by Tamara Gill
“He sends you enough letters talking about his exploits,” her mother said. “I cannot imagine why you would wish to hear more about dreary war activities.”
“Oh, ho,” her father said, chuckling from behind his paper. “You’re after information about Geoffrey Livingston, your new assignment.”
“Oh, is that all?” Her mother sat back, deflated. “For a moment, you had my hopes up.”
“Do you think his brother might attend, Papa?”
“I doubt it,” her father said. Lowering his paper, he folded and put it aside. Picking up his utensils, he then attended to his food. A maid hurried over to replenish his drink. “I heard Ashford had left Town for his estate in Kent.”
“He broods down there far too much,” her mother said. “It isn’t healthy to grieve for so long.”
“It’s only been six months, my love,” her husband said.
“He’s had all winter,” she replied. “That’s enough,”
“The late Mr. Livingston used to be part of the Prince of Wales Dragoon Guards, was he not?” Pauline asked.
“He was,” her father replied, his interest firmly caught. “What are you thinking.”
“Yes, what are you scheming?” her mother asked, sounding alarmed.
“Planning, Mama,” Pauline said, correcting her mother’s word choice now. “I wonder if the earl might be persuaded to attend if he heard some of the dragoon guards might be there.”
“I can speak to Patterson,” her father offered, “about inviting those officers to the event.”
“You’re not going along with her plans, are you?” her mother asked him in surprise.
“You want your daughter to meet eligible young men, do you not, my love? You cannot ask for a better selection to choose from than within such a stellar group of soldiers.”
“Oh, I had not considered that,” her mother said, warming up to the idea. “Yes, definitely speak to Patterson. Also, have his son speak to Ashford. I’ve heard they’re good friends. It might entice Ashford to attend.”
“Excellent notion.” Her father winked at Pauline.
“Mama,” Pauline said, her parents’ concessions cheering her to push for the next part of her daring plan. “Doesn’t Aunt Josephine have a cottage in Kent?”
“Yes, but she rarely goes there during the Season,” her mother replied. “Prefers the social whirl of London.”
“Do you think she would allow me to work on my sculpture there? It’ll be more private than at the museum.”
“I suppose,” her mother said. “It will be isolated, dear. Are you sure you wish to go all the way to the south coast?”
“Are we talking about the cottage near Ashford’s estate?” her father asked.
Pauline met her father’s knowing gaze and raised her chin with defiance. “Yes, Papa, that one.”
“Take Lucy with you, then, for company.” Having finished his meal, he stood and came over to kiss the top of her head. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Pauline. I told you that in the Queen’s Drawing Room and stand by that advice.”
Pauline nodded, grateful for his support. She hoped she would be more successful in securing the earl’s interest in the future than she had been thus far.
“Oh,” her mother said, her breath gushing out as her gaze swung with agitation and excitement from her husband’s retreating form to her daughter’s hopeful expression.
* * *
“Robert!”
Standing by the rocky shoreline in Ashford and gazing at the white rimmed sea, Stone started, brought back to the present at hearing that discarded name.
For one foolish moment, he thought Geoffrey called to him. A glance behind quickly corrected his erroneous assumption. Ghosts were an unfortunate figment of one’s overactive imagination. He should know better. Still, his heart shriveled with disappointment.
It was merely Patterson come to call, one of his good friends. He had neglected him and the rest of his set since his return from Europe. The very idea of joining in meaningless rounds of entertainment or gambling had settled in his gut like sour milk.
His friend hurried across the lonely landscape to Stone’s side. “Your estate is a desolate place, Robert. Oh, sorry, that’s to be Stone, now, isn’t it? I keep forgetting that you no longer wish to be called Robert. Feels odd to call you anything else.”
As a child, he’d insisted on being called Robert, which his mother favored before her death. What Geoffrey always called him. Lately, however, he’d adopted his cavalry nickname of “Stone” as his preferred moniker among his closest friends, yearning for solidity. Yet, that sense of certainty and immovability continued to elude him, for he seemed utterly incapable of arranging matters to his satisfaction.
“Didn’t see a soul for miles on the way here,” Patterson continued in his original vein of thought. “Even your nearest neighboring property, the one with the round tower, looked deserted.”
“The owner rarely visits.” Which he appreciated. He wasn’t in the mood for company. Not even Patterson’s.
“Took me hours to drive down in my gig from London. I’m lucky I didn’t break a wheel.”
“Why did you bother?”
“To tell you that you’re missing all the fun.”
Stone turned away from his friend’s genial expression and stared at the dark sea. “Then you’ve wasted your time.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. Two troops of dragoons have arrived in Town. I’ve invited them to Mama’s ball.”
He had Stone’s undivided attention now. It might be entertaining to speak to Geoffrey’s friends. Of everyone he knew, they would best understand the devastation he felt. Still, a sliver of doubt reared. “Your mother agreed?”
Patterson’s mother favored order and calm while those soldiers, in particular, could be a rambunctious bunch. Which is why Geoffrey had fit in so well with them.
“It was father’s idea. Said one of his friends suggested it, as a way to honor our fallen heroes. A sentiment that seems all the rage these days.”
