Her eyes sought the shape of the Dower house in the darkened landscape. In winter when naked branches etched themselves against a pale sky, she could see the cube-shaped building quite clearly from her bedroom window. Now, with the trees greening as spring approached, she could only just distinguish its shape. Her submission to Mama some months before that they relocate to the house built for the widows of previous lords of the manor had likewise been dim.
“It would be like living in a rat hole,” her mother had said.
“I know it’s much smaller than Foxwood, Mama, but once some of that bulky furniture has been removed and the old curtains pulled away, you’d find the rooms very light,” Sophia had protested, wondering how anyone could prefer Foxwood’s gloomy corridors and dim chambers. “It would be easier to keep warm and so much less costly to manage than Foxwood. And it could be amusing to redecorate. The Regent himself is a great admirer of interior refurbishment,” she had cunningly inserted. “Do at least think about it.”
But even the Regent’s passion had failed to influence her mother. She had merely shuddered and refused to discuss the proposal any further.
A flash of white on the wooded rise beyond the Dower house caught her eye. She leaned forward and peered into the night, but no clear shape emerged. After a moment or two she abandoned her search and turned to the mahogany escritoire beside her bed where the candle she had brought up still burned in its silver holder.
She stood quietly, tapping her teeth with her forefinger. With each tap, a steely resolve solidified inside her. If, in the end, she had to marry Freddy, she would; and she would make him a good wife. She would take care of her mother, ensure Annabelle was brought into society as she should be, and she would survive the scandal attached to marrying the Earl of Enderby’s illegitimate offspring. But she would not abandon her art and she would seek independence inside her marriage so that she was never in the same precarious position as Mama had found herself after her husband’s death.
Briskly, she removed a sheet of paper from a slim drawer, selected a quill, dipped it into the inkwell and began to write the letter that would accompany her submission to the judging panel at the Royal Academy of Art.
Chapter Eight
But it was several days before the letter was worded to her satisfaction. She had read over it again that morning before tucking it into the pocket of the sky-blue pelisse she wore over an amber walking gown. The modest brim of her best silk bonnet had been refreshed with a narrow edge of lace, and the crown adorned with ribbons and clusters of berries. While her appearance never gave her undue concern, today she needed to look well-groomed and professional; she needed to look like a woman who could be trusted with a valued commission.
She poked her nose around the door of the small drawing room. “Are you ready yet, Mama?” Her mother looked up from the straw bonnet she’d ornamented with bronze ribbons. In one hand she held an extravagance of matching feathers.
Sophia smiled at their shining russet hues. “What delicious feathers, Mama. Such vibrant colors.”
“Bantams,” said her mother, setting the bonnet on to the table at her side. She rose from her chair and brushed the front of her twill dress, severe despite its rows of gold buttons and sturdy braid edging at collar and cuffs.
Sophia raised her eyebrows. “You went into the fowl house?”
“Certainly not,” said Lady Cranston. “Sarah found them in the orchard.”
“I would not have thought those rusty shades quite your thing, Mama.”
“They aren’t.” Lady Cranston whisked a light mantle from the arm of her chair and settled it around her shoulders. She crossed the room and straightened her hat in front of the glass. “Mrs. Paget and I enjoyed a brief conversation after church on Sunday. She expressed a wish to own a bonnet of these particular colors.”
“Very flattering with that flaxen hair of hers,” said Sophia. “Is she reimbursing you for the work, Mama?”
Lady Cranston raised her jaw. “We are bartering.” Sophia admired her mother’s resourcefulness, for she knew any kind of trade went against her parent’s inclination. Lady Cranston did not say it, but her silence spoke volumes—when Sophia and Freddy had said their “I dos”, bartering was not an activity her Mama would be obliged to engage in.
But she declined to comment on her mother’s entrepreneurial streak, asking idly: “What does Professor Paget’s wife have that you desire?”
