Now, she had married again, and the thought of falling in love with Laurence terrified her, which in turn brought on a bout of guilt she struggled to shake. Laurence was a good man deserving of love, but she could not allow herself to be the one to give him such a gift. The fact of the matter was, she had walked that path before—an image of Arthur flashed in her mind again of its own accord—and what she had learned was that any relationship they could build together would destroy not only her, but him as well.
“Isabel?”
Isabel started. “I am sorry, Arthur.” She gasped when she realized what she had said. “Laurence! I am so sorry. I did not mean to say his name. Please, forgive me!”
Rather than being angry, Laurence set his glass on the table and placed his hand on his hurt leg. “I suppose it will happen from time to time,” he said. Then he sighed. “I believe I will retire for the evening.” He stood, and although he attempted to hide it, the hurt from her words was etched in his features.
Isabel felt horrible. She had no intentions of hurting this man, but she did so time and again. “I must say something before you go,” she said as she rose from her seat. She wrapped her fingers around her skirts; what she had to say would be difficult. Not for him, but for her. “You see, the truth of the matter is, I do not miss him.”
He gave her a kind smile. “Only a fool would believe such a thing. I understand the man was your husband, and he was a better man than I. I have no anger toward you.”
“You are a good man,” she replied. “Not because you have a title or wealth, but because of your heart.”
He smiled. “Thank you for saying so,” he replied, although he did not sound as if he believed her. “I shall see you in the morning.”
When he was gone, Isabel finished the remainder of the wine in her glass and then poured another. She hoped Laurence was not too upset, but she could not blame him if he was. Since they had married, she had not been a very good wife. Just thinking about what little attempt she had made since they spoke their vows made her guilt grow, and she grabbed the wine bottle and took it back with her to the sofa.
Her life had not proven to be what she had expected, and yet Laurence was relentless in his hope that their marriage would be successful. Although she suspected that she would never grow to love the man—a great affection, perhaps, but not love—she vowed to do what she could to make him happy. If that meant painting with him when he asked, she would paint. If it meant appearing content even when she missed her life at Scarlett Hall the most, she would smile. If it meant allowing him into her bed in order to give him an heir, she would turn down the covers for him.
She thought again about Arthur, the man who had promised her not only the world, but happiness as well. The young girl she was before had believed his sweet words, but the woman she was now understood the meaning behind those promises and how impossible they were.
The tall clock struck one, and Isabel started. She had lost complete track of time and had nearly finished off the rest of the wine beside her. The room tilted as she stood, but she was able to gain her bearings before retiring to her bedroom for the night. Although the hour was late, Nancy was there waiting with drooping eyes to help her into her nightdress.
She will be a wonderful lady’s maid, Isabel thought giddily.
As Isabel lay beneath the covers and the moonlight created a pattern of boxes across her blanket, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, wondering if perhaps Laurence was different and his promises of wishing her to be happy were true.
Chapter Eighteen
The following morning, Isabel dressed early—a lovely turquoise day dress she had purchased on one of her shopping ventures with Harriet—with the help of her new lady’s maid. Having another to help her dress made working with the stays of her bodice much easier, for, in the past, she had only her sisters upon whom she could rely to give her such aid. It was also pleasant having someone else doing her hair, and despite her young age, Nancy had learned the craft well. It was not long before her hair was curled and pinned back, a ribbon holding it all together on top of her head. Although not elaborate enough for a party, it was so much better than what she could have done on her own.
“Do you have any sisters?” Isabel asked as Nancy tied a bow under Isabel’s breasts.
“No,” the girl replied. “That is…I did have a sister once, but she died four years this past May.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Isabel said. The thought of losing either of her sisters was terrifying. “And your parents? Are they still alive?”
“Mother works near London as a seamstress,” Nancy replied. “I can sew, but I never found it very interesting, so I decided to become a lady’s maid instead.”
“When did you begin your service? You did not become a lady’s maid right away, did you?”
Nancy laughed. “Oh, no, Your Grace. I began as a scullery maid in the home of Lord and Lady Clancy. But I knew when I started I wouldn’t stay in that position. I had my eyes set on higher places.”
Isabel enjoyed listening to Nancy’s Irish accent and found her much more engaging than she first thought. As a matter of fact, the girl reminded her of a combination of both her sisters—with a dash of Cousin Annabel thrown in for good measure. She had the articulation of Hannah and a bit of impishness in her eyes that reminded Isabel of Juliet. And her resilience was so like that of Annabel that Isabel would have thought they had both been raised by the same parents.
“And your father?” When Nancy gave her a downcast look, she added, “I am sorry. You do not have to tell me if you do not wish to.”
“Oh, it’s not that, Your Grace,” she replied. “It’s just that I’ve never met my father.” Her cheeks turned a deep crimson. “I know I shouldn’t speak ill of my mum but she and my father were never married, and he ran off with the butcher’s daughter before he even knew about me.”
