by Syrie James
After checking on Julia again, Longford strode over to Alexandra and stood beside her, glancing down at what she was drawing. At his nearness, her heart began dancing to a different rhythm. She had to concentrate to retain her focus on her work: an overview of the valley with its trees and wildflowers, and the humans currently inhabiting it.
“Very nice,” he commented with approval.
“It’s very rough.” She closed the sketchbook with a shrug.
“Yet it has potential. You have an aptitude for drawing. So do the girls,” he admitted. “Julia, in particular, has a real knack. As you so graciously pointed out to me the other day.”
Her lips twitched. “Thank you again for listening. And for bringing us here.”
“It is my pleasure.” He held out a hand toward the sketch book. “May I?”
“Of course.” She handed it to him, presuming that he wished to further study her drawing.
“The pencil as well. If I may.”
She gave him the pencil. He sat down on a large rock a couple of yards away, facing her as he opened the sketchbook on his lap, turned to a blank page, and began drawing something.
Her heart twisted. She’d seen him paint, of course, even though he’d insisted it no longer gave him pleasure. But she’d never seen him draw. He was doing so now, voluntarily, gazing at some distant point behind her, and the ease with which his pencil flew indicated that the activity was like second nature to him.
“I used to come here to play as a boy,” he commented as he drew, nodding toward the Grecian temple. “I always loved the folly.”
“Why is it called a folly?”
“It is a rather useless structure, built on a whim by an ancestor of mine about a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“I think it’s lovely. Julia and Lillie are enjoying it here, too. I think it means a lot that you made time for them.”
“Yet another thing which I would not have thought of, had you not pointed it out to me.”
“Just doing my job, my lord.”
“A job at which you seem to excel, Miss Watson.” He pronounced the words with no more emotion than he might have said, It looks like it is going to rain. But his eyes, when he glanced at her, betrayed a greater depth of emotion he seemed to be struggling to hide. “What you said about the girls, last night,” he added quickly. “You were right. They are both far more interesting and mature than I had expected. I suppose I should not be surprised that they are interested in art, considering that they grew up at Polperran House.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because everywhere you turn, there is an oil painting on the walls. As a boy, I would walk up and down the corridors, staring at the portraits of my ancestors. It amazed me to think that I was descended from this vast succession of people who I would never meet. At the same time, it was thrilling to note that they had been captured, often at the height of their youth and beauty, to live forever in oil on canvas. I decided that when I grew up, I would learn to paint like that.”
His pencil continued to fly as he spoke, his attention focused on what he was creating. From the intensity of his expression, Alexandra saw that art for him was not a hobby, nor just a means to earn income, as he’d previously insisted. It was a passion and a compulsion.
“I envy you,” Alexandra said.
“Envy me? Why?”
“Because you found something you loved at such a young age.” She plucked a stalk of bluebell and twirled it in her fingers. “I understand that, as an earl, you aren’t allowed to have a profession. But you have great talent.”
“And you know this, how? Based on two paintings you saw at Mrs. Gill’s?”
“More than that. Based on the paintings I saw in the attic.”
His pencil paused. “What were you doing in the attic?”
“Mrs. Mitchell was loaning me this hat.” She indicated the bonnet on her head. “I believe it was your mother’s.”
“It looks well on you. You may keep it.”
“Thank you. But my lord, I’ve visited a lot of museums in the U.S. and abroad, and I’ve rarely seen works that evoke as much feeling as yours do.”
“I appreciate—” he began, but she interjected:
“Your early work has merit in its own right. But your later work—it’s easy to tell the difference—it’s truly remarkable. There’s one painting in particular I can’t get out of my mind. It’s a landscape of a garden with cypresses, flowers, a fountain, and a stone bench, overlooking a spectacular view of the distant hills. I’m guessing you painted it in Italy.”
He nodded slightly. “I recall that painting.”
“It’s a masterpiece. It felt so real.” Alexandra closed her eyes as she spoke, seeing the landscape once again in her mind. “As if I were actually there on that Italian hillside on that sunny day. I could feel the sun on my shoulders, smell the lavender. I longed to follow that gravel path to see what I might find beyond the edges of the painting. An ancient Tuscan house? A woman hanging laundry in her garden? A road leading deep into the countryside?”
She stopped to take a breath. Aware that he hadn’t said anything, she opened her eyes to find him staring at her with a kind of hushed wonder. Her cheeks warmed. “I guess that’s a long-winded way of saying how much I liked it.”
“You do me honor, Miss Watson,” he said softly, a newfound gleam in his brown eyes. “I have never heard anyone speak of my work as you do.”
“Never?”
“Never. Not even my mother, God rest her, who was very free with her admiration when I was a child. She mainly just hung things on the wall and said, ‘Very good, Thomas.’ You, on the other hand, seem to understand what I was attempting to convey with that painting.”
“It’s all there, for anyone to observe. Surely the masters you studied with in Florence must have commented on your ability.”
“They only pressured me to do better. All I could ever see were the flaws.”