Tempting concept but was he ready to step back into the public eye? The answer was a resounding, No.
Example, his reaction to that poor girl who had innocently bumped into him on Montague Street. The encounter had been a good reminder to be gentler in his reactions, no matter his mood or circumstance. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Geoffrey would have been ashamed of him. His brother had been the sort of gentleman to pay careful attention to those around him. The very reason he’d died. While his company was escorting a Spanish general and his forces toward a battle with the French in a neighboring town, Geoffrey had spotted a local Spanish family caught in an unexpected roadside skirmish with enemy scouts and raced ahead to help.
He had been the best type of hero.
“What say you, will you come?” Patterson asked, laying a companionable hand on Stone’s shoulder. “The boys would love it. They miss you as much as Geoffrey.”
Patterson had said just the right words. A chance to alleviate his brother’s friends’ suffering, even a little, was irresistible. The chance to speak to Geoffrey’s friends about his brother, even more so. “When’s the ball?”
Chapter Three
Two days later, Stone glanced around the Patterson ballroom with grave doubt. The moment he’d crossed the threshold, he’d felt an idiot for coming. With his game leg he could neither dance nor stand for long without his bad limb showing its displeasure with a bone-wrenching ache.
Limping around the perimeter, he spotted a group of men sporting the regimental colors of the third Prince of Wales Dragoon Guards. Ignoring mothers with their young charges that eyed his sloping walk across their path with keen interest, he halted on the outskirts of the group of soldiers. Something had the men entranced. He tapped on Patterson’s shoulder.
“Stone,” his friend said with unbridled enthusiasm. He quickly spread the good news of the earl’s arrival.
The men parted and he saw what had ca
ught and held their attention. Beside an older female, likely her mother from the resemblance between the two, stood the young lady whom he had run into outside the museum.
He caught his breath in surprise. She had made herself especially presentable this evening. No longer in a hurry, her candid gray eyes surveyed him with a slow but comprehensive glance that left him a little unsettled.
He tilted his head to study her in turn. What about this young lady continued to disturb him? Her features were quite exquisite when she smiled, and she did smile at him, with apparent shyness.
He shook himself out of his stupor, remembering that she was merely another in a long line of hopeful females who had placed herself on the Matrimonial Market and dangled after a good catch. Besides, she could hardly be considered shy while surrounded by a bevy of attentive men.
Patterson did the introduction and Stone remembered where they’d originally met, years ago. Shame swept over him for rudely suggesting they’d never been introduced. How could he have possibly forgotten this lovely girl?
“Miss Blackburn.” He bowed, truly contrite. “We meet again. Will you accept my sincere apology for my rudeness the other day? I was not myself.”
“No apology necessary, my lord,” she replied. “But if you insist, then I accept.”
“What did you do?” Patterson asked, aghast.
“My bad temper overtook my good sense,” Stone replied. Then her last name registered. It was through her family that he’d learned about P. Black. Might this lady know how the elusive artist could be contacted?
“We were just regaling her with stories of Geoffrey,” Patterson said. “Do you remember the time he set up his own foxhunt?” He turned to her. “We almost lost him when his horse stumbled across a rabbit warren and threw him.”
The stories seemed to multiply from that point on as one soldier after another remembered their own tale. Stone listened, his pain lessening as each story brought back his brother as if Geoffrey stood beside them enjoying the tales himself. Stone, too, joined in and lost track of time until the supper gong sounded.
He glanced up in surprise. Was it that late already? Even his leg hadn’t protested from standing still for so long.
Patterson offered to take Miss Blackburn into supper and she accepted willingly.
Stone observed her departure with regret. He had enjoyed being in her company. Still, why had she not insisted on the men leading her out onto the dance floor instead of listening to them speak of war and a dead comrade? Hardly an entertaining way to spend her evening.
As he found himself alone beside her mother, he brought up the one pressing question he’d forgotten to query. “My lady, your family is acquainted with the artist P. Black. Do you know how I may contact him?”
“You’ll have to ask my husband,” her ladyship said and waved to a gentleman who hurried over. Unfortunately, other than re-directing Stone back to the British Museum, he had no further information to add about the artist’s whereabouts.
Disappointed, Stone left the ball. His leg had begun to plague him again, now he’d noticed it. He spent the rest of his night at his club drinking brandy, trying to forget that Geoffrey would never really stand beside him again at a ball regaling him with stories of his escapades.
He awoke the next morning in his own bed, not remembering exactly how he had managed to return home. He had the devil’s own head, an after-effect of too much drink.
His temper already short, grew to stick thin after a meeting with the curator, who spun a far-fetched tale of the artist going off on a retreat to prepare himself for the work ahead.
What was the point of being an earl if he couldn’t even manage to meet the men he hired? Disgusted with both the curator and himself, Stone posted back to his estate in Ashford while he awaited word of when P. Black would finally agree to meet him.
* * *
For two weeks, Pauline dutifully attended fittings and then wore the pretty clothes to entertainments. To her mother’s delight, Pauline fulfilled her promise to make an appearance at least four of the five promised events.
