by Julia Donner
“Fustian! Thirty is not old.”
“It is when a woman hasn’t married before then.”
“I won’t hear any more of that nonsense. This is your time, my love. There was little opportunity throughout the dreary years when we lived in the outskirts of Stirling. We had no one but Cousin Beatrice for an introduction and company. We chose to use your modest dowry to invest in your talent, which proved an excellent decision. You’ve gained a following. Even Lord Vernam was persuaded to drive down from London, expressly to ask for a sitting.”
Agnes had no response to that. She smiled with a nod and rubbed a smudge of carnelian from a brush picked up earlier then set down for lack of enthusiasm. The red smudge on the back of her wrist resurrected an unpleasant vision of blood-smeared linen. She shook the memory from her head.
“Mother, I’ve quite settled my heart and mind on a life as an artist. It’s not one acceptable to the established mode, but I am resigned. If I marry, my husband would never approve of his wife embracing a career. He would expect nothing other than full attention to her wifely duties.”
“Agnes, dear.”
“I am decided on this, Mother”
Constance paused for an uncomfortable, searching consideration of her daughter’s unusual show of belligerence. “Was it something that happened in Sussex?”
Fear sliced through her limbs. “Why do you ask? I’m sorry. That was a bit sharp. Please forgive me.”
“Agnes, you worry me. I do understand your devotion to your talent. It is commendable and important, but my love, I cannot help but think that there is a part of you that longs for something…more.”
In spite of her mood, Agnes had to laugh. “I wouldn’t describe Loverton as something merely more. He’s a force of nature.”
Her mother giggled like a schoolgirl. “Isn’t he though? Those shoulders! And those flashing black eyes! My, if I were only twenty years younger, I would embrace an affaire de coeur.”
“Mother!”
“Pooh! I’m a widow, and not a day goes by that I don’t yearn for your father. It is not unknown for a woman who has lost her husband to seek consolation after an acceptable time of mourning has passed.”
Agnes gaped at her mother, seeing her in an altogether different way. “Why have you never talked to me this candidly?”
Her mother glanced away, blinking thoughtfully. “I suppose because you’ve never given me reason to approach the subject. You were never provided an opportunity to attach an eligible parti. We had so few prospects before our dear Cameron was returned to us. No money, no position to speak of. And that reminds me. I’ve come up here expressly to beg you to join Cameron and me when we go to the Grange this afternoon.”
The memory of the night before, the way her heart had pounded whenever she had looked Loverton in the eye set it racing again. “I would rather stay here and work while the light is conducive.”
Her mother’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, my dear, what has happened to you? Where has my bright, laughing girl gone? You used to love to make calls and attend every kind of assembly.”
“My work is now my life, a calling more determined to capture my attention than social engagements. It’s a constant yearning, Mother, very like eating or sleeping. More than a habit. A thing that must be done every day.”
Her mother’s glance at the untouched canvas was a trenchant, if silent, rebuttal to that explanation, but she accepted the excuse with a huff of resignation.
“Very well, my dear. If that is what you wish, but do not be surprised if his lordship demands your company when he makes the return call. And he will. No matter how you try to fob me off with this or that excuse, Loverton is not a man accustomed to failure. Not at all the sort one might easily put off with a casual rebuff. Neither was your father, so I very much like that in his lordship. And I expect, when you allow him to present himself in the best light, you might come to appreciate that trait. There is nothing quite so titillating and gratifying as an ardent suitor.” She concluded with a reminiscent gleam in her eyes and a soft chuckle. “I vow, it is utterly impossible to resist.”
Exactly what Agnes dreaded. Black eyes flashed in her memory, and her heart started up with a thump, racing an erratic beat. At least her mother hadn’t seemed keen on Vincent.
