a few more that talk about the past and the future, which makes sense given the story.”

  “You’re saying some of the paintings are a false lead?”

  “I think so.” He pulled more notes out and spread them across the map. “I noticed last night that some of the writings were more, well, poetic, for lack of a better term. I think those are the important ones.”

  “So we don’t need to find them all?” Jeffreys asked.

  “No.”

  The papers trembled a bit as Jess’s legs shifted and shook the book. “What you’re saying is that we can actually do this. There may actually be time to connect the diary to the paintings and find the coronation bowl.”

  Until that moment, with the vulnerability he’d glimpsed in William’s drawing room making another appearance, Derek hadn’t realized she’d had doubts. He’d thought she never considered failure. “Yes,” he said, firming his voice with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt. “If we can see the paintings, we can solve the map.”

  “They aren’t all going to be this easy,” Jeffreys said.

  “Then we’d better get started.” Jess nodded to Derek’s scattered notes. “Who has the paintings we need to see?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As it so happened, finding the next painting turned out to be far easier than pretending to be married to Derek. Several inns, a couple of house visits, and one Verbonnian painting later, she was back to wondering how in the world this entire charade was supposed to work.

  Jess looked out the window at the ivy-covered estate they were pulling up to, bracing herself for the dread and uselessness that was about to bombard her.

  The dread was familiar. A similar feeling preceded every entry into a kitchen, where memories she’d spent half her life avoiding were going to be stirred up as surely as the ingredients in her mixing bowl. The uselessness, however, was new and very unwelcome.

  There was no denying it, though. Derek didn’t need her to get him into the houses. His suggestion that they pose as travelers and simply walk up and request entry was working far better than she’d thought it would.

  “This is Westmore, one of the estates belonging to the Earl of Bristford, right?” Jess asked. “Which painting does he own?”

  “The Lifting of the Skies.” Derek tugged on his ill-fitting coat. “It’s one of the few I wasn’t able to confidently identify. This might be a waste of a visit.”

  “They all might be, given the fact that most of these men have multiple homes in which they could be storing the paintings. We won’t know until we look.” The second house they’d toured had been just such a disappointment. Right owner, wrong location.

  As they moved into their second week of searching, what had started as a niggling worry grew stronger, and she was becoming desperate to push it away. Worry was pointless and fruitless, as she reminded herself whenever she considered what her brother might be doing. Such ponderings could do nothing but paralyze her, and right now, she needed to focus on moving forward.

  The memory of Mrs. Lancaster spouting off a verse about each day having enough concern of its own and letting the Lord handle the rest nudged at the other side of her mind, but Jess pushed that away as well.

  The old woman from Marlborough terrified Jess with her determination to act as a mother figure, doling out hugs and wisdom and eyeing her as if she knew Jess wasn’t always a
s confident as she appeared to be.

  Jess rolled her shoulders and repeated her mission over and over in her mind to bring herself into the present. All that mattered was getting into this house and seeing if the painting was here without raising suspicion.

  Derek jumped out first and held his hand up to help Jess down. She let him, but only because it was possible someone was watching from the house.

  He tucked her hand into his elbow, pulling her close to his side.

  Instinct had her pulling away until he looked at her with slightly raised eyebrows.

  Right. She was supposed to be his loving wife, enjoying a rare holiday through the countryside.

  Ryland was the only man she’d ever pretended to be married to for a significant length of time. As neither of them had particularly fond and loving parents upon which to model their false marriage, it had been decidedly businesslike.

  Derek’s family, as she’d seen with her own eyes, wasn’t like that. At every house and in the public rooms of every inn, he’d been there. Constantly offering her his arm, seeing to her comfort, being so nice and accommodating that it made her uneasy. To her recollection, no one had ever asked her if she was comfortable with the pace at which they were walking or shifted the chairs around at a table so that she could sit closer to the fire on a day chilled by low grey clouds and then made sure the choicest morsels of food ended up on her plate when dinner arrived.

  Her pretend husband had done all that and more.

  She allowed him to pull her into his side once more as they approached the door and knocked.

  The housekeeper appeared, and Derek began his story about wishing to see a bit of the glamorous estate they’d heard so much about on their travels. Subtly he extended a coin. The housekeeper took it with a smile and opened the door wider.

  Jess tried not to frown as they entered the house. What sort of foolish people allowed strangers to tramp through their home simply because they knocked on the door, smiled, and held out a coin? The coin wasn’t even going to the owner.

  This was the third house that had granted them entrance, and if Jess were the thieving sort, she’d be far richer now, having seen multiple ways in which she could have absconded with small, valuable trinkets or returned later for larger thefts.

  No one was likely to find their way out to Haven Manor and ask for a tour, but Jess made a mental note to make sure Chemsford wasn’t allowing any such nonsense at his other homes.

  “The morning room is furnished completely from the Chippendale catalogue,” the housekeeper said, ushering them through a room.

  Beneath her hand, Derek’s arm tensed, provoking Jess’s desire to laugh and making her smile a bit more natural. Obviously the man knew some burning fact about furniture, saw a particularly fine piece of art that she couldn’t even begin to recognize, or something in the room wasn’t actually Chippendale.

  Whichever of the three it was, Derek was greatly disturbed by it, because his arm didn’t slowly relax the way it usually did. As the housekeeper moved them along, Jess couldn’t help leaning in and teasing Derek a bit. “It was the table, wasn’t it?”

  He jerked his head in her direction. “What?”

  “In the morning room. Was it the table?”

  His eyes widened, the hazel flecks sparkling through his spectacles. He tipped his head closer and whispered, “How did you know?”

