A Week in Brighton

by Moore, Jennifer

  “Do you wish to accompany me when I pay a call upon the Fosters?” Miss Montgomery asked Rowan.

  “Yes, I would, thank you.” He could see for himself whether the girl in question had the right coloring. Besides, spending time with Miss Montgomery always held appeal.

  She resumed painting. Despite an overwhelming urge to be at her side, Rowan played a few more memorized pieces before succumbing. On his way to Miss Montgomery, he veered off to Mrs. Williams. It wouldn’t do to make his interest so well-known, especially after the vicar’s warning.

  Rowan admired an intricate lace Mrs. Williams created by moving threads on colored beads in a weaving pattern. “That’s pretty.”

  Mrs. Williams beamed. “I’m making over an old dress and thought a bit of new tatted lace might do nicely.”

  “Indeed.” He sauntered to Miss Montgomery and gestured to her easel. “May I?”

  She paused, then nodded. “It’s not finished . . .”

  After moving to her side so he could look at the paper from the artist’s view, he peered at her art. A watercolor of a garden in early-morning light, still wet with dew, came to life under her brush strokes.

  “That’s very good,” he said honestly.

  “Is it?” Her hopeful expression revealed a touch of vulnerability.

  “Indeed. I would hang this in my house where I could look at it every day. It makes me feel peaceful. Content.”

  Joy and relief entered her smile. “You’re too kind. I tried to paint something more dramatic, but I hated how it turned out.” She gestured to an unfinished piece of art behind her of a stormy sea with alarming sky and ocean colors.

  He gestured to the watercolor. “This one is much better.”

  “I just don’t know if it’s good enough for Mr. Corby.”

  “You must paint what is in your heart—not what others think you ought to paint.”

  She nodded but looked unconvinced.

  He added, “I can hardly wait to see the rest of your paintings.”

  Apparently, emboldened by his admiration, she eagerly retrieved several other works. With her romantic, joyful, and often peaceful perspective, landscapes of cottages, gardens, seascapes, and the prince’s pavilion sprang to life on paper.

  “These rival any art I’ve seen in London,” he said honestly.

  “Thank you. I only hope they are good enough.” The wistfulness in her voice revealed her longing. “Your playing was lovely. Was that Brahms?” she asked, clearly to change the subject.

  “It was.”

  “Is he your favorite composer?”

  “I like him, but I’m partial to Vivaldi and Chopin.”

  “If you can play Chopin, you are a gifted pianist.”

  He shrugged. “I enjoy it.”

  “Mr. Law,” Mrs. Williams interjected. “Is there anything we can do to make your stay here more comfortable?”

  He paused, taken aback by her solicitousness, motivated by pure kindness instead of the fawning he sometimes encountered—especially while traveling with his father. “Not at all, ma’am. The accommodations are quite nice.”

  “Difficult to sleep in a strange place, though, isn’t it?”

  He took a seat next to his hostess. “A bit. Do not trouble yourself. I will adapt. Perhaps my father will return soon, and you will no longer need to concern yourself over me.”

  “It’s been a pleasure to have you with us, and you are welcome to stay as long as needed.” Mrs. Williams put her hand on the back of his head, brought it in, and kissed his brow in a motherly gesture.

  When was the last time he’d been the recipient of such a tender, innocent show of affection?

  His own mother had patted him on the head when he was a small boy and told him to make her proud. He likely hadn’t in a very long time. He cleared his throat.

  The family bade goodnight, and Rowan went to his homey bedchamber more content than he’d ever remembered feeling. Perhaps his father had done him a favor in abandoning him where he could find this remarkable family.

  As he lay in bed, he relived Miss Montgomery’s smile, her graceful walk, the passion blazing in her eyes when she painted, her enthusiasm to help him find Ann. He spent the remainder of the night listing all the reasons why he must not give the lovely young lady with the kitten whose name she changed every day another thought: her guardian had all but forbidden him from touching or courting her, he would be gone before he knew her well enough to consider her a match, she was too free-spirited and innocent to survive the scrutiny of society matrons, she had no experience managing a sizable household, his parents would never give their blessing on such a union, on and on until finally he imagined her simply laughing in his face during his proposal and skipping away through the garden.

