The Beaumont Betrothal: Northbridge Bride Series Book 2

by D'Ansey, Leigh

  “There are now only eight of us living in that enormous house. Cook, Mrs. Brixton, Mallard, Sarah and Lettice, the between maid, Annabelle, Mama and I. I have ventured a move to the Dower House, but Mama is very much against it.”

  Lady Cranston’s cup halted halfway to her lips. She drew her brows together. “Eight occupants would overcrowd the Dower House!”

  “But there would not be eight.” Mr. Cavanaugh’s remark drew the attention of all the room. “Miss Cranston. You will be married to Freddy before the end of summer and if your sister is brought into society, she is likely to be betrothed and looking to move away from her family home before too long.”

  Although his tone was mild, the stare with which he fixed Sophia was uncompromising. She could not declare in this company her aversion to marrying Freddy, a repulsion that had grown with each passing day, but she was pleased to have been given the opportunity to publicly underline the advantages of a move to the Dower House. She may never complete a work she would be one hundred percent satisfied with, but she had been pleased with the paintings she had completed of late. If she worked hard, she believed she could indeed earn an income sufficient to support an unpretentious residence in the Dower house and she would fight for that opportunity.

  She brought her teacup to her lips. “That would leave you alone at Foxwood with only the servants for company, Mama.”

  She was aware of her mother’s startled silence but allowed it to linger until Janet Paget came to the rescue, setting her cup and saucer briskly onto the round yellowwood table beside her.

  “Certainly, it is more convenient to live in a home of modest proportions. This building will be so much easier to keep warm in the winter and one does not require a multitude of staff. Like you, Miss Cranston, I grew up in a colossal, antiquated house. Having experienced both, I am very certain of my preference.” She looked about her sunny room with an air of pride and satisfaction.

  “Wherever we live, Sophe, it’s got to have good stables,” interjected Freddy, swallowing two sandwiches at once. “That’s all I’m bothered about. Good housing for the horses.”

  Sophia levelled her betrothed with a cool stare, quietly commending herself on her decision against leg-shackling herself to her loutish friend. “I am not a horse, Freddy.”

  Mr. Cavanaugh swung towards Freddy and his next words caused her to blink, for they were as near anger as any she had ever heard from him. “Have a care what you say, brother!”

  While Freddy went red to the roots of his hair, Sophia’s heart jumped in elation. If she had interpreted his tone and the expression on his face correctly, Mr. Cavanaugh had just leapt to her defence! A moment followed as if the room itself had taken a quick breath but the thrilling silence was punctured by the entrance of a tall thin gentleman whose severity of body was contrasted by his friendly, intelligent expression. At sight of his wife, his face lit up.

  Mrs. Paget rose swiftly, clearly pleased to see her husband, and welcoming the chance to moderate an uncomfortably charged atmosphere. The next few minutes were taken up with introductions and the provision of refreshments for their host. Struck by the evident pleasure the Pagets gleaned from each other’s company, Sophia glanced towards Mr. Cavanaugh and found his eyes upon her.

  She returned his gaze, silently inviting him to read in her eyes what she knew to be growing in her heart. He held her gaze for an instant before turning his face away to engage in conversation with Mr. Paget. Sophia pressed a finger to her mouth to still the trembling of her lower lip but was able to quickly remove it and fix a bright smile to her lips when Mrs. Paget tapped her lightly on the arm to catch her attention.

  “My husband and I are in awe of your paintings, Miss Cranston.”

  Sophia smiled. “Please call me Sophia.”

  “And I am Janet.”

  “The Duchess of Northbridge mentioned you were present when Mr. and Mrs. Deacon hung my portrait of their daughters,” Sophia ventured. She had never petitioned outright for a commission and was not sure how to proceed without appearing blunt.

  Perhaps the older woman sensed her uncertainty for she said in the friendliest manner. “We did indeed. And we shall appreciate it if you would consider something similar for our family.”