“A length of exquisite figured peacock silk that will be perfect for the gown I shall wear to Lord Enderby’s ball in London; the occasion planned to formally introduce his son to polite society, and to announce your betrothal to Freddy, if you recall our recent conversation. Do not roll your eyes, Sophia. You would do well to consider your own attire instead of expending all your energy in that chaos you call your atelier.”
Sophia shrugged. She put a smile to her lips but did not feel it in her heart. “I do not have to give it much thought, Mama. I’m relying on you to ensure the requisite be-ribboned, be-frilled, but otherwise virginal gown is in impeccable taste.”
She glanced towards the mantelpiece where the deckle-edged invitation reposed. The date was set for early June before the mid-summer heat drove the gentry out of the city, and the occasion would be held at Lord Beaumont’s Park Lane residence. The Duke and Duchess of Northbridge had made public their intention of attending the event, thereby acknowledging the altered state of affairs within the Enderby lineage. Their alliance would help to curb the simmering speculation that threatened to bubble over without the addition of a lid from the topmost echelons of society.
Although she was not looking forward to the event itself, the journey to London sent an anticipatory tingle up Sophia’s spine. She would be able to visit Somerset House and if all went as she planned, view her own paintings on those crowded walls. In the meantime, she had dispatched a note to Professor and Mrs. Paget with the proposition that they might consider commissioning a portrait of their young family. She had alluded to the favorable response her work had received from the Deacons and made tactful submission that the Pagets might also enjoy displaying the art of Sophia Cranston on the walls of Fernleigh, the new home Sophia was keenly interested in viewing.
“The morning is wearing on, Mama. Mrs. Nighy will have closed her shop if we tarry much longer, particularly as we are also calling on the Pagets.” Gathering her reticule, she called over her shoulder. “Annabelle! Where are you?!”
“You know I cannot be hurried,” came Annabelle’s breathy voice from the stairway. She drifted towards Sophia, trailing a gauzy scarf alongside her. Immediately wrenched with concern, Sophia stepped forward.
“Are you sure you are up to the walk into Little Chippington?”
Annabelle nodded. Her sunny curls bobbed beneath the confection of rosebuds and ribbon she had purchased with the illicit funds Sophia had dispatched to Mrs Aubert’s some weeks previously. “I shall manage,” she said bravely.
“You are looking exceptionally charming this morning,” said Sophia, holding her sister at arm’s length as if seeing her for the first time. “That peach silk suits you perfectly. And how clever of you to match it with a short coat in exactly that shade of lilac.” She tilted her head to one side and smiled. “And I do believe your color is improved.”
She studied Annabelle for a few moments, gratified to notice the natural color in her cheeks. Her eyes were certainly bright, but lacked the feverish glitter that had so worried Sophia in the weeks before her sister had departed for Mrs. Aubert’s.
In fact, thought Sophia, Annabelle looked exactly like a young woman her age should look; vivacious, lively and eager to enter society’s fray. The weeks in Switzerland had been worth every penny.
But it appeared Annabelle thought otherwise, for she sighed and pressed a hand to her breast. “If only I could enjoy such rude health as you, Sophia, I should feel blessed indeed.”
Sophia did not need to be reminded of her culpability regarding her sister’s deli
cate health and she was relieved when her mother marched into the hall, tugging a pair of pale gray kid gloves over her fingers. “A walk in the fresh air will do you the world of good, Annabelle. Just look what a pleasant day awaits us,” said Lady Cranston, softening what Sophia thought a rather callous tone with a smile at her younger daughter.
Mallard had stepped forward to open the door onto the portico and sunshine spilled into the flagged hallway. Sophia was thankful to see Annabelle’s expression lighten and she stepped forward, tucked her arm through her sister’s and drew her outside before Annabelle could delay the proceedings any longer.
“If you tire, I shall return to Foxwood with you,” she promised as they descended the flight of shallow steps leading to the carriageway.
But Annabelle shook her head prettily, adjusted her bonnet against the sunshine and stepped beside Sophia briskly enough, even withdrawing her arm at the end of the drive to gather a posy of wild violets growing under the hedgerow.