  The following morning, as Rowan prepared to accompany Miss Montgomery to the Fosters’ home, Mr. Williams stared hard at him and gave a sharp tip of his head before stepping into his study. With his hands behind his back, Rowan followed Mr. Williams.

  The vicar closed the door behind him and turned. “I see how you look at her.” It came out as an accusation.

  Rowan put up his hands. “Sir . . .”

  Before he got out another word, Mr. Williams said, “I have known Isabella and George since their births. Their mother was my wife’s dearest friend. We mourned when she died and took in the children so their father could continue serving king and country as a post captain. When he was killed in battle, we grieved with them. Then, when the eldest Montgomery boy perished—also at sea—we grieved again. Isabella and George are as much in our hearts as our own children.”

  “She lost her parents and a brother?”

  Somberly, Mr. Williams nodded. “So you can understand why I will do all in my power to protect her from further heartbreak.”

  Rowan had been wrong to assume that the young lady behind the perpetual cheer had not suffered her own tragedies. He looked Mr. Williams in the eye. “Sir, I vow I have not touched her nor trifled with her heart—nor will I. I give you my word.”

  Mr. Williams nodded, stepped back, and opened the door in clear dismissal. “I hope you find the girl you seek.”

  “Thank you. And sir, I appreciate you and your wife taking me in. If there is ever a way I might repay you, I vow you have only to ask.”

  Mr. Williams nodded.

  Rowan returned to the parlor where Miss Montgomery was tying her bonnet’s ribbons underneath her chin. She smiled at his approach, that ray of cheer that shone into his aching heart. Could he, too, heal from the crushing blow of losing his brother and find peace? It seemed impossible. Yet, she had. In fact, she’d lost more.

  “Ready?” She beamed.

  “Ready.”

  She put a basket on her arm and led the way outside.

  Rowan reached for the basket. “May I carry that for you?”

  She smiled. “It isn’t heavy. I can manage.”

  “I’m sure you’re capable of managing a great many things, but I would be no gentleman if I allowed you to carry burdens when I’m here to carry them for you.”

  “Then, I thank you.” Smiling, she handed over her basket.

  “Have you always lived in Brighton?” he asked.

  “All my life. I was born only a few miles from this spot. Our family home is being let out until George reaches his majority and assumes care over the property.”

  “Have you ever desired to live anywhere but Brighton?”

  She picked a wildflower growing along the path. “I’ve not thought about that. We’ve traveled a little—Bath, the Lake District, Dover—but it never occurred to me to really leave Brighton. I love it here by the sea. All my friends are here, and Aunt Missy and Uncle Joseph. And I cannot imagine living far from George, trial that he is.” She grinned.

  More reasons why he ought not consider her as a potential love interest. He’d be expected to visit the various family holdings on a regular basis.

  Her voice broke into his thoughts. “You?”


  “If I had a choice, I’d live here, too—or somewhere near the sea.”

  “You don’t have a choice?”

  “I will one day inherit my father’s estate, so I must prepare for those responsibilities. My time is no longer my own.”

  Quietly, she asked, “Who are you, Mr. Law?”

  He might as well tell her. She would find out one way or another. “I am the second son of the Earl of Leiderton. When my brother . . . passed . . . I gained the courtesy title of Viscount Hadley.”

  Her features flitted from one expression to another. Finally, she nodded. “That does explain rather a lot.” She stopped walking and touched his arm. “I am so, so very sorry about your brother.”

  Of everything he’d told her, the one piece of information she commented on was how recently he’d lost his brother. Had he ever met someone as genuinely kind as she?

  “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “Father immediately shifted his focus to me as if my brother had never existed. He talks constantly about managing our estate and how I am to one day inherit and that we must make up for lost time.” How could he assume the role meant for his brother? He looked away until his watery vision cleared.

