Emma nodded, then bent down and put both arms beneath Kingley, one near his front legs and the other near his hind legs. She straightened her legs to lift him, buckling slightly under his weight. Mr. Deering added his arms to the job, and Kingley allowed him to do so. Moments later, the dog was in the tub and shaking, spraying the lot of them with water.
Morgan gasped, but then laughed with true joy. “Kingley, you rascal.”
When Emma looked up again, Sir Henry stared down at the scene before him, slack-jawed. “Well then.” He bent with his soap and started to lather it upon Kingley’s fur, but stopped with the growl that came from the animal.
Serena held out a hand, and Sir Henry placed the soap within it.
A chorus of laughter echoed over to them from the direction of the other gentlemen.
Emma and Serena set to work scrubbing Kingley all over while Mr. Deering kept him in the tub. The dog tried to climb out on multiple occasions, but Mr. Deering managed to keep him inside the confines with Morgan’s help. She had knelt on the ground beside the tub and scratched him behind the ears while talking nonsense to him, which seemed to keep him fairly well occupied and entertained.
It was only right that she should take part in this, after all. He needed to come to know her and care for her. To trust that she would take care of him in return.
Growing the bond between them, creating the degree of trust that would be required on both their parts, was quite possibly the most important thing they needed to do in terms of training Kingley and teaching Morgan how to work with him.
Not that Emma was any sort of an expert on these things. She just had a sense for the outcasts of the world. They seemed to always flock to her like sheep. She ought to know them better than most; she was one of them.
Several minutes later, Emma, Serena, Morgan, and Mr. Deering were each easily as wet as Kingley, but he had successfully been scrubbed and rinsed. Once freed from the restraint of the tub, he raced over the lawn like something was chasing him, trying to dry his fur in the wind he created. Thank goodness the air was not too chilled.
“Now, Sir Henry?” Emma turned to him even as she tried to dry her hands on her gown, but with it being wet also, her efforts were essentially pointless. “What is to be our next step?”
He gave her a wry grin. “Now we teach him to obey. But I thought you might have already known that…since you seem to be the one leading today’s lesson.”
A flush raced up her cheeks, but it might not have been noticeable due to her exertions in bathing Kingley. Perhaps no one had noticed.
Nevertheless, she called for Kingley again and he raced back to her side, looking up at her with his tail wagging so hard that water flung out in all directions.
Emma sincerely doubted training Kingley would be half as difficult as Sir Henry seemed to believe. Already, the dog would do anything she wanted. She scratched him behind the ears, and Serena and Morgan followed suit.
Now she just had to determine what she wanted him to do, so she could convince him to do it.
The light in the hermitage had begun to dim faster than Aidan was prepared for. The whole day couldn’t have already passed him by, could it have? But when he looked up from the angel and scanned the horizon out the window, he knew he only had limited daylight left. He’d need to return to the main house soon.
Not that he doubted his abilities in navigating the dark, but it wasn’t ever a good idea to go off traipsing through the woods without a lantern.
Still, he was loath to stop working now. In just the single day, he’d begun to shape the angel’s face into something recognizable, with penetrating eyes seeking something off in the distance and high cheekbones and a narrow nose. He could see her, not only in his mind, but also in the marble.
And in the all-too-familiar blisters covering his hands. If he’d never stopped sculpting, the blisters wouldn’t feel so unnatural. They’d just be part of him, like the calluses and scars, the cords of muscle formed by years of his labors. But now they were new and fresh, and bloody painful.
They only made him want to continue—to build new calluses and break new skin, all in the name of creating the masterpiece he knew was buried within tons of marble.
Yet, if there would not be enough light for him to safely return to the main house, there certainly would not be enough for him to see his creation. He couldn’t risk making a mistake with his chisels—digging too deep, striking too hard with his hammer. This was a delicate part of the work, where each motion added character and depth. Take off too much here, angle the chisel slightly wrong there, and his angel would permanently bear the wrong expression. It would be tantamount to ruining the whole piece, and he might as well scrap it entirely and start over, should that happen.
A cursory search through the hermitage revealed no lanterns, no candles—not even a tender box. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be stuck here alone all night, whilst incapable of working even, or he’d be forced to attempt the ill-advised journey along the not-yet-familiar path with nothing to guide his way.
With that in mind, he cleaned up the mess he’d created as best he could while still leaving his supplies in a manner in which they’d be ready for a new day’s work, and then he closed the door behind him.
The next time he came, be it tomorrow or some other day, he’d have to be certain to bring the key with him. He doubted anyone would stumble upon the hermitage and do anything to harm his work, but there was no point in risking it. Particularly not since he knew Muldaire had found the place. If he had, Lord only knew who else might.