  Sophia’s heart swelled. “I should be delighted.”

  Janet put a finger to her cheek. “Do you know, I have never commissioned a painting before. This is something new to me. You will have to help me.”

  Sophia laughed. “We shall have to help each other! For I have never directly requested a commission. Not face-to-face as we are now.”

  “Tell me what you need.”

  Sophia withdrew her notebook from her reticule. “I have come prepared and made a list.”

  “Why, how clever and efficient you are!”

  For the next few minutes Janet listened attentively while Sophia offered suggestions as to backgrounds, supports and the sizing of the painting, as well as an estimate of the time such a work would take to complete.

  “We should like the sitting to be in this room,” said Janet when Sophia had paused. “However, we do not wish the painting to be too formal. The children should look relaxed in their own home.”

  Sophia glanced up from her notepad. “It is a delightful setting. In another few weeks the light will be glorious in here.”

  “Now,” Janet said in a very direct manner. “We must discuss a fee. What is the figure you have in mind?”

  Thankful for Janet’s frankness, Sophia stated the sum she had caclulated, taking into account her time, materials, the size of the finished work, and the frame. Remembering how Tom Broadworth had once instructed her about profit and loss in regards to painting commissions, she had poured over his old notebooks the evening before and had come well-equipped, although she was rather nervous about negotiating should that be necessary. She maintained a steady tone though, as she asked: “Is that figure acceptable?”

  Sophia thought Janet might need some time to consider her proposal, or that she would choose to discuss it with her husband before agreeing, but she said, simply: “It is.”

  Perhaps Sophia looked surprised because Janet continued with; “You are a very accomplished young woman, Sophia. I am delighted to have the opportunity to foster your talents. I have every confidence we shall love the finished work.”

  Sophia cleared her throat. “Are you sure you do not wish to consult with Professor Paget before approving my proposal?”

  Janet’s eyes twinkled. She cast a glance towards her husband. “My husband has every confidence in me,” she said, in such a loving tone Sophia was wrung with envy.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Sophia! Sophia! Where are you?” Mama’s voice reached Sophia just as she was about to step out of the dark hallway into the sunshine.

  It had been almost a week since her visit to the Pagets and she had scarcely left her atelier. Drawing on the praise for her work she’d received so far, she had set all negative thoughts aside and envisioned only a positive response from the Academy. The works she intended to exhibit were ready to dispatch and her mission this morning was to acquire funds for their frames.

  If she suffered a twinge of conscience about her modus operandi for attaining the required finance, she set that aside too. If Grandmama were here today Sophia was certain she would understand and approve of her trinkets being purloined to help her granddaughter establish herself as an artist.

  She paused on the threshold wondering whether to pretend she hadn’t heard her mother’s call. But the urgency in Mama’s voice made her step back into the hall, away from the bright morning with its warm, spring-scented breeze. Slipping a small packet into the commodious pocket of her coat she turned to see her Mama hurrying towards her across the tiled floor.

  Lady Cranston’s cap was askew, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes held a frightened, staring look Sophia had not seen before.

  Alarmed now, Sophia stepped forward. “What is it, Mama?”

  “This�
� this!” hissed her mother. In one hand she held a thick sheet of parchment which she thrust towards Sophia unsteadily.

  Sophia unfolded the sheet and quickly scanned its contents. “So, Benedict Cranston has decided to claim his inheritance.”

  Lady Cranston’s face paled. “He has practically ordered us out!”

  “He has offered you space in the north wing…” Sophia perused the last few lines. Her heart lifted. “…or you may move to the Dower House. The rent he is suggesting is in fact very reasonable.”

  “The rooms in the north wing are in the coldest, most dilapidated part of Foxwood. And you know how I feel about relocating to the Dower House.” Lady Cranston gripped the arm of a nearby chair. “In truth, I had hoped to remain here, for it has been my home since I was married, but I will not play the part of a poor relation in my own house!”