  Her amusement bubbled up into a small, breathy laugh. “I didn’t. It was a complete guess.”

  “Oh.” He pouted and straightened as they continued after the housekeeper. After a few steps, he mumbled, “The legs were wrong.”

  “Of course they were.” She took her free hand and patted his arm.

  As her hand fell back to her side, she curled the fingers into her palm. How strange that she found it so easy to play this charade in the mode he’d created. Her pace now adjusted to his without thought, making walking arm-in-arm an easy feat. The first inn they’d entered as his version of husband and wife, she’d nearly taken out a chair trying to walk at his side. Even his small touches and glances were becoming easier to return.

  The housekeeper smiled at them as she led them through a long gallery. “Where did you say you were from?”

  Jess pinched his arm to keep him silent, one benefit his close proximity provided. “Derbyshire,” she said, naming the next county over, a reasonable distance for a holiday but not so far that one would wonder at their ability to make the trip.

  “Beautiful country there,” the housekeeper said. “It’s nice to see a love match.” She looked around as if someone would overhear them, even though they had yet to see another soul for the entire tour. “The master and missus don’t have much to do with each other these days, as I’m sure you heard when they told you about the house. This room is rather well known.”

  With that, the housekeeper opened the door to a salon, and Jess had to work to keep her mouth from gaping.

  The room was split in half. Two walls were green, two were cream, and the furniture made distinct groupings in the two corners. On what Jess assumed was the wife’s side, though she probably shouldn’t make assumptions about anyone who would create a room such as this, the furniture was pale blue, with curved delicate lines. Sheer white drapes covered the window.

  Smooth, pale brown wooden furniture filled the other corner. Both had writing desks and a small conversation grouping, though a person sitting in one area could never easily converse with a person sitting in the other.

  “There was a great argument over who should use this room, as it gets the best light in the evenings.” The housekeeper stepped to the center of the room and stood demurely, obviously expecting that this was the room they’d come to see and that they would need to take some time looking at it.

  Derek’s arm tensed again, and Jess immediately went on the alert. She tuned her ears to listen for signs that someone else had entered the room, but there was nothing.

  Then Derek was guiding her over toward the master’s side of the room. “There,” he whispered.

  She looked up and saw a painting of angels tripping through clouds. It was much better suited to the other corner, with its delicate, frothy wisps of cloud and sky. The husband had likely hung it here out of spite so his wife couldn’t see it.

  “Is this what you thought it was?” Jess whispered back.

  Derek shook his head and moved her on so that it wasn’t obvious they were staring at the painting instead of the room. “No. I think it might be another one of the false leads.”

  Jess’s hope plummeted. They couldn’t afford to chase after false leads. Not that she blamed Derek. They were having to piece together so many broken pieces of information, there was bound to be a misstep or two. The queen had intended the collection to stay together, after all, for someone with diary in hand to be able to pick out the important pieces and put the picture together.

  Guilt joined worry at the edge of her mind. Their brief time allotment was entirely her own fault. If she’d only told Ryland—no. Jess didn’t contemplate if.

  Without the painting to look for, Jess wasn’t sure what to concentrate on for the remainder of the tour. They could hardly just turn and leave, so Jess dutifully followed Derek’s cues, taking in the views of the grounds and the apparently exquisite crown molding.

  This was not enough to distract her mind from the detrimental emotions waiting to eat her alive. Her only available choices for diversion were the house or Derek. As the house wasn’t going to tell her anything of interest, much less importance, she turned her thoughts to Derek.

  She looked up at his profile, the spectacles perched on a long straight nose over a pointed chin, all of which was topped with that hair that never quite seemed to stay where he put it. Why didn’t he cut it or purchase a pomade? Did he like it constantly dropping into his eyes? It made him look like a little boy who had forgotten he’d grown into a man, as if at one point his brain had matured so quickly that the rest of him forgot to keep pace.


  “We could,” Derek said with a laugh, jarring her from her thoughts. “But that would make it difficult for us to return to our inn before nightfall.” He dropped his gaze toward Jess, obviously intending for her to be in on whatever conversation he’d been having with the housekeeper. Instead his eyes met hers as he caught her staring at him.

  Jess jerked her face away, stunned to feel heat crawling over her ears. Was she blushing? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d blushed.

  This house tour needed to end. Now.

  She made it back to the front door without looking at Derek, then all but ran from the house as soon as they crossed the threshold. Only the firm grip of Derek’s hand holding hers against his arm kept her at his side. His long, thin fingers completely covered her smaller ones, meaning that if she wanted to retreat she was going to have to make a scene first.

  He said his final pleasantries and guided her back to the carriage at an agonizingly moderate pace.

  Jeffreys was waiting there, awkwardly angled to hold the door open for them while holding the reins in his good hand. Ryland’s watchdog couldn’t quite hide his grin as he watched Jess trail alongside Derek like a demure little wife.

  As far as Jess was concerned, they could both go dunk their heads in a bucket.

  She clambered into the carriage, both to get them on their way and to remove herself from public viewing. If no one could see them, there would be no reason for Derek to keep her close or be overly attentive. In private, she could tell him to let her be.

  Derek climbed into the carriage after her and paused, hunched over in the doorway, staring at her silently.

  She frowned and stared back at him. Why wasn’t he getting in? She gave a pointed look at the seat across from her. He merely tilted his head.

  More heat spread up Jess’s face as she shifted to the front-facing seat—the one a gentleman would always offer to a lady. Even without the prying eyes, he insisted on treating her as such. She’d never been a lady, not really. Farm girls, spies, and servants received a different sort of treatment.