“That’s so wrong! Everyone needs encouragement, my lord.” She took a deep breath, gathering courage to ask the question that had been haunting her. “Is that why you gave up painting for pleasure? Because your masters in Florence were too hard on you?”
The light that had lit his face blinked out, as surely as if she’d doused a candle flame with water. “No,” he said abruptly.
“Then what happened? Why are your best paintings gathering dust in the attic? Why don’t you paint anymore, for yourself?”
His face darkened and he pressed his lips together. Just then Julia’s voice rang out:
“Thomas! I need you. I cannot get these columns right.”
Longford stood. “Pray, excuse me, Miss Watson.” He handed her back the sketchbook and pencil, then returned to his sister’s side.
Alexandra sighed in frustration, still no closer to learning what she wanted to know. Curious as to what he’d been drawing, she opened the sketchbook.
She gasped. It was a portrait of her, a close-up that captured her from the shoulders to the hat atop her head. It was so perfectly and meticulously done, she felt as if she were looking into a mirror.
Alexandra had no further opportunity to speak to Longford that day or the next. The girls were so disappointed when they’d had to quit sketching to return for lunch, Alexandra promised they’d come back soon to finish. However, a steady rain kept them inside at their lessons the following day, and the next day it was still too wet to go out.
When Alexandra joined the girls in the nursery after rest hour, although Lillie was happily reading, Julia was sunk down on the carpet, crying.
“Julia?” Alexandra crouched down beside her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I hate my brother!” Julia wiped away tears. “I hate him so much! He never lets us do anything.”
“Just the other day, he took us sketching.” Alexandra had greatly enjoyed that morning. Not only for the beauty of the environs, but for the pleasure she’d had being in Longford’s company, and the reminder i
t had brought of his skill as an artist. Since then, she’d opened her sketchbook countless times to sneak a look at the drawing he’d made of her, and felt a thrill of delight and awe at every viewing.
“But we sketched here. He never lets us go anywhere else.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“She wants to go to the party,” Lillie interjected.
“What party?”
Julia heaved a tearful sigh. “I saw the envelope on the tray by the front door. It was from Lord and Lady Trevelyan. It was addressed to Thomas, Lillie, and myself. I was afraid Thomas would throw it away, and my name was on the envelope. So I opened it.”
“And?” Alexandra prompted.
“It was an invitation to a garden party at Trevelyan Manor next week. Oh, Miss Watson! It has been so long since I have seen Helen, or been to that house, or to any party whatsoever! I would give anything to go! But of course Thomas said no.” She burst into tears again.
Alexandra glanced at Lillie. “Is this something you’d like to do, too?”
“Oh, yes!” Lillie gushed. “Anna was my best friend in the world. But I haven’t seen her in so long, I’ve almost forgotten what she looks like.”
“I’ll speak to your brother, and see what I can do.”
Julia looked at her doubtfully. “It will not do any good.”
“We’ll never know if I don’t try.”
After getting the girls started on their history assignment, Alexandra made her way downstairs. She found Longford at his desk in his study, a deep scowl on his face. He gestured for her to enter and sit.
“Miss Watson.”
“My lord,” she replied, taking a seat. “Is something wrong?”
“Isn’t it always?” He blew out an unhappy breath. “A half dozen cottages in my village and three houses on outlying farms have broken windows and leaking roofs, which I cannot afford to fix. The Martin family—good people, salt of the earth—lost a child this morning to a fever. I blame myself. Their house was freezing. I sent over a cartload of firewood, but there is little else I can do. It frustrates me that my tenants are forced to live in such uncivilized conditions, and I am powerless to act.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Alexandra was deeply moved by his sense of connection and devotion to his tenants. She felt bad for the Martin family and their lost child, felt bad about the financial situation in which Longford was mired.
The irony that she had exactly the kind of money he needed was not lost on her. It was what she’d been sent to England to do, after all: find a nobleman with a crumbling estate. Marry him. Exchange cash for a title. A purely business arrangement, a concept that still made Alexandra cringe. With Longford, though, would such an arrangement truly just be business?
“Hopefully, I can be of more service to you,” Longford said. He set aside a stack of paperwork as he turned to her.
“I hope so.” Alexandra blinked herself back to the matter at hand. “I wanted to ask about an invitation that arrived today from Trevelyan Manor. Julia said that she and Lillie haven’t seen their dearest friends in years.”
A frown took over his face. “I have said we will not go.”
“Why is that, my lord?”
“I want nothing to do with that household.”
“Why?”
“That is my business, Miss Watson, not yours.”
“But the girls would so enjoy such an outing. Lillie and Julia are very isolated, with no company other than each other and myself. You said you hope they’ll marry someday. How will they ever learn how to behave in society, if they spend all their growing-up years sheltered here? They need friends their own age.”
“Let them find friends elsewhere,” he growled, “but not at Trevelyan Manor.”
“Where should they seek such friends? Lord and Lady Trevelyan are your closest neighbors. It seems to me that their daughters are Julia’s and Lillie’s only chance for company.”
“I have already written a note refusing the invitation, and that is that.”