Chapter 5
Murky sunlight seeped through tree branches not yet ready to sprout leaves. The rain had let up at dawn, encouraging Agnes to go for a walk, which always energized her body and stirred up creative ideas. She kicked through last autumn’s moldering debris, while Cameron’s dogs snuffled through the soggy leaves, their wiry fur stringy and smelly from the wet. She laughed when Antony, the younger and smaller of the pair, lifted his nose and came up with a leaf perched on his snout. Cleopatra, the larger of the two, looked up to discover why she’d laughed, but jerked her head eastward, ears pricked at attention. Antony did the same.
Distant thumps filtered through the rain-soaked forest, becoming thuds when a rider came cantering over the crest of the hillock above the copse. The rider reined in his mount to survey the landscape.
Loverton. Even from a distance she recognized his commanding aura. She’d gone up there earlier to watch the sunrise, a solace-filling vista of rolling hills, sheep-dotted pastures, and naked-tree woodlands. She watched him, liking that he allowed his horse to drop its head and crop a few mouthfuls of grass.
When he spied her crimson cloak amid the trees, his gaze was so intent it felt tactile. Vibrant anticipation tingled over her skin. Taking up the slack reins, he started his horse down the slope toward her.
“Antony, Cleo, come!”
The dogs came to flank her. They sat when she took hold of their collars. Sensing her nervousness, Antony whined. Cleo, older and seasoned, stayed calm and vigilant. Neither had any aggressiveness, but they were both protective in their way, and she didn’t want them in a quandary as to what to do with a stranger.
Loverton pulled up his horse and lifted off his hat. “Good day, Miss Bradford. Forgive me for interrupting your walk.”
“Not at all, my lord. Are you out surveying the estate?”
“What can be seen of it in a day. I’ve been out since dawn. This copse is still part of Grange lands?”
“Oh, yes. And as far as you can see from here. Up there, it goes as far east as the village, west to the channel, north to the next village. To the south, I am not quite sure.”
He replaced his hat. “May I step down and join you?”
“Certainly.” Her breezy tone didn’t reveal that she felt exactly the opposite, her nerves crackling and urging her to run.
Leather squeaked as he dismounted. “May I be introduced to your dogs?”
She nodded and he removed a glove. When she released her grip on the collars, Antony and Cleo moved to sniff Loverton’s palm, tails swishing, happy to meet a new friend. When they discovered he held no treats, both dogs looked to her for instruction. She waved them away and they took off to investigate and romp in the clearing beyond the trees.
For a moment she found intensely awkward, but he obviously did not, she stood fixed. The unthawed ground seeped its chill through the soles of her boots.
He gestured that she should go ahead of him on the deer path. “If you would lead the way? I fear that standing in this damp will only bring on a chill.”
Once they broke through the copse and into the clearing, she stopped to watch the dogs cavort and chase each other, both fleet and in obvious delight of their speed. She scoured her mind for something to say. Fortunately, she couldn’t see Loverton. He walked on the other side of the horse’s head. She suspected he did so on purpose to not impose or make her uncomfortable with his closeness. They were still strangers, even if she felt a peculiar bond, a strange physical and emotional pull for his company.
They stopped to watch the dogs cavort. Grasping for something to break through the silence, she rubbed the backs of her curved fingers over the horse’s soft muzzle. “I’ve always liked this se
al brown color. He looks perfect for hacking. Did you bring him with you from America?”
“Rented him from an inn near the harbor and liked him so much that I bought him.” He gave the gelding an affectionate slap on the neck and took a step around the horse’s head to face her. When she retreated, he halted to rub the horse’s forehead. “I don’t have it in me to force a long sea voyage on a horse. Can’t imagine being trapped in a stanchion that long.”
She started walking in the direction of Oakland Hall. “You left a favorite horse at home?”
“More than one. Do you ride?”
“I didn’t for many years. We couldn’t afford to keep a team or even a horse.”
“But do you ride now?”
She couldn’t stop a grin from forming. “My brother spoils me, and Mother also, quite horribly. He gave me a mare this last Christmas, liver chestnut with flaxen mane and tail. She is quite flashy and has no fear. And have you seen Mother’s pony cart?”
