The Painter

by Mary Kingswood

  Miss Buckley looked ready to contest the point vigorously, but Felicia was spared any further discussion on her history by the return of Laver to announce dinner. To her surprise, when they began to settle themselves in the dining room, she found herself seated between nephew and aunt.

  On the other side of the table, a brief skirmish between Fin and Lady Drusilla was resolved decisively in the earl’s favour.

  “Do sit there beside Miss Claypole, Fin,” Lady Drusilla said, with a bright smile, gesturing at the last remaining chair.

  Fin assessed the seating arrangements, then smiled blandly. “How remiss of you, Drusilla, to place Mr and Mrs Denham together, for they may dine thus on any day of the week. For tonight, they must be separated. Denham, may I invite you to enjoy Miss Claypole’s company, while I entertain the charming Mrs Denham?”

  And Lady Drusilla could not well object to it. Felicia dared not catch the earl’s eye in case he winked at her again, for if so she would not be able to suppress her laughter. She enjoyed the moment all the same. Fin was so much fun in this mood! If only he was always this way.

  The table was laden with a vast array of appetising food, and Mr Godfrey was assiduous in obtaining everything that Felicia had a mind to try. Once her plate was full to overflowing with tasty morsels, he began to talk to her about Hampshire, and readily responded to her questions about his own home in Lincolnshire.

  “Farndyke is a beautiful old house,” he said, with a fond smile. “The estate is not large, not so large as it was in my great-grandfather’s day, when it first came into the family, but I have begun some improvements in farming methods which I hope will increase yields and thereby benefit my tenants greatly.”

  “Such an outcome must be very pleasing for you, especially as the rents may be increased also,” she said, smiling.

  He laughed at that. “Very true! Every landlord must have an eye to his own income as well as that of his farmers. Any gains must apply to both sides or else there is discontent. I hope I may describe myself as a good landlord, Miss Oakes, one who takes account of the needs of his tenants as well as his own.”

  There was an earnestness and sincerity in his manner which she could only approve. She could fault neither his principles nor the expression of them.

  After a while, Mr Buckley turned to converse with Lady Drusilla, and Felicia took the opportunity to talk to Miss Edith Buckley.

  “I confess, Miss Buckley, that I was unaware of your existence before this evening. Do you live at Farndyke also?”

  “Not since I was a girl. My home is at Shotterbourne,” she replied in her gruff way.

  Shotterbourne! Felicia could not hide her astonishment.

  Miss Buckley smiled. “I understand your surprise, for the quarrel between our families is well known, so how can this be? The answer is that I am companion to Lord Arnwell’s sister, the Lady Lucia, an arrangement which predates the quarrel. Lady Lucia is not well at times, and I know how to calm her when she is agitated. It would distress her were I to leave, so there I stay, making myself useful.”

  “He has a sister? Goodness! So many new names for me to learn. Do tell me about Lady Lucia. Is she older or younger than his lordship?”

  “Two years older, never married and so has always lived at Shotterbourne. She is a very sweet lady, such a darling, and with such an unsullied approach to life. So many women of her age and position become jaded by life, but Lucia still enjoys simple pleasures. Why, she is already planning the celebrations for her birthday next month.”

  “Is she? How charming!”

  “Is it not?” Miss Buckley said. “For myself, I have reached an age when a birthday is not something I care to mark with any degree of pleasure, although perhaps when one is born in December, one may be forgiven the omission. There are few activities more enticing at such a time than huddling near the fire with a shawl. Do you celebrate your birthday, Miss Oakes? I hope you have a more fortuitous season in which to do so.”

  “When I was at school, there was always a special cake made for anyone who had a birthday. Happily, that meant that there was cake at least once a week. I am very fond of cake.”

  “And were you permitted to enjoy your cake as part of a picnic? Such excursions make the day more special, I feel.”

  “Sometimes, for those whose birthday fell in the summer.”

  “And yours did not?”

  “No. The weather is too uncertain for such activities in March.”