“But why? Why are you so against anything to do with that family?”
“I have my reasons. And my decision is final.”
“Does it have something to do with Lord Saunders?”
He looked at her sharply. “What do you know of Lord Saunders?”
“Only that he’s the son of the Marquess of Trevelyan. And that you two were best friends until something happened that caused a breach between you.”
“A breach? I suppose you could call it a breach.” Longford let go a short, dark laugh. “What Saunders did to me was the most hideous kind of betrayal.”
“What did he do, my lord?”
“I do not wish to discuss it, Miss Watson.” His face clouded over like an impending storm.
“I’m just thinking of Julia and Lillie. If I understood what happened, maybe I could—”
“Maybe you could what?” he interrupted heatedly. “Fix things? Make the problem go away?” He laughed. “All right, I will tell you what Saunders did, if only to put an end to your ceaseless questioning.” Longford’s eyes flashed as he said through gritted teeth, “He stole the woman I loved.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alexandra waited with bated breath as Longford folded his arms across his chest, continuing grimly, “Saunders was my closest friend since childhood. As the only other son of a peer in this region, he was the only boy I was allowed to associate with. Our friendship continued while away at school, although we grew to be different in many ways. He was fascinated by science—he was always building some contraption or another—whereas I was interested in art. He seemed bored by country life, while I embraced it. When I was in Italy, he spent half his time in London. He developed quite a reputation with ‘the ladies,’ from what I hear. And then, as I told you, my father called me back from Italy against my will.”
“He wanted you to marry.”
“He wanted me to marry money. He had made a deal with a friend of his, a wealthy merchant from Cincinnati whom he had met in town, to bring over his daughter to be my bride. For days, we did nothing but argue, but when my father made clear how desperate was our financial situation, I felt I had no choice but to at least meet her. To my surprise, when the young lady came, I found I liked her.”
“You did?” Alexandra hadn’t expected that.
“Her name was Elise Townsend. Her father was prepared to settle a fortune on her upon her marriage. I knew the money would make my father happy, but it is not why I agreed to marry her. I fell in love with her. At least I thought I was in love, at the time. She seemed to share my passion for art, exulted over every one of my paintings on the walls, insisting I was a genius. I started painting a portrait of her, as a gift. The banns were read, and everything made ready for the wedding. But a week before the ceremony, Elise and Saunders ran off to America together.”
“Oh!” Alexandra cried, aghast.
“I should have seen the signs. Elise spent barely two seconds with my father or my sisters. She just wanted to meet my friends. She did not like Polperran House, proclaiming it too shabby and too cold. In the end, she was no different from any of the other title-grubbing American heiresses who’ve been invading our shores, as unwelcome as the cheap American wheat that has ruined our agriculture. And she saw a better title in Saunders, a future marquess.”
His harsh statement was uttered so bitterly it stung. A zing of guilt reverberated through Alexandra at the term title-grubbing American heiresses. But she couldn’t think about that right now. She swallowed hard. “Did he and Elise marry?”
“They did not. Two months after sailing to America, I heard that Saunders was back at Trevelyan Manor, as single as the day he departed. I never heard a word from Elise again.”
“Why didn’t the marriage take place?”
“I do not know, and I do not care to know.” He shook his head bitterly. “Can you imagine how foolish I felt, Miss Watson? Betrayed not just by the woman I loved, but by my best friend? Afte
r they left, I returned to painting, hoping to forget. But my heart was not it. With every stroke of the brush, I thought of Elise and all the impassioned conversations we’d had about art. Every one of my paintings at Polperran House brought back to mind her gushing comments, and reminded me of her unfaithfulness. Finally, I took them all down and stashed them away. I burned the portrait I had painted of her. Then I packed up my art supplies, I thought for good. If financial difficulties had not intervened, I daresay I never would have taken them out again.”
The expression on Longford’s face was so bleak, it wrenched at Alexandra’s soul. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “What Lord Saunders did was horrible. And Miss Townsend behaved in a cruel and heartless manner.”
“You asked me, the day we met, what I had against Americans? Well, now you know.”
“You can’t hold all Americans in contempt based on the action of a single person.”
“I try not to.” He glanced at her with a tight smile. “I hired you, didn’t I? And I am not sorry I did. Still, after what happened, it is hard not to harbor a certain prejudice against women from your country.”
Alexandra’s stomach tightened. “I hope you won’t always feel that way. Just as I hope, someday, you can forgive the Earl of Saunders.”
“Never.”
“Never is a long time, my lord. Whatever happened in Cincinnati, Lord Saunders must have recognized his mistake. He came back unmarried. Did you know that last week, he stopped by, asking for you?”
“What of it?”
“I’m told he’s been trying to speak to you for years, but you refuse to see him.”
“I will never see nor speak to Saunders again, no matter how many times he comes calling with his hat in hand.”
“Resentment and hatred are wounds that only fester as time goes by,” she pointed out gently, “but they can be healed by forgiveness.”
“Easy words to say, Miss Watson. Far more difficult to put into practice.”