Sadly, the earl never put in another appearance at any of them. Pauline took that to mean that she had made just as bad an impression on him this last time as she had on the first two.
As a result, she hesitated to ask her aunt’s permission to move into her cottage in Ashford. What would be the point of wanting to be close to him? She might as well do her work in the museum’s workroom. The earl was obviously uninterested in her. Then, hearing her father’s words in her head, nothing ventured, nothing gained, she girded herself for yet another rejection, and wrote to her aunt begging to use her country home for her work.
Last try, she promised herself as she read her aunt’s response a few days later. Aunt Josephine wished her the best of luck with her newest project and included a set of keys.
Even if Pauline couldn’t attract the earl to her person, she intended to at least gain his approval of her completed assignment. Possessing a careful detailed nature, she had an extensive record of all quarries in England and what type of stones she was likely to procure there.
So, she and Lucy also spent any spare time they could steal from attending fittings and balls, to visit nearby quarries in search of the right stone, in the right size.
Before too long, Pauline was thrilled to find exactly what she wanted and made arrangements for the purchased stone from the Bondog-Hole mine in Derbyshire to be delivered at her aunt’s home.
Within a day of the promised delivery, she and Lucy arrived at her aunt’s country house on a gloomy rainy day in a hired chaise. They hurried inside, cold and wet from the drive, leaving their footman-cum-groom, John, to deal with unhooking the horse, taking it to the barn and putting away the curricle. They had use of the vehicle for the next four weeks while she stayed at her aunt’s home in case a need arose to return quickly to London.
The house sported a tower with a narrow circular stairway that led high up enough to give pleasing views of the surrounding landscape.
The main hall was the largest space in the home and closest to the front doors. The hearth fire would keep her warm and the kitchen would be close at hand when she grew hungry. Best of all, the double front doors were tall and wide enough to allow the stone she was expecting to be brought into the hall without too much trouble and transported out once she was done.
There was a suite upstairs for her to relax and sleep in and a small bedroom for Lucy. John would have to bed down in the barn. Her aunt had written that there was a loft space there for his use.
Once Pauline began to work, she tended to carry on well into the night. Sometimes, even in her nightgown. Best if there was no male to witness those uninhibited moments.
Lucy quickly lit a flame in the hearth and spread out their wet cloaks on the backs of chairs to dry in front of the fire. Then, while they waited for John to put away the horse and curricle and bring in their things, Pauline and Lucy moved the remaining furniture out of the way of where Pauline would be doing her carving. They also rummaged around for large white Holland covers to spread over the floor so any debris could be easily cleaned up once she was finished.
Once that was done, Pauline glanced around with pleasure. Yes, she could work here.
John returned then with their baggage and supplies. Lucy offered to help him unload and put everything away in the proper cupboards.
A glance out the window showed the rain had finally stopped. Pauline was tempted to go out for a walk, but a check on her cloak showed it was still soaked through. She hunted around and found one of her aunt’s brown capes. The garment was old fashion, reeked of lye soap, and though uncomplimentary in color, style and scent, it was wonderfully warm. Since she didn’t plan to approach anyone on this short outing, she shrugged it on.
Her hair, too, was wet and straggly so she did a quick braid of it and tucked it under one of her aunt’s caps since hers was sodden.
Her mother would be appalled if she knew Pauline pla
nned to go outside in such disrepair, but her mother wasn’t here, was she?
Besides, the only person she didn’t wish to meet tonight was the earl. If she saw him anywhere about, for now, she would simply admire him from afar. Once she was in a more presentable state, perhaps in the morning, she could introduce herself.
Pauline called out to Lucy that she was going for a stroll along the coast, which stretched at the back of the property. She asked Lucy to join her when she was finished helping John.
She went out the back door, excited to get a look around the house. When she reached the border between the two properties, her aunt’s and the earl’s, all was silent and quiet next door. For now, good. Pauline carried on down a slope toward the rocky shoreline, her thoughts swirling around what she hoped to sculpt.
Half way down, her foot slipped and she landed on the muddy ground on her bottom. She gave a huff of impatience, stood, wiped a stray lock of hair off her cheek and continued downward, her thoughts soon returning to her current project.
In her mind’s eye, the statue she hoped to sculpt was already resting within the tall round block of white stone she’d chosen, waiting to be uncovered. Images of soldiers on horseback marching to war or playing games of chance as her cousin often described, roved through her mind’s eye, keeping her company.
She had almost reached the shoreline by the time Lucy’s footsteps followed behind. Thankfully, the girl knew enough to keep back at a safe distance so as not to disturb Pauline’s ruminations.
It had grown dark, the moon hiding behind clouds. Strands of her hair worked loose from its cap by a mischievous wind, battered her cheeks and salty sea spray kissed her lips. She should return home. Yet, she planned to spend much of her time indoors for the next few weeks, and would be too focused to take in her surroundings. As such, she was reluctant to return yet, enjoying the open air.
“Watch how you step,” a man said from her left.
Pauline gasped in surprise and swung around, but her hair covered her eyes. It took a moment to clear her view. A gentleman stood several feet away, closer to the shore.