He hated to be disturbed while he worked. Disruptions splintered the mood in his work space, shattering the muse in his mind.
As he traversed the woods, heading back toward the main house, he sorted through several possible excuses he could offer Niall as to why he would become scarce for the remainder of the house party, ever hopeful he could stumble upon one which would satisfy his brother’s moral compass.
Not an entirely simple prospect. Niall’s moral compass always pointed true north. There was only one option in any situation that was right, and thousands which were wrong. To him, they were all guests, and therefore must always take part in every activity offered by their host and hostess for the guests. To Niall, David’s suggestion that Aidan begin sculpting again would not fit within those confines. That would be one of the many grays in Aidan’s world, but for Niall it was pure black.
Nothing had truly struck him yet by the time he exited the woods and started across the open expanse of the yard—and then he found himself incapable of thinking of such things entirely.
Morgan was wearing some ill-fitting gray gown that looked in dire need of laundering, alongside Miss Hathaway and Miss Weston, each in similar attire. Sir Henry Irvine and Mr. Deering were with them—as was that damned mutt Miss Hathaway had been feeding and coddling and treating like a pet.
Aidan walked faster—nearly taking on a militaristic march—in an effort to reach them and discover just what in God’s name they thought they were doing.
The laughter coming from the ladies and gentlemen was ludicrous. They were flopping around the lawn with that mangy mutt, even rolling on the ground as the beast leapt over them. And the ladies! All of them were behaving with thoroughly unladylike manners. Then Miss Hathaway stood in a position of command, and all of the rest of them sat, eventually including the dog.
When he sat, Miss Hathaway poured praise down upon him and offered him something from her hand, which he ate greedily. The sight shouldn’t have engendered any emotion in Aidan whatsoever. But watching her laugh and smile, seeing how she lavished praise upon the beast—it left Aidan in a far fouler mood than it should have done.
Why should he care how she behaved with a hound? He was a man, not a dog. There was no good reason that such a thing should have any effect upon Aidan whatsoever, and yet it did. Why, when she was with him, couldn’t she be as at ease?
He was still making his way across the lawn when Sir H
enry, Mr. Deering, Morgan, and Miss Weston stood to talk with Miss Hathaway. The baronet moved closer to Miss Hathaway than he ought to have done, and a tight pressure squeezed within Aidan’s chest—a fact which made even less sense than his reactions to the chit and the dog. He couldn’t be jealous. He did not like Miss Hathaway, so he shouldn’t care what other gentlemen paid her any attention.
Yet, regardless of how ridiculous the notion was, Aidan couldn’t deny the truth. He was absolutely, unequivocally, decidedly jealous of Sir Henry Irvine at this very moment. Hell, for that matter he was jealous of the damned dog.
It did not sit well within him. A slow, creeping sensation was making its way through his gut, leaving sincere nausea in its wake.
Aidan hated it.
They kept working through the process several times with Mr. Deering, Miss Hathaway, and Miss Weston each taking turns giving the commands, with Aidan still crossing the broad lawn. But then it was Morgan’s turn.
When Aidan was halfway there, she stood and lifted her hand high above her head. This was not what the others had done. What was she doing? Aidan didn’t like that she’d taken it upon herself to try something different. God only knew what the mutt would do.
“Stand,” she said loud enough, and with sufficient weight in her tone, that Aidan could hear her. The dog let out a loud bark and leapt straight at Morgan.
That was when all sense of reason fled from Aidan—or at least any semblance of reason he might have still had up to that point—and he took off at a run.
But when he got closer, after shouting Morgan’s name at the top of his lungs, he drew to a sudden stop, bewildered by what was taking place.
The dog jumped up on its rear legs, standing tall and trying to get something from Morgan’s hands. And all the while, she laughed. Laughed like a loon, actually, in the way she had when they were children and something had struck her in just the right manner, and she would giggle until she made herself sick to her stomach from it all, and still laugh some more.
Aidan hadn’t heard such a delightful sound from his sister in so long he’d feared he might never hear it again.
Miss Hathaway had turned sharply at the sound of Aidan’s shout, and now stood staring at him in no small amount of shock as he drew close enough he could restrain the beast, should it be required. “Mr. Cardiff! We understood you’d taken ill.” She looked slightly panicked at the sight of him.
In his haste to rush to Morgan’s rescue, he hadn’t paid even a moment’s thought to what reaction his sudden reappearance might cause.
Her gaze roved over his person with such great confusion it left him reeling. But he deserved no less, not after the callous manner in which he’d handled her last night. Indeed, he deserved far worse than her confusion.
