The sound of shuffling feet made her turn in time to see two footmen carrying a long, narrow box. The top was already off the oddly shaped crate.
“If you would put it just here, please,” she said, indicating the sofa. They put the box down carefully and Esther looked inside to see why. Her eyes widened appreciatively, and she reached inside.
There was a box of paintbrushes, bottles of colors, a pestle and mortar should she wish to create her own, small jars, and a cleverly designed easel folded beneath it all. The footmen left after she offered them thanks, and she bent over the box happily sorting through everything. The selection was not what it would have been in London. Though she had not painted since coming to her stepbrother’s home, she had stared with longing at the papers, paints, and other accoutrements in the finest shops. Nevertheless, Esther’s excitement grew as she studied each and every object. There were oils, there were pastels, and then the watercolors. Her particular favorite.
After several minutes, Esther recalled that there were other things waiting for her in the room. She peered about, finally seeing a table against the wall stacked with jars, brushes, sketchbooks, pencils, an older easel, with several differently sized canvas frames leaning against the wall, and a stack of paper upon the table.
Silas had arranged all of it for her use. Her enjoyment.
Her heart stirred most dangerously and a blush rose into her cheeks. Though he left her behind, he had given her a way to pass their time apart, and it had been thoughtfully done.
Esther left the room in a hurry, going to her own to change. She intended to begin painting at once, to prove to Silas her gratitude.
Not even Isaac had parted with her in such a kind manner.
Chapter Twelve
The hours passed slower than Esther liked, but after two days of Silas’s absence a letter arrived from him. She accepted it with her breakfast tray in some surprise. They never promised to write each other, had never even spoken of letters, and her brother had given her to believe that all men were wretched correspondents.
She opened the letter to find Silas had sent it from a coaching inn his very first evening away. Had he thought she would need instruction on how to manage so soon? The very idea made her scowl, but as she read her attitude softened.
The letter was full of his own thoughts on being apart, and his hopes for what he might accomplish while away. He invited her to send him a list of anything she wanted from London, large or small. He expressed his hope that she would like her gift and might paint several works to hang in their home. He instructed her, insisted, that she enjoy herself in his absence. The letter, she realized, was full of the sort of things one might converse upon over breakfast with a friend.
Esther contemplated writing him back as she chewed her toast, but a better idea struck her. After she dressed and retired to the room filled with all the necessary things for her painting, including an old carpet spread upon the floor in case she spilled oils, watercolors, or turpentine, Esther found the thickest piece of paper available to her.
With watercolors in hands, as they were truly her preferred medium, she made a quick rendering of the view out her window. Gray clouds loomed in the distance, but the sky in her painting she depicted as blue and clear. The sand stretched in either direction, and two boats were visible near the shore.
Satisfied with the simple rendering, Esther layered in more colors to provide depth to the curls of the waves and the oncoming clouds. She left it after that, to fully dry. At dinner time she entered the room again with pencil in hand, wrote a single line on the bottom of her painting and signed it with a flourish. It would be sent to him in London, folded up like a common letter.
The next morning, her offering went away from the house while another of his letters appeared on her tray. The tone of this letter was much like the first; conversational, light, and written as though they were very good friends. He wrote of his arrival in London, how much he disliked travelling by coach, and described who he had already seen upon his arrival. She smiled to herself as she read, pleased he had thought to write to her again.
The storm from the day before washed through sea and land, and the morning had an odd yellow sheen to it from the remaining clouds. Esther packed up as many things as she could carry, enlisting Mary’s help, and transported the necessary tools to the edge of the gardens, where the land started sloping away to the beach. Once Mary had been dismissed, after fussing about Esther’s wide-brimmed straw hat, the new countess set to mixing her colors.
The breeze kept teasing her as she worked, tickling her nose with her bonnet’s ribbons and making the brim flap down into her vision. Without more than the tiniest prick of guilt, Esther removed the irritating hat and anchored it to the ground with one of her easel’s legs.
She ignored when the wind disturbed her hair, attempting to loosen it from her pins.
The sun warmed the top of her head, the bridge of her nose, and her cheeks. Esther ignored that, too.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed before an interruption. “Ah, my lady, what are you about today?” It was Lord Neil, whom she could not ignore.
Wincing, Esther turned to face the man who stood behind her and wondered how long he had stood there before speaking. The idea that he had watched her for any length of time unsettled her.
“Lord Neil. I see you make it a habit to traipse across my husband’s property.” She raised her eyebrows delicately.
He grinned in a most unrepentant manner and came closer. “It is the most beautiful land in the county, and so near the sea. I cannot help myself.” He peered over her shoulder at her work. “I did not take you for an artist, Lady Inglewood.”
I certainly take you for a scoundrel. Esther bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from speaking aloud. She did not turn away from him. She had the feeling that might show some sign of weakness he might enjoy. “I am not an artist, my lord, but I do enjoy painting. It passes the time in a pleasant way and produces a lovely outcome. Much like embroidery or music.”
“Do you claim to be accomplished in those areas as well?” he asked lightly, folding his arms over his chest and bending slightly toward her. The condescension in his tone further irritated her.