  Gently, she said, “I’m sure your father has not simply forgotten him. He is probably trying to do the proper thing by you.”

  Disdainful and bitter, he said, “Proper. Yes, if there is one word to describe my father, proper would be it.”

  She looked at him with tears in her eyes. Without speaking, she touched his arm briefly, the touch of friendship and compassion. Somehow that helped. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together.

  “Here we are.” She gestured to a humble stone cottage with only one chimney.

  The cries of a child reached them. As they walked up a lane nearly obscured with weeds and wildflowers, the front door opened, and a woman walked out with a child on her hip. She stopped short and shaded her eyes.

  “Good day, Mrs. Foster,” Miss Montgomery called.

  “Oh, good day, Miss Montgomery.” The woman dropped a curtsy and shifted the child onto the other hip.

  “Are you well?” Miss Montgomery asked.

  “Yes, quite. Just trying to distract the little one here. Her brother hurt her feelings.”

  The little girl peered at them before burying her head in her mama’s shoulder.

  Miss Montgomery shook her head sadly. “Boys!”

  The child offered a timid smile at the display of sympathy.

  Miss Montgomery gestured at the basket in Rowan’s hands. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping in, but we have fresh preserves and bread we wanted to bring to you.”

  “How kind.”

  “I also wanted to introduce you to a houseguest of ours.”

  After the introductions, Mrs. Foster said, “Won’t you please come in?”

  Rowan blinked in the dim interior of the house while the mother called for someone to put on the kettle.

  In a moment, they seated themselves in the humble surroundings. Miss Montgomery opened the basket and pulled out jars of preserves, loaves of bread, a block of cheese, and several apples, all while asking about mutual acquaintances.

  By Rowan’s definition, the vicar and his family were not wealthy, but they clearly took to heart their duty to look out for those less fortunate than they.

  Within minutes, two daughters in their teens hurried in, smoothing their hair and skirts. One, indeed, was blonde. In the dim lighting of the interior, Rowan could not be certain if her hair was the correct shade to match the lock nestled in his coat pocket.

  “These are my daughters, Anna and Mabel,” Mrs. Foster said.

  Their proximity, combined with the poor lighting, made it impossible to determine the color of the blonde’s eyes. Still, as Rowan sipped weak tea, he plied them with his charm and took pleasure in their reactions. Yes, he still had the power to draw blushes and titters out of girls. Even the mother seemed to enjoy him. Apparently only Miss Montgomery was immune to him.

  After a respectable time had passed, Miss Montgomery stood. “This has been a most pleasant morning, Mrs. Foster.”

  “Indeed,” Rowan said with a bow. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  At the door, he turned in a last desperate hope to look at the blonde. In the light streaming in through the doorway, the blonde girl’s eye color became apparent: blue. And her pale hair could not be the deep gold of Ann’s lock.

  Rowan’s breath left in a disappointed exhale. He bade them farewell and followed Miss Montgomery out.

  When they were out of earshot, Miss Montgomery sent him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry we didn’t find your Ann here.”

  “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

  She laughed softly. “Are you always so charming, or did you put on a special show for those girls?”

  He lifted his brows. “Aren’t I always the most charming gentleman you’ve ever met?”

  “Well, you do seem to say everything in the most flattering way possible. One sometimes wonders if you are sincere.”

  “You find me insincere?”

  “I’m not certain.” She smiled to soften her words.

  “A trusted mentor told me once that if I always speak as if I am addressing a duke or a duchess, I’ll draw smiles and gladden hearts.”

  Her smile turned thoughtful. “We all ought to be more generous with praise. It would make us better people.”

  Did that mean he was exonerated? With women, it was difficult to know.

  They strolled along together in a comfortable silence. Birds sang in a joyous chorus, and the trees swayed in a breeze.

  After a moment, he asked, “Do you have any other ideas of who might be the Ann I seek?”

  “There is the merchant I mentioned—the March family. They always come to church, so we will see them on the morrow.”

  He nodded. He’d failed to find Hadley’s Ann today, but at least the morning had passed pleasantly.