“Cart? You mean the miniature phaeton with four white ponies? It must create a stir whenever she drives it.”
A laugh bubbled up in spite of her nervousness. “It’s a veritable parade on its own. Children beg for rides.”
“I was particularly taken by the tiger, her groom. The one time I saw him perched on the back, I was quite impressed. Wherever did your brother find a man that short to accompany her?”
Agnes smiled down at the muddied hem of her walking dress. “Ah, yes. Henry. He’s a relative of someone in the district. He fed himself by being an object of interest in a traveling exhibition as a child. The exhibition owners sent him off when he began to grow.”
“And now he is a groom at Oakland?”
“For life. My brother has a fervent dislike of those who are cruel to the unlucky. Henry was in a quite unfortunate state when Cameron hired him.”
“He looks as prosperous as a squire and as self-important now.”
“Yes, he’s quite happy and guards my mother better than my brother’s deerhounds ever would.” She whistled when she noticed they were out of sight.
Loverton stopped to watch them tear across the turf at her call. They circled her and Loverton, still wild with joyful energy. They bounced in place for her attention.
“Oh, go on.” She waved them away and watched them dash off to course the clearing. “It’s almost impossible to wear them down.”
He nodded and they resumed their stroll toward Oakland. “May I ask you something, Miss Bradford?” He waited for her nod to continue. “At supper the other evening, when you removed your gloves, I noticed a greenish stain on your index finger. Do you use colored ink? Or had you been using watercolors?”
“I rarely paint with watercolors. I prefer oil.”
“Ah, that’s it, then. I thought I caught a whiff of it.”
Agnes halted, mortified. “I smelled of paint?”
He surprised her with a gentle laugh that softened his hawkish features. “Not then. Today. There is a hint of the solvent you must use to clean the brushes. At supper, when you removed your gloves, I merely noticed the faint discoloration.”
She placed a palm over her heated cheek and began to swiftly walk away, muttering, “It must be this cape. Most likely saturated with the smell. It’s been hanging on a hook in my studio.”
He halted her with a hand on her arm. “Miss Bradford, I meant no insult. Please, stop.”
Too chagrined to face him, she stepped behind the horse’s head and pressed her brow into the gelding’s cheek. Keeping the horse between them, she hid her embarrassment. “To reek an off-putting scent is so…mortifying.”
“Why?” he asked from the other side of the horse.
She lifted her head and felt—almost but not quite—up to confronting his question, and him, with equanimity. “Good heavens, sir, one doesn’t wish to go out in public reeking of turpentine fumes. Or as if one didn’t bathe regularly. The problem is that I’m with the scents so much that I rarely notice. My maid lets me know when I need to do something about it.”
“Miss Bradford, will you please come out from behind my horse’s head? My cloddish manners have caused you discomfort. Please accept my apology. I’ve been too long out of polite company and have forgotten how to behave properly.”
Smiling at the silliness of that, she had no time to act on his request. The gelding exposed her reddened cheeks when he dropped his head to scratch his cheek against an extended leg. He snatched a mouthful of turf while his head was down.
Agnes grinned at that. “My horse is trained to never eat with the bit in her mouth. It hasn’t stopped her from using the same tactic to get her head down and in range of the grass.”
Loverton smiled, and she paused to examine how it changed his aspect from austere to an unexpected sweetness. A mischievous twinkle banished the basilisk chill of his gaze. “Am I forgiven, Miss Bradford?”
“My lord, you must think me an idiot. No, you are not forgiven, because you’ve done nothing to require it. The fault is entirely mine for reacting so ridiculously.”
“Why do you think so little about what you can do? What I mean to say is, your talent seems to me a gift to be cherished. The fact that you are an artist should bring personal satisfaction and gratifying social approbation.”
A wholly unforeseen and intriguing urge to speak openly with him had her explaining before she realized what she was doing. Once started, it felt so comfortable she didn’t want to stop.