  “Oh, March! My mother’s birthday was in March. Poor Mama! How she hated acknowledging that she had been born on the Ides of March. The fifteenth, you know. ‘Beware the Ides of March!’ Shakespeare. I hope your birthday is on a more felicitous date, Miss Oakes?”

  It was a peculiar subject to be discussing, but Miss Buckley made her words seem like a direct enquiry so Felicia could not well refuse to answer. “Mine is on the thirteenth.”

  After that, Miss Buckley’s attention was diverted by a dish of stewed peas, and Felicia turned back to her plate with relief, her only amusement being Mr Godfrey’s attempts to entertain Lady Drusilla with a string of anecdotes, which usually began, ‘Once when I was in Somersetshire, the marquess said to me…’ or ‘There was an occasion when I was staying with Lord Bentley…’. Since he could hardly be saying such things to impress the sister of an earl, she supposed them to be true, but it made him seem like a gadabout. But perhaps all well-to-do young men were adventurers of that nature, hopping from place to place as opportunity arose and never settling anywhere.

  The second course succeeded the first, with the turbot in pride of place, and after that the third course arrived, by which time even Felicia’s appetite was flagging. This course provided the most entertaining moment of the evening. A huge epergne was brought in, filled with an array of fruit, and placed in the centre of the table.

  “Whatever is that monstrosity?” Fin said, his voice echoing loudly from behind the display of strawberries, cherries, apricots and a single rather small pineapple. “Laver, remove it.”

  “Really, Fin!” Lady Drusilla protested, while Mr Giles Warborough smothered a laugh with his napkin. “We must have fruit!”

  “Take it away! Put the fruit in bowls or some such. Heavens, Drusilla, how can you bear to have such a thing in the house, never mind in the centre of the table? Your guests are no doubt too polite to express their disgust at your lack of taste.”

  “It is solid silver, and a wedding present to Mother and Father. You gave it to me when I moved here.”

  “Impossible. I would never have given you anything so hideous.”

  “Well… you told me to take anything I wanted.”

  “But why would you want that?”

  He clicked his fingers imperiously, and the two footmen gently lifted the epergne off the table. They would have set it down on a sideboard, but it was still within Fin’s vision and at a gesture from him, they took it out of the room altogether.

  “That is much better,” he said, sitting back on his chair with a sigh. “If you must have such a thing, I shall buy you one a little better suited to its surroundings. No room of this elegance should be despoiled by such an abomination.”

  There was a sudden hush around the room.

  “You approve, then?” Lady Drusilla said. “You like the house?”

  Fin’s face shadowed a little. “Yes,” he said curtly.

  “Then will you come again?” she said, with touching eagerness. “I know I was a touch cross with you for descending upon me without warning, but it is a pleasure to have you in my house at last, Fin. Do tell me it will not be the last time.”

  “If you invite me. Perhaps. If I feel like it. Are you going to hold on to those sugared almonds all evening, Uncle Giles? Pass them down the table, will you?”

  Felicia let out her breath with a whoosh. She had not realised that Fin had never even entered Compton House before, his hatred of the architect who had stolen his betrothed being too great to be readily overcome. In thirteen year
s, he had not set foot over the threshold. Yet tonight, he had done so and he liked what he saw. How could he not? The house was beautiful! And he was right about the epergne, which was indeed a monstrosity.

  When she looked across the table at him, he was watching her, his expression solemn.

  “Sugared almond, Miss Oakes?” He pushed the dish right across the table.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  As she popped one into her mouth, she could not help wondering why a man who had not set foot inside his sister’s house before should suddenly decide to do so. It was a mystery.

  10: A Painting Expedition

  The evening seemed interminable. While the gentlemen enjoyed their port and, judging from the raucous laughter, told each other ribald jokes, the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, where Felicia savoured the respite from the inexplicable attentions of the Buckleys and the distraction of Fin in his evening splendour. The five ladies sat on one side of the room and the two governesses on the other. Felicia would not call Miss Claypole a friend, but she was grateful for her company. They both produced items of embroidery from their reticules and if conversation lagged, their stitchery at least kept their hands busy.