“I claim nothing, except that this pursuit makes me happier than the others.” She lifted the edge of the apron she wore and wiped her brush upon it. “Is there anything I might do for you, my lord? As you continue to trespass, I must continue to play hostess.” If only he would take the hint and leave.
“Ah, yes. It is fortunate that I came upon you, my lady. I have found out only this morning about an assembly ball. A small affair, of course, but one which might prove entertaining as well as an excellent way to reacquaint yourself with the neighborhood. Should you like to attend?” Had he stepped closer somehow? The man was less than an arm’s reach away.
Esther stepped back slightly. “That is kind of you, Lord Neil, but no. I have no wish to attend social functions yet. I have had my bridal visitors, of course, and that is sufficient for me at present. When my husband returns, I am certain we will appear together at any number of local functions. That was considerate of you to alert me to it, of course.”
“I had hoped to escort you there,” he admitted, his bottom lip protruding in a most unmanly pout. Was he trying to be charming or humorous?
“Again, I thank you, but I must decline.” Esther dropped her brush into the basket at her feet.
“You are not finished with your artistry, my lady?” he asked, stepping closer again as if to look at her painting.
“Indeed, I am.” She took a step around him in the direction of the house. Normally, she would see to her own things, but the idea of sending footmen to bring in her work appealed to her more at that moment. “As you see, I am without my bonnet once more and the sun must not be permitted more time to damage my complexion.” Vanity was always an acceptable excuse for the nobility to do anything.
“What a shame, my lady. Perhaps I shall see you
another time.”
Esther forced a smile. “Perhaps. Good day to you, Lord Neil.” She barely listened for his farewell, turning instead to hurry into the house.
What was the man’s game, seeking her out as he did? Why was he always upon Silas’s land? Had they become friends since leaving their school days behind? Esther somehow doubted that. His ridiculous manner struck her as almost flirtatious. Whatever his purpose in coming was, she wanted no part in it.
After sending servants to retrieve her things, Esther went up to her room to change. One look in the glass above her dressing table told her she ought to have come in sooner, had her complexion truly been a concern. Her nose and cheeks, as well as her forehead, were quite pink.
Would her hair show evidence of being out in the sun as well? In her youth, the sun had left streaks of gold in her dark curls, which her mother had by turns despaired of and admired, depending on how Esther wore her hair.
Oh, Mother. What would you say to all of this? Esther had asked herself the same question over and over again, since the day of the fateful picnic. Her mother would doubtless be horrified by Esther’s behavior, but she would never object to Silas as a son-in-law. As often as their family had visited Inglewood, Silas had also visited their smaller estate to spend time with Isaac. The baronetess had enjoyed having Silas in their home. She had referred to him, more than once, as the brother Isaac ought to have had.
Apparently, a sister did not fulfill a companionship role well at all.
After changing, Esther left her room in search of the housekeeper. If she could not go about the grounds without being assaulted by Sir Neil’s presence, she ought to find another way to occupy herself.
It was high time to get to know the house and staff. As much as the idea of a holiday appealed to her, spending her time in idleness lost its draw the more she thought of her mother, her brother, and Silas’s letters. Painting distracted her, but a different sort of work would do the trick better.
∞∞∞
The stiff paper in Silas’s coat pocket pressed against him as he sat in the cushioned chairs of Lords. He was in one of the antechambers, listening to members of his own party debating whether or not to give relief on a particular tax since the end of the war came within sight. Silas had spoken his mind on the subject already and waited for the others to come to a similar conclusion.
He nearly reached into his coat to take out the painting Esther had sent him, an enchanting view of the seaside that had made him inexplicably ache. Though he had not been away from home more than a few days when the paper arrived, he missed his ancestral home fiercely. Or, perhaps, he missed his bride.
Which was preposterous, really. They had hardly spoken in weeks. It was not as though they were close companions, or even friends, though he hoped for that someday.
The voices around him continued to drone on about the benefits of retaining the tax until the troops returned after certain victory. Everyone spoke as if certain the war would end at any moment, as if thousands of men would return home to their shores in a matter of days, looking for employment and ways to spend their hard-earned salaries.
Silas prepared to speak again, ready to bring up the point that many of the returning soldiers may not have funds or employment upon their return, when the door to the chamber burst open.
“It is done! Paris is captured! The Prussian marshal issued a statement to the people and it will run in the papers this evening.” The rather out-of breath-man, whom Silas recognized as a secretary, disappeared as abruptly as he came, doubtless to spread the news further.
Silence hung in the room like a thick curtain, waiting for the right words to draw it back. Though they had all spoken of victory as a certain thing, Silas doubted any of them had expected such news to arrive that very moment. Finally, Silas himself stood from his seat.
“My lords,” he said, bowing slightly to the men. “I move that we table this conversation until tomorrow. Like all of you, I have loved ones who will wish to have this news as soon as possible. It is a momentous day for us all.”
Murmurs of agreement met his words, then hands started shuffling papers, and Silas took his leave as speedily as he could while still remaining decorous. Esther would wish to know everything at once, and it would take time for a paper to reach her. He would hire a messenger and write the news to her himself.