“There are past…emotional connections, you see. Before Cameron came home from his captivity, we…Mother and I, had so little. There was a small stipend from her marriage settlement but not enough on which one person could survive, much less two. We, Mother and I, have not been able to conquer our fear of losing him again. He was parted from us for a decade.”
“That must have been most difficult with the addition of financial concerns. Perhaps it is wrong of me to comment, but weren’t conditions made for your mother and you should something befall your father and brother?”
“ Certainly. My father was given the understanding that Oakland would remain our home, his pension made ours should anything happen to him, but the previous estate manager didn’t wish to honor that condition.”
He gestured for her to continue on the path. “You didn’t contest it?”
“We hadn’t the funds for that. Then Cameron came home and was given the baronetcy and his prize monies. He’s been spoiling us without ceasing ever since, which is not always easy to accept after living in hardships for so long. Mother and I are still in the habit of strict frugality.”
“Your previous situation sounds sadly desperate. I’m sorry that you suffered so,” he quietly commented while watching the ground passing beneath his boots.
“Desperate, indeed. It was Mother’s idea to sell some of my paintings. We had no funds left for me to buy more oils, canvas, and supplies to clean and condition the brushes. Even they were wearing down to ragged tips. What we earned from the few sales kept us in food and coal. Enough to buy supplies, to take on more commissions.”
“I admire that, Miss Bradford. That you had the talent and initiative to support yourself and your mother.”
Uncomfortable with praise, Agnes whistled up the dogs and signaled for them to head home. They raced ahead on the path that led to Oakland. She watched the house grow larger as they walked in silence for a while. This time, she felt no awkwardness. Words she wanted to speak, ideas she wanted to share, began to take form. A need to express her feelings overtook her usual reticence.
“My lord, my thanks for your understanding. Perhaps things are different in the United States, but here, it would be looked upon as highly inappropriate for a female of my social standing to be earning her way in life. I feel that you comprehend my position with great sympathy and am glad that you do not disapprove.”
“Of course I don’t disapprove. If anything, I am envious. I’ve always wished for the talent to pen a story but can barely write legibly, and here you are with
the ability to capture life and beauty on canvas.”
She peered up at him. There was a tightness about his mouth that looked more like humor than anything else. “Are you teasing me, sir?”
He halted and turned to face her. “Absolutely not. To be honest, I cannot imagine anyone finding any thing about you with which to form an unfavorable opinion.”
She felt her brow wrinkle in a frown of suspicion. “I have difficulty with identifying certain truths, such as reading whether or not a person is in earnest. I admit to gullibility, but my instincts tell me that you are jesting and yet speaking truthfully.”
He placed a hand over his heart but that twinkle was back in his eyes. “On my honor, Miss Bradford, I spoke the truth, and never doubt your instincts. I can’t see how an artistic soul could do so and remain an artist.”
She’d paused to absorb his words and started walking again. “There is veracity in that opinion. It would be excessively unwise for an artist to lose touch with intuitiveness. Do you have an appreciation for the arts?”
“Painting, most definitely,” he answered with a grin that looked suspiciously playful. “But as I confessed, I’ve no talent whatsoever, therefore, I have to settle for visual pleasure instead of expressive.”
“Ah, then you must likewise appreciate the written word, especially since you wish to ‘pen a story’ as you said. Would it be impertinent to ask if you attended university?”
“I read law at Harvard but soon learned that the law and I did not suit. I stayed to study the classics.”
“Your father was a lawyer?”
“No, a diplomat. I thought you knew.”
“No. Cameron only mentioned their tragic passing. May I ask what happened to you after that? He said you were quite young when you lost them.”
“Eight. I was fortunate to have been delivered to a family friend, who later took me to Pennsylvania. My father had enjoyed a close friendship with a prosperous businessman in Philadelphia, Mr. Aloysius Berger. He adopted me.”
“Did he know about your connection to the title?”