Isabel’s heart went out to the girl, and she took her hand. “There is nothing of which to be ashamed,” she said. “You are an intelligent and beautiful woman, and you should be proud of that fact. Please do not take offense, but you seem well-spoken for someone of your background. Did you have lessons?”
“You’re very kind,” Nancy replied. “And yes, I did have lessons. I was fortunate because, when I was younger, my mother worked for a baronet who had several children, and he allowed me to join in on the lessons his children received. You see, he believed that all children deserved an education, not just the children of wealthy families. Of course, when I went into service myself, I had to give up the lessons, but I was glad to have received what I had.”
“Well, I believe we are going to be great friends, you and I,” Isabel said with a smile. Then she studied her hair once more. “I just ask that you do not run off and get married, for I believe I would struggle to find an equal replacement.”
Nancy’s smile broadened. “Oh, I’m staying here for as long as possible.”
“Good. Now, I believe Mrs. Atkins has some work for you to do, but later, if you would press my pink and white dress for me—the one with the satin ribbons at the waist—so I am able to wear it to dinner, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Nancy said with a curtsy before leaving the room.
After one last glance in the mirror—Nancy really had done a wonderful job on her hair—Isabel went down to the ballroom where she was to meet Laurence for their first painting lesson. She had tried on more than one occasion to make an attempt at creating works of art, but somehow, she had never advanced past the stage of making everything she painted appear as if a child of five had created it.
If it were up to her, she would remain in her room reading, but she had promised Laurence she would do her best. Furthermore, the man needed help to build his confidence, and it was the least she could do in repayment for all he had done for her.
She waited in the doorway of the ballroom as she watched her husband, who stood in front of the window. The newly risen sun
lit his face, and although she had always thought him handsome, for some reason, she thought him especially so today. His jawline seemed much more defined, and for the first time, she noticed how broad his back was. Despite the damage to his leg, the muscles in his arms seemed well-sculpted beneath his coat sleeves.
He seemed to sense her arrival, for he turned and smiled. “Good morning. I am looking forward to our lesson today.”
“As am I,” Isabel replied as she walked over to where the painting supplies sat. She stared at the blank canvases that rested on the easels. Oh, how she did not want to do this! “You do not mean for me to complete a portrait today, do you?” She gave him a small smile.
“Of course you must,” he said, and Isabel could do nothing but stare at the man in shock. “I have already pledged to sell it by sundown.”
Was he mad? Did he honestly believe she would become some master painting after a single lesson?
However, when he winked at her, she realized he was teasing her. “I would not put such expectations on you,” he said with a smile. “I thought this morning we could familiarize ourselves with the paint and the brushes.”
“That will be fun,” she said, although the words could not have been further from the truth.
Laurence indicated the stool that would be hers, which she took, and he sat upon his. Then he handed her a palette that held seven different colors of paint and a wide brush. “One of the rewards of painting is that no mistakes can be made. If you pour all your heart into your creation, it is impossible to do any wrong.”
“That is a fascinating way to look at it,” Isabel said. “I never realized you were such a philosopher as well as a painter.”
“There is much you do not know about me, Your Grace,” he replied. He took a similar brush in hand and said, “I thought we could practice technique first. Therefore, dip your brush in the blue paint like this.” He took his brush and moved it about in slow circles in the blue paint. Then he painted a straight blue line across the middle of the canvas. “The brush will go where you want it, if you use your entire hand to paint rather than relying on just your fingers.”
With a nod, Isabel dipped the tip of her brush into the paint and touched it to the canvas. What was left behind was a thin blue line rather than the bold line Laurence had created. “Am I doing something wrong?” she asked. “Mine looks nothing like yours.” She glanced at his canvas once again and cringed. If she had failed to make a simple line, how was she to create a masterpiece?
“That is good,” he said, standing and stepping beside her. “Try again.”
Determined to get it right, she dipped her brush into the paint once more and then raised her arm to paint, but this time, Laurence placed his hand over hers. It was as if his hand was a burning torch, for she felt heat move from her hand, up her arm, and into the pit of her stomach. It was a familiar feeling, although it had been several years since she had last encountered it.
“Now” he said, his breath on her ear, creating a pleasant tingling throughout her body, “press firmly. Do not be afraid of the canvas. Or the paint, for that matter. Remember, there is no wrongdoing when it comes to art.”
He removed his hand from hers, and she found her breath once again.
“Look!” Isabel gasped when she pulled the brush away from the canvas. “My line is nearly perfect!” She smiled proudly. “You should beware; I may surpass you with my abilities. At least when it comes to painting lines.”
He chuckled. “I have no doubt you will. You are strong, and I do not hesitate to believe you can accomplish anything to which you set your heart and mind.”
His words hung in the air for several moments, and she offered him a smile before looking back at her pallet. She still had not recovered from their intimate moment, and his added compliment only heightened the sensation.
“Now we will clean the brush like so.” He pulled the brush through a piece of cloth striped with dried paint. “When we have removed as much of the paint from the bristles as we can, we then place the brush into linseed oil, which will remove the remainder of the paint from the brush.”