They had not gone far along the lane before Mrs. Hilliard, the spouse of a local dignitary, and her daughter Susan, just a few months older than Annabelle, exited the short avenue that led to their home. Pleasantries were exchanged and the little party set off, with the older women and the two girls pairing off, leaving Sophia to reflect on the past days.
“Half-truths and downright lies!” Mrs. Brixton had dismissed the gossip and rumor that hummed through the countryside as news of Mr. Cavanaugh’s presence had circulated. “You wouldn’t believe it, Miss!”
“Wouldn’t I, Mrs. Brixton?”
“One minute the new young lord’s married to one of them lady-birds and commands a fleet of merchant ships, next she’s an Indian princess and they rowed across the Atlantic in a boat made from deerskins; latest thing the scandalmongers have come up with; he ain’t married at’all!”
Sophia found the last snippet particularly intriguing, and she marveled at how quickly the ‘young lord’ had been accepted as such amongst the servants and laborers in the neighborhood, while others of a loftier rank reserved their opinions—publicly at any rate. In the end, she had determined to scorn the titbits of gossip that came Foxwood’s way, deciding that the only word she would accept as gospel would be Vanessa’s.
But heavy rains had made a quagmire of the landscape and when the deluge finally stopped, the duchess had dispatched a scrawled note to let the Foxwood ladies know baby Ash had a fever and she would not leave his side until all trace of illness had departed.
When the weather cleared, Mr. Cavanaugh had been observed riding about the county, sometimes with Freddy, once or twice in the Enderby carriage with Lord Beaumont, who had not been seen abroad for years, and even with the Duke of Northbridge himself. Word had it that he had already wrought changes to the workings of the estate, was making himself familiar with the local landscape and had dismissed the steward at Enderby who had a reputation for bullying the staff and over-imbibing.
Kindly old Squire Mossman had ridden over to Foxwood one day and invited Sophia to render a likeness of his prize heifer, and it was on her return from this excursion that she encountered Mr. Cavanaugh exiting the door of one of the cluster of workmen’s cottages that straggled across the far boundary of Enderby.
Straightening from the stoop he’d had to assume to clear the lintel, he smiled and strode towards her, giving Knobby’s ears a friendly pull and calling him a “good old boy,” as he came to a halt beside the gig. He wore a loosely knotted neckcloth, no jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. A dusting of plaster sprinkled his hair.
“Miss Cranston! Good morning!”
“Good morning!” Sophia smiled in return, uncomfortably aware she smelled strongly of the farmyard and her drab cambric gown did her no favors.
“Have you been drawing?” He indicated the sketchbook protruding from the satchel on the seat beside her.
“Sketching Squire Mossman’s heifer.”
He raised his eyebrows. “A heifer?”
“She’s very beautiful,” said Sophia.
“But surely not in your usual line of work?”
“Squire Mossman offered a generous reimbursement for what is a relatively small job of work. I have resolved not to decline any commission.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I admire your commitment, Miss Cranston. But if you brought forward the date of your wedding, you would not need to be so reliant on your own industry.”
Ï rather enjoy being reliant on my own industry,” retaliated Sophia.
His mouth quirked. “Just as you rather like freckles? You are a contrary female, Miss Cranston.” He looked past her for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing in concentration. “Very well. I believe I mentioned a commission when we met in your atelier, but my attention was diverted, and we did not see the end of that conversation.”
“You should not feel obligated!”
Ï do not feel in the least obligated. But I have been denied my family, and it would please me greatly to have portraits made of Freddy and I.”
The notion of painting Mr. Cavanaugh, the finest male specimen she’d ever come across, was breathtaking. But she quashed her rising excitement. Accepting the commissions would advance her position to evade marriage to Freddy, a match Mr. Cavanaugh was clearly set upon. She was about to voice her intent of applying herself wholeheartedly to the pursuit of an artistic career when Jared Haskell, who lived nearby with his wife and family and was known to be handy with a hammer and saw, came up the lane towards them, mounted on a sturdy grey cob.
“Haskell!” said Mr. Cavanaugh with an easy smile, turning to clasp the carpenter’s hand when he dismounted. “Good to see you.”