  As soon as the gentlemen re-joined them, Mr Godfrey Buckley made straight for Felicia’s side. Since Miss Claypole had been drawn away to help hand round the tea things, Felicia was left alone with him. It was her only opportunity to confront him.

  “I am very curious as to your motives, Mr Buckley,” she said boldly, lifting her chin and looking him in the eye. “What, I wonder, can the heir to the Marquess of Arnwell find of interest in a humble governess?”

  He laughed easily. “May I suggest that you examine your looking glass tonight. You might find an answer there.”

  He smiled, eyes twinkling in amusement, but Felicia was not fooled. In the circles in which he moved, he must be surrounded by diamonds of the first water to whom she could never compare. She could only suppose that he was merely amusing himself with a flirtation.

  The end of the evening was a muddle, for somehow the two couples from Derby were waiting in the hall for their carriages at the same time as Felicia. Then all three carriages arrived at once and there was a great confusion of farewells on the steps. Felicia was hard put to it to escape from Mr Godfrey Buckley, and eventually Fin hustled her into the carriage, climbed in himself and the door was slammed shut.

  The darkness was her greatest saviour. She could barely make out his face, so she was fairly sure he could not see her flaming cheeks. For a moment they sat in silence, the carriage unmoving, as they waited for the other vehicles to move off.

  Then he said, “Did you enjoy the turbot, Miss Oakes?” She could hear the smile as he spoke.

  “Oh yes,” she squeaked, her voice not quite under control. “It was delicious. Everything was delicious.”

  “Except the epergne,” he said, and this time she knew he was frowning. “I know a silversmith who might undertake a commission for something a little more pleasing to the eye.” A long pause, then he went on in much the same tone, “Buckley has asked my permission to take my wards to Ashbourne for the day on Friday. There is a very fine medieval church there with some interesting monuments and a splendid spire. He thought the girls may care to paint it. You would accompany them, naturally, with Miss Claypole for propriety. He will borrow Drusilla’s barouche for the purpose, and provide a parlour at the Green Man for refreshments. What do you think?”

  “It… it sounds like an agreeable excursion,” she said cautiously. “The change of scenery would do them good, and a church always provides many possibilities for interesting subjects.”

  “That is what I thought, also. I agreed to it, subject to your approval. In fact, I might join you. I have not been to Ashbourne for years.”

  “There will not be room in the barouche for so many,” she said in alarm. A whole day in his company! That would be disastrous for her heart.

  “Buckley and I will ride,” he said. Another, longer, pause. “Over the port, your likeness to Lady Olivia Dulnain was discussed. It is curious, yet I see no resemblance to any other Dulnain. Nor does a connection there seem likely. Very devout, the whole family, and to be frank, I cannot see any of them producing a base-born child. Hadrian’s wife, though… she is a Lister, and a more rackety family would be hard to find. Sir Royston Lister, the present baronet, could well be your father, and thus your resemblance to Lady Olivia would come from her mother’s family, not her father’s. Their estate is in Hampshire or Surrey or one of those southern counties, so depositing you at Southampton would fit. But if so, there is nothing to hope for from the family, for they would never acknowledge you publicly. They tidy up their messes, but they never admit to them publicly.”

  That made sense. A wealthy family, a little wild, packing off their ‘messes’, as he called her, to the care of Miss Armiger, with enough money to sustain them and nothing to connect them to the family and thereby sully their public reputation. Yes, it was logical, and yet a little disappointing, too, if she could never get to know her father. And what of her mother? If her father was a gentleman who had seduced a chambermaid or the steward’s daughter, then why was Felicia not left to her mother’s care?