She followed the steps he had given her, and soon her brush was in a cup of amber liquid.
“This time, we will use a thicker brush and our green paint.”
Isabel was surprised how fast the morning passed. Not only that, she was enjoying the lesson. By the time Laurence announced they were done for the day, Isabel felt a sense of disappointment she had not expected.
“You did well,” Laurence said as he cleaned the oil from his last brush.
Isabel stared at her canvas. Streaks of blue above green with splotches of yellow and pink was all she was able to see, and Isabel knew he was being kind.
“I appreciate you saying so, but all I see is an eyesore.”
“I see beauty,” Laurence replied. “Perhaps you should look at it again.”
After Laurence left the ballroom, Isabel studied her canvas again. She had to admit that she felt some satisfaction for the work she had completed, but she did not see the beauty of which he spoke. What was it about the man that he could see beauty where all she could see was a disaster? Would she ever learn to do so?
Frustrated, she hurried to the drawing room and poured herself a glass of wine. She took a drink and sighed. Perhaps it was not for her to learn to see it.
***
For eight mornings, Isabel met Laurence in the ballroom to receive her lessons, and he taught her new techniques in the art of painting—brush strokes, pigments, hues, and textures. At times, some of the language seemed overwhelming, but Laurence was a patient teacher. Although she had only been practicing for a short time, Isabel felt she had improved immensely. She would never become a Wilson or a Bonington, but she was pleased when sections of her canvas resembled what she had meant them to represent.
“You are hesitating again,” Laurence admonished lightly as he stood behind her. “It is why the stroke is uneven.” He pointed to the middle of the line she had added to the canvas just moments before. “If you maintain an even pressure and move the brush across the canvas with your entire arm and not just your fingers, you will not have something that resembles a fat man lying on the ground.”
Isabel laughed and tried again, this time making a quick, but bold, stroke. “There. Is that more to your liking?” she asked playfully.
“Much more,” he replied with a laugh. “You will be ready to attempt your first landscape soon. Far sooner than I expected.”
Her heart skipped a beat when he placed his hands on her shoulders, and that once familiar warmness rose in her stomach, just as it had their first day of painting lessons. She took a deep breath to calm herself. It was merely an echo of the short former marriage that had brought about such a reaction.
Then Arthur appeared in her mind, and she feigned a cough in order to cover what had to be extremely red cheeks.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concern in his voice.
The image of Arthur did not disappear. As a matter of fact, it morphed into something else completely, and panic attempted to overwhelm her. She could not go down that same path! She would not!
Jumping up from the stool in order to be out of his reach, she replied, “Yes. I am not sure what came over me. My throat went dry.”
“Can I get you a glass of water?”
Isabel nodded. Good. He had accepted her excuse. She would have to be more careful in the future or this marriage would become more than she had first intended, and she certainly could not have that happen.
She accepted the glass of water Laurence offered her, and a knock came to the ballroom door.
“Yes?” Laurence called out.
The door opened and Weber entered, a silver tray balanced on his hand. “Your Graces,” he said with a bow. “A letter arrived for you, Your Grace,” he said to Laurence. “The messenger gave an indication that there was some urgency behind it, and therefore, I brought it to you immediately. I hope that is acceptable.”
“Of course. Bring it here.”
Weber brought the tray to Laurence, who took the letter and returned to his stool as he ripped open the seal. He scanned the document, his brows rising. When he set the letter aside, he shook his head and smiled. “Urgency,” he said flatly.
“What is it?” Isabel asked, now confused, and more concerned, than ever. For an urgent message, the man seemed to take it quite well.
As if he just realized that Isabel was there, he laughed. “I am sorry,” he replied. “It is from Hugh Elkins, an old friend from my school days. He is hosting a party Saturday next.”
“How wonderful!” Isabel said. “Will we be attending?”
Laurence shook his head. “Too many people will be in attendance. I do not wish to embarrass myself…or you.”
His words caught Isabel off-guard. She knew the man had a great concern about the thoughts of others when it came to his leg, but did he believe she, too, looked at him differently because of it? She attempted to recall any time she had made a comment or a glance that would have led him to believe she found his injury a concern for her, but nothing came to mind.
The sadness he wore like a badge tore at her heart. He truly believed that people thought him less than a man because of his injured leg!
She walked over and placed a hand on his arm. “Laurence,” she said quietly, “you could never embarrass me. Why would you believe such a thing? Have I ever given you reason to believe I think less of you because of your leg?”
He gave a heavy sigh. “No, but women want a complete man, a man who is strong and who does not suffer from a limp. I would be a wounded deer amidst stags. Surely that would cause you concern?”
Isabel shook her head. “I do not care how others judge, for one thing. And for another, how often have you gone to a party or any other gathering and had a person ridicule you?” She knew the answer even before he did not respond. Never. This man needed to leave his house and see he had nothing for which to concern himself. “Perhaps we should go.”
Whispers of Light: Secrets of Scarlett Hall Book 1 Page 15