  “Then you have little choice, Mama. Lord Cranston says he will be taking possession of Foxwood within the next few weeks.” She handed the letter back to her mother who curled her fingers around the document and crumpled it into her palm.

  “Mama,” she said in a gentler tone. “You have spoken to me of choices and made me believe mine were limited to marrying Freddy. I have thought of little else these past weeks and have come to the conclusion I would rather do anything than marry Freddy.”

  “But you cannot turn away eight thousand pounds a year!”

  “I do not need eight thousand pounds a year, and neither do you, Mama.”

  “I am not minded by the scandal!”

  “Neither am I. I simply do not wish to bind myself to Freddy Beaumont for the remainder of my life. I am fond of him but the very thought of being his wife is repulsive to me.”

  Lady Cranston almost seemed to sway on her feet and Sophia would have reached out to her but the outrage in her mother’s eyes held her back.

  “You are mad, Sophia! You cannot possibly imagine yourself capable of making an adequate living out of painting pictures!”

  Sophia flung her head up. “I shall do better than make an adequate living, Mama. I shall make a life!”

  Drawing a quick, painful breath, she swung away and stepped outside, spurning the pathway to take the short cut through the fields. Striding across the rough ground, it was not long before she squeezed through a gap in a scrubby hedge and emerged onto a straggly lawn, where she paused to take stock of the unprepossessing two-storey building that was Foxwood’s Dower House.

  Bracketed on either side by tall chimneys, it was an unattractive structure, being rather squat and square, but the arched windows were generous, and Sophia knew the downstairs rooms were spacious and light.

  Four bedchambers and two servants’ rooms in the attics comprised the sleeping arrangements; more than enough, thought Sophia, as she approached the shallow steps that led to the narrow entrance, for herself and her mother, and for Annabelle lest that husband she was so confident of procuring, did not eventuate.

  The bonus of the Dower House was the long, light-filled space above the stables. Tom Broadworth, the old gardener whose gentle guidance had nurtured her love of art, had made his home in that space until the morning Sophia had found him slumped before the unfinished portrait of Grandmama he had begun years before and had put aside after her death.

  Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure she was not observed, she took the key from her pocket, set it into the lock she kept well-oiled and pushed open the heavy oaken door. Dust motes shimmered in the light slanting through tall windows, illuminating the otherwise dim hall. Sophia made her way through a long dining room and several lesser rooms where furniture stood at haphazard angles, shrouded in covers like ghosts.

  She did not mind the fusty smell of long disuse, for she knew that once the windows and doors had been thrown open to the summer air, and fresh flowers and herbs brought inside, the rooms would smell sweet and dry, as they had when Grandmama was still alive.

  Soon she came to a short, dark passageway, the end blocked by a door covered in worn baize. She opened the door, descended a shallow flight of stone steps and entered the kitchen. In contrast to the rooms she’d just come through, the light was gloomy in here, made even darker by years of grime dimming the skimpy windows and layers of dust furring every surface. No one had used this kitchen or lived at the Dower House since Grandmama had died more than five years before, yet the smell of smoke, cooking meats, and baked goods seemed to linger in the cool air.

  Skirting a long, scarred pine table she walked across the room to the stone fireplace built into the wall opposite. Cast iron cooking utensils still hung from hooks set above the fire. Cauldrons and pans sat upon the hearth and a steel drip tray was set in front of the fireplace as if waiting for the dripping fat from a roasting joint of meat.

  Reaching up, she moved aside a blackened saucepan and pulled out the loose brick behind it, revealing a space more than large enough to hold the small package she withdrew from her pocket and the note she had written for Gabriel the night before, all tied up with string.

  She had just slotted the brick back into place when the sound of the outer door opening made her spin around, hand to her breast.

  “Gabriel!” she cried in relief, when she recognized the young man silhouetted in the doorway. His face was in shadow, but the gold earring gleamed in his ear and his curling hair was a dark nimbus about his head. His loose shirt was spotless and startlingly white against the black leather jerkin he wore open across his chest.