  Would he ever find Ann?

  Isabella labored over her painting and stood back to eye her work. The proportions were good, the colors natural and varied, and the objects well-balanced. Did it lack something?

  Would answers to these questions come after she began tutelage under Mr. Corby—if she ever became good enough to earn a place as a student—or did discovering the answer on her own determine whether or not he accepted Isabella?

  After cleaning her brushes and removing her smock, she set the paper aside to dry and glanced at the clock. She’d painted through breakfast and now must go to church on an empty stomach. Oh, bother!

  After returning to her bedchamber to don her bonnet and gloves, she stopped for a quick check in the mirror to be sure her face remained paint-free and her hair stayed in place.

  “Isabella, it’s time to leave.” Aunt Missy’s voice spurred her on.

  “Coming, Aunt Missy.” She raced down the stairs pell-mell and stopped short near the bottom of the staircase.

  Mr. Law stood below, resplendent in his stylish black attire and poised as always. He probably thought her a country bumpkin with the manners of a barn animal.

  Ever a gentleman, he bowed at her arrival. “Good morning, Miss Montgomery.”

  Since learning that he bore—reluctantly—the courtesy title of viscount and was heir to an earldom, she probably ought to think of him in loftier terms. She must never forget his family lived in social circles so high above her that they might as well reside in different countries—a painful lesson his brother and Ann had learned.

  Still, she could have a little fun with him. As she glided gracefully down the final two steps, she lifted her chin and said in as queenly a pose and tone as possible, “Good morning, Mr. Law. We are pleased to see you.”

  His mouth curved, and the expression almost reached his eyes. “Might I escort Your Highness to church this morning?”

  She held out a hand and looked upward, still using the exaggeratedly formal queenly tone. “You have our permission to to
uch the royal hand, sir.”

  The expected touch came, but in a most unexpected way. At least, her reaction to his touch came unexpectedly. Despite the barrier of their gloves, heat raced through her arm like breakers on a shoreline, sending little currents all the way down to her toes.

  George escorted Aunt Missy out the door, and Mr. Law followed them. As they walked to the parish church, Isabella pointed out sights along the way. Mr. Law’s eyes darted about, and he appeared to listen. Once, he looked at her for a long moment with such an expression of admiration that she nearly sang out loud. Every time her feet threatened to leave the earth and send her floating, her common sense reminded her that a future earl was not for her. Besides, she might have misinterpreted his esteem; he was charming to all. She really ought to explain that to her thumpity-thumpity heart.

  During their approach to the stone church building, heads turned and admiring gazes followed Mr. Law. Isabella followed Aunt Missy and George inside, where more glances of curiosity and clear astonishment came from every person in the room. Sitting between George and Mr. Law, Isabella looked straight at Uncle Joseph as he delivered his sermon, but she heard little over the thudding of her heart and the wild flights of fancy her imagination took. Next to her, Mr. Law shifted, and his leg brushed against hers. Heat raced outward in a growing circle from where he’d touched her, and she caught his scent. She drew a deep breath. An ache grew inside her. She dared a quick, longing glance at his profile. Even unsmiling, he was the most handsome man of her acquaintance. If he ever smiled at her, she would be lost.

  The moment church ended and they went outside, the congregation descended on Aunt Missy, requesting introductions to Mr. Law. Those with eligible daughters were especially persistent. The Fosters, whom they had visited the day before, spoke with them, the girls as giggly as when Mr. Law flattered them the prior day.

  George craned his neck, looking about. When the Stocktons emerged from the church’s interior, George greeted the taller of the girls. She must be the one who’d stolen his heart.

  The March family passed by, nodding politely but not speaking to Isabella or her family. As a merchant, and therefore a member of the working class, Mr. March and his family technically belonged in a social circle below Isabella’s family, but they freely associated with one another at church. Their clothing and postures reflected an air of inflated pride common among the nouveau riche. Still, Isabella admired the mother and daughter’s gowns. Golden-blonde curls peeped out from underneath the daughter’s bonnet.