  No, there was more to her story than a rakish baronet, and a tiny corner of her heart still hoped that she might be the natural daughter of the marquess. Even estranged from him as she now was, and recognising all his eccentricities, at least she had known him for a little while and seen that beneath the bitter exterior was a kind heart which allowed him to befriend a humble governess and a half-grown dog.

  ~~~~~

  Fin rather looked forward to the expedition to Ashbourne. There was the fun of deciding on the necessary equipment for their art, and the exact numbers and styles of easels, paper, chairs, brushes and so forth to be taken. Then there was the finding of a box in which all this might conveniently be conveyed and the fruits of their labours returned safely. Miss Oakes, he discovered, approached the day from another angle altogether. She looked up Ashbourne in all the guidebooks the library offered, and the route to be taken in Carey’s Itinerary, so that the girls would be prepared for the sights. She even extracted from the back of a schoolroom cupboard a painting of the church executed with more enthusiasm than competence by his twelve-year-old self.

  “I have no memory of painting this,” he said, gazing at it in astonishment. “Not one of my better efforts, I think. It is best returned to the dark place whence it came.”

  “Oh no, for although it is clearly the work of a child, it contains many hints of the talent to come. These trees are very well done. I shall pin it to the wall to inspire us.”

  He was absurdly pleased with the compliment.

  Friday morning saw them gather in the hall awaiting the arrival of the barouche. Fin’s horse was already being walked about outside by the groom. Juliana and Margarita were arrayed in matching gowns and bonnets, and their governess… he could not deny that Miss Oakes looked surprisingly fetching. Her gown and spencer were sober enough, and her bonnet unadorned by more than the ribbon fastened under her chin, but somehow the way the bonnet framed her face and those mischievous eyes only emphasised the dimples beside her mouth. Such a shapely mouth, curved like a cupid’s bow. Very kissable lips, which would no doubt enchant the impoverished vicar or well-to-do burgher it was her destiny to marry. Surely she would marry one day, for it would be a waste for so pretty a girl to fade into untouched spinsterhood.

  The sounds of flying gravel announced a rider approaching at some speed. With an economical movement of one hand, Bagnall directed Robert to attend to the arrival. He returned almost at once, to confer with the butler. A silver salver was fetched, a letter placed upon it and Bagnall crossed the hall to the little group, and bowed to Fin.

  “A letter for Miss Oakes, my lord. From Shotterbourne. The groom is awaiting a reply.”

  “Well, give it to Miss Oakes, then, man. No use telling me about it.”

  �
��Very good, my lord.”

  With another bow, the butler turned to Miss Oakes, bowed again and held out the salver. Calmly she took the letter and opened it, for all the world as if she received such missives every day.

  Fin understood Bagnall’s scruples. Miss Oakes was a single woman and an employee in the house who should not be receiving letters from a gentleman, as the hand clearly showed the writer to be. For himself, he cared nothing for that — let her have an admirer if she would, she deserved it — but he was very curious as to who her mysterious correspondent might be, and how she had come to know anyone from Shotterbourne. At church, perhaps? He was well aware that she had begun to attend Morning Service at St Miriam’s, where the Shotterbourne servants attended. Yet somehow the thought disappointed him. He had not known Miss Oakes for long, but he had grown to respect her and hoped she would do rather better for herself than an under-footman or groom.

  The rattle of the barouche was heard from outside, and moments later Drusilla bustled into the hall.

  “Ah, there you are, Fin. I have decided to come in Miss Claypole’s stead, for I know Godfrey’s ways. He will ply her with wine at the inn, whereupon she will sleep the afternoon away leaving poor Miss Oakes unchaperoned and exposed to all Godfrey’s wheedling ways. I shall not fall asleep, you may be sure. But why is there a Shotterbourne groom outside?”

  “He brought a letter for Miss Oakes.”

  “A letter? For Miss Oakes? From whom? Man or woman?”

  Fin’s lips quirked at the indignation on her face. As Miss Oakes was standing a little apart, engrossed in reading the second sheet of her letter — two sheets! An ardent admirer, then — he replied in a low voice, “A man, I believe.”

  Drusilla’s cluck of outrage echoed around the hall. “Miss Oakes? Are you betrothed?”

  “Hmm?” She looked up in surprise. “No, indeed. Why—? Oh, the letter! No, it is from Lord Arnwell, that is all.”