  He inclined his head politely but in a manner that was in no way servile. “Miss Sophia.”

  “Thank goodness you are here. I wasn’t sure whether you’d be able to complete the transaction in time.”

  Gabriel stepped into the room. “You have something for me?”

  “Almost my last ‘something’,” Sophia said. “But perhaps the most important.” She retrieved the package and handed it to Gabriel. “Open it and tell me what you think.”

  Gabriel untied the string, scanned the note quickly and separated the thick brown paper from its contents. When he saw what was revealed he sucked in his breath with a whistle. The stones glittered like stars against the roughened skin of his palm. Frowning, he looked at Sophia. “This was your gran’s. Are you sure you want rid of it?”

  Sophia bit her lip. “I do not wish to part with it but I believe Grandmama would have approved. I know she would not have me tied to Freddy Beaumont for the remainder of my days if there was another possible solution.”

  Gabriel’s lips twisted in a wry smile. Their friendship might not be conventional in either her circles or his, but he knew Miss Sophia Cranston well enough to know she would not be offended by his frank opinion. “Aye. Beaumont’s a good judge of horseflesh, but not much else.”

  Gabriel did not reveal his private opinion that a full-bodied woman like Sophia Cranston was wasted on a sick dog like Freddy Beaumont. He sometimes wondered if she realized how attractive she was with her mass of hair, ready smile and peaches-and-cream complexion.

  She may not be for the likes of him, but it seemed a shame she could not have been matched to a better man, especially now the tables had turned so dramatically. Gabriel made it his business to be aware of what happened in the district and he’d heard the gossip in the villages and taverns about the arrival of the American and Freddy Beaumont’s subsequent unseating.

  With his own eyes he’d seen the work that had already begun on the run-down farm cottages so they’d be snug for the farm workers who’d lived in woeful conditions for decades. The old earl had neither seen nor cared about the wellbeing of his laborers but Cavanaugh had commanded change from the first morning he’d ridden about the estate.

  And when Gabriel had witnessed the man tearing down the hillside cleaved to the side of his mount, screaming like a banshee to rescue Jem, his regard had been firmly cemented. The American’s gaze had been hard-edged and challenging, but his handshake had been firm and his manner totally without the condescension Gabriel had so often expe
rienced from Englishmen of any class.

  Ever the opportunist, harboring ambitions to make a new life in the New World, Gabriel knew Cavanaugh would be a useful man to have on his side, whether it was on this side of the Atlantic or the other. Cavanaugh might have inherited these English lands and titles but Gabriel’s enquiries had told him he had made his own fortunes in the Americas. In that respect he and Gabriel had much in common, for Gabriel was determined to forge his own destiny beyond the barriers imposed on him as long as he remained on English soil.

  Sophia Cranston’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Thank you, Gabriel. I do not know what I would have done without your help this past year.”

  Aware of her eyes on him, he slipped his hand inside his vest, withdrew a leather purse and trickled the diamond necklace into it.

  “I haven’t lost out,” he said, tucking the purse into the hidden pocket inside his jerkin. His take from this latest commission would bring his ambitions closer—maybe even close enough he reckoned, to proposition Pansy Lovelace, the Duchess of Northbridge’s lady’s maid. They’d been skirting around each other for months but he knew it would take more than a gypsy boy’s dreams and a few pennies to entice Pansy away from the duchess’s side.

  “I know you barter for the best possible price and take no more than a standard commission,” Sophia continued. “My sister would not have been able to go to Switzerland to recuperate from her last attack of consumption were it not for you.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “I reckon it’s you who’s saved your sister, not me,” he said, tucking the purse into the hidden pocket inside his jerkin. “And not for the first time.”

  “We would both have been dead if you hadn’t led us to safety that day.”

  “And for that you can thank me Mam,” said Gabriel with a grin.