The painting shifted against his breast as he walked and he almost smiled, thinking on the one line she had written at the bottom of her artwork.
Do you find London to be as beautiful as our seaside?
Most assuredly not. And with the news from Paris, he might be able to return home sooner than he thought.
Chapter Thirteen
Silas’s letter, arrived only that morning, contained within an intelligence he shared with Esther alone. She gripped the paper in her hands as she stood out upon the balcony, her heart rising above her troubles as gulls rose above the waves.
With his connections in the Home Office, and the speed of a private messenger, Silas had sent her word of the abdication of Napoleon Bonaparte. On April 6th, only days before, Napoleon had surrendered himself to the will of the French people, who would see him exiled to some far away shore. One man, a man who had inspired a nation to take up arms, had at last finished his reign of terror against other nations.
Isaac would come home at last.
Esther had already dropped to her knees in a prayer of gratitude, though she had not ceased thanking the heavens for ending a conflict that had haunted most of her life. Indeed, every school child knew the date that Britain had declared war against its neighbor across the Channel: May 18, 1803. That date was forever stamped upon her mind, as were the death dates of her parents and the day her brother had left to join the army.
A knock on the door made her turn away from the sight of a storm out at sea. “Enter,” she called.
Mary stepped inside. “If you please, my lady. There is a gentleman here to see you, a Mr. Barnes.”
The good news had only wanted someone to share it with, and here came one of Isaac’s friends who would rejoice with her. “Show him to my painting parlor, at once,” Esther instructed, hurrying out of the room. “And have tea sent to us.”
“Yes, my lady.” Mary curtsied and disappeared to pass along the instructions. The two of them together had finally begun to sort out the hierarchy of servants, with help from Mrs. Larry. Mary had made fewer mistakes than Esther, who hadn’t any idea why they needed a dozen maids for the household but trusted it was necessary.
Esther arrived in her parlor, which had been overrun with her artwork in various stages of completion, and hastily cleared away materials from the sofa and a table for the tea service. She accepted most of her callers in a westward facing room kept much tidier than this, but she could not imagine Jacob Barnes minding the disarray of her personal sanctuary.
The door opened and a footman announced Isaac’s old friend. After the formal greeting was out of the way, Esther practically charged Jacob with the letter outstretched.
“Oh, Mr. Barnes, I am so glad you are come. I have the best of news from Silas and I am aching to share it with someone. Here, please read this.”
“Slow down there, Countess,” he said with both hands raised, then he snatched the letter from her hand with a teasing smile. “A man likes to come more than three steps into a room before being assailed.”
“Oh, Jacob,” she said, flicking a curl over her shoulder. “Please. Let me be Esther rather than ‘Countess.’ You have known me since my infancy.”
“True enough,” he agreed, unfolding the letter and squinting down at it in a most comical manner. “Silas has a most untidy hand.”
“He was in a hurry,” Esther said without thought, defending her absent husband’s handwriting.
Jacob raised his eyebrows at her before continuing to read, then at last he let out a low whistle. “They thwarted the old Frenchie at last, did they? About time. Ludicrous idea, giving the throne to his son
. I am glad no one even entertained that notion.”
“Oh, who cares about that. The important thing is that it is done, Jacob. The war is over at last and Isaac will come home!” She snatched the letter back from him and read it again herself, ignoring Silas’s rough writing and taking in his words with near-rapture. “I can hardly believe it.”
“It is a thing to be grateful for,” Jacob said, his voice gentler. “Many sons and brothers will at last return to their families.” She raised her eyes to see the reverent and peaceful expression on Jacob’s face—the very sort of look one would expect a vicar to wear upon such news. “Have you had word from your brother?”
At this question, Esther sobered somewhat. “No, I am afraid not. Silas was certain that Isaac would write, especially after our wedding, but nothing has come. Of course, Isaac never was very good at corresponding.” Something she held against him from time to time, as she wrote faithfully every week to her brother, besides her lapse during her betrothal.
Jacob offered her a commiserating smile. “I am certain with all that has happened he has kept quite busy. A captaincy of the army, at his age, is nothing to sniff at.”
The door opened, a maid and footman entering. The maid carried a tea service, and the footman bowed as he announced, “Miss Everly and Miss Grace Everly.”
Esther’s good humor returned at that. Hope and Grace were always permitted into her home, while other callers were accepted only after her approval. Sir Neil came frightfully often and had often been denied his visit.
“I have such wonderful news to share with you both,” Esther proclaimed, holding the letter out to Grace. She vaguely noticed the footman and maid clearing more room for her guests to sit in the cluttered parlor, in a much more efficient manner than she had done. It recalled her to her duties as hostess. “Please, let us all be seated. There is so much to talk about.”
Grace moved while reading, Hope ahead of her taking a place on the sofa. Jacob took the chair nearest Hope’s end as her sister sat next to her. Esther took the remaining chair near Grace.
Rescuing Lord Inglewood: A Regency Romance Page 11