Jared Haskell removed his cap and offered Sophia a respectful nod, but he seemed on easy terms with Mr. Cavanaugh. “Sad state of repair these cottages are in,” he observed gloomily.
“Indeed,” replied Mr. Cavanaugh. “At least one of them needs to be taken down altogether and they all need various repairs. I want you to give me a price, Haskell, and we’ll get them fixed up well before next winter. The tenants shouldn’t have to live in these pitiable conditions.”
“Old Earl don’t get about much these last few years and young Freddy, he don’t seem to notice much ‘ceptin’ his dogs an’ horses.”
“Change is in the wind,” said Mr. Cavanaugh, sending Sophia a frank stare before continuing. “Freddy’s responsibilities as a married man will take his mind off horses and dogs, I can assure you. Now let’s have a look at these plans.”
The dubious look Haskell exchanged with Sophia reflected her view that Mr. Cavanaugh did not know Freddy Beaumont at all well, and the optimism he clearly harbored was likely to go unrewarded.
She had left the men to their business shortly thereafter and returned home in a pensive mood. That evening, instead of making preparation for painting Squire Mossman’s heifer, she found herself curled on the daybed in the corner of her atelier, sketching the elements that made up Mr. Cavanaugh’s face.
Now, as they made their way towards Little Chippington, the sound of hoofbeats drew her attention outwards and she turned to see Mr. Cavanaugh on his fine bay mare and Freddy mounted on a smart sorrel, cantering across the fields towards them. Several of Freddy’s wire-haired hounds flanked the riders, pink tongues lolling as they loped through the grass.
A breeze flipped up the lane and wound Sophia’s skirts around her limbs. Hairs prickled on the nape of her neck and an inexpressible excitement stirred inside her as Mr. Cavanaugh advanced towards her. The rhythm of his body echoed the pace of his horse, but he rode in a much more relaxed style than an English gentleman, working his mount in a manner that seemed entirely natural, as if his very being was at one with the mare beneath him.
“Whoever tailors Mr. Cavanaugh has talents above the average,” murmured Lady Cranston when the riders were almost abreast. “His dress is outstanding.”
Although it was not his suiting but the male animal underneath that Sophia was most interested in, she co
uld not but agree. His double-breasted riding coat of bottle green superfine had been cut with precision. Pristine linen, a cream-on-cream silk waistcoat and fitted buckskins bore testament to her Mama’s observation. In the same way he rode his horse, he wore his garments with an assured masculine grace. But Mr. Cavanaugh was no dandy, judged Sophia, remembering his workmanlike attire and the sheen of sweat on his brow the day they’d met outside the cottages.
With no discernible effort he slowed his mount and drew to a halt a few feet away. Freddy’s horse flung up its head and danced away to the side. His rider swore and controlled him skillfully but with some effort.
“Good day, ladies.” Mr. Cavanaugh raised his hat. He did not replace it but held it by its brim against his thigh. The same breeze that toyed with Sophia’s skirts brushed his hair vigorously up from his high forehead. He smiled at them all, his gaze lingering on none.
A keen sense of loss pierced Sophia for the teasing warmth of the man she’d first met. Until she’d identified herself, that meeting had been ripe with promise. She knew herself to be of an innately serious disposition, but she also enjoyed a sense of the ridiculous that set her apart from other members of her household and she had been elated when Cavanaugh had immediately tuned into it. Now, although he was polite and friendly, that accord seemed to have deserted them and her heart felt heavier for the deficit.
“We’ve this minute come from Foxwood,” he offered, breaking into her thoughts. “Your man Mallard advised you were heading for the village. Mind if we accompany you?”
Sophia inclined her head. “Please do.”
Freddy gave a hurried salute. “I’m going to keep me seat if you don’t mind. This beast is a trifle flighty. Needs to be given his head for a bit. Thought I’d race him out to Shutters Mill and meet you back in the village. Twenty minutes or so.”
The Beaumont Betrothal: Northbridge Bride Series Book 2 Page 9