This was unbearable, all of it. His jealousy. Her confusion when she ought to be irate with him. The fact that he wanted, even now, to repeat what he’d done last night.
“Why are you staring at me?” he bit off, returning to the callous demeanor which had always been comfortable for him.
“Have you rolled around in white powder for some reason, sir?”
Only then did he look down upon his own person. Good God, he was covered in marble dust from his day’s work. Despite their gowns being marred with mud and grass stains, and the fabric clinging to Emma in a most indecent manner, he was perhaps more disheveled than the lot of them combined.
“White powder?” Morgan asked, still laughing. Her eyes held a serious air when she faced him, still holding something in her hands that the dog was trying to reach, and her tone turned almost reverent. “Have you been sculpting again, Aidan?”
He didn’t want anyone to know he had been. Not yet. Aidan didn’t know why the desire to keep it a secret was so strong in him. He just knew that it was.
And yet, how could he deny telling Morgan when it so clearly pleased her? Under normal circumstances, he would do anything that would cause his sister joy. Anything that would bring a smile to her face or warm her heart.
He brushed aside the notion that allowing her to do as she was with the dog was that very thing. But he found he could not tell her the truth about what he’d been doing all day, however confounding the realization may be. For so long, he’d given up this part of himself. For her.
He didn’t begrudge her that time, but he wasn’t ready to share his art with anyone. He needed to let it settle over him again first, to allow it to become part of him and he part of it.
Aidan met Miss Hathaway’s eyes when he spoke. “Just moving some marble. Burington set it up for me, but he had it all wrong.”
The dog finally bit into whatever Morgan had been holding up for him, immediately lowering to the ground and consuming his prize.
“Good boy, Kingley!” Morgan ruffled the fur on top of his head, then returned her attention to Aidan. “Does this mean you plan to sculpt again soon?”
He hated the hopeful note in her voice. It made him feel like a cad for not sharing this part of himself with her, by keeping it only to himself. But he wasn’t ready to share it with anyone. Certainly not Sir Henry Irvine, who so easily earned Miss Hathaway’s smiles whilst all Aidan rightfully earned from her was censure.
He wasn’t entirely certain he was ready to experience it all himself—the way he would completely lose himself within his work and forget everything else, the way the entire world seemed to slip away, and all he could see or think about was whatever project he’d set for himself.
“Not any time soon,” he said tersely. “I should go back inside. Not feeling myself.” Aidan ignored the dejected manner in which Morgan’s eyes fell upon his pronouncement and took several steps away from them toward the main house. “If you let that animal hurt my sister, Irvine, you’ll answer to me,” he called out over his shoulder.
But as he stalked away, the only thought that continued to plague his mind with each step was this: How can I be jealous when I hate Miss Hathaway? And why in God’s name do I lust after her?
Everything about her left him more vexed than before. Particularly this last bit.
Devil take it.
Over the course of the last three days, Emma had spent an increasing amount of her time with Sir Henry and Kingley. Sometimes Morgan and Serena would be with them. Mr. Deering had become a frequent member of their party, since Kingley seemed to react to him better than he did to Sir Henry. Occasionally, Lord Muldaire, Lord Trenowyth, Lord Burington, or some of the other gentlemen would take part in their training activities. It wasn’t uncommon for a group of the ladies to bring out blankets and parasols so they could watch the proceedings from a shaded spot on the lawn.
The only person decidedly absent was Mr. Cardiff.
Emma did not mind that he was not playing a role in Kingley’s training. On the contrary, she was delighted each time he neglected to make himself known. Every time Mr. Cardiff did join the rest of the houseguests, he would sit off to the side, glaring, and his demeanor as sullen and brooding anything she’d ever experienced before.
Ever since the day he’d emerged from the woods covered in marble dust, his demeanor had made even Lord Jacob Deering appear the very soul of levity—which, inexplicably, only drew her to him more than she already had been. Emma could only imagine it was due to the fact that he was perhaps the greatest outcast of them all.
The longer the house party went on, the less she saw of Mr. Cardiff. Whether he was off carving his sculptures, or chopping down trees, or simply brooding alone in his chambers and feigning illness, Emma couldn’t care less. Without Mr. Cardiff’s dark cloud casting a pall upon the proceedings, she and Sir Henry had begun making excellent progress with Kingley.
And with one another, truth be told.
Their time spent together out on the lawn seemed only to draw Sir Henry to her side more often than he already had been during other events. Whenever they would split into groups for a game or an outing, Sir Henry easily worked his way to her side to be sure they could be together.
At the breakfast table each morning, he situated himself near her, perhaps not right by her side but close enough they could converse, always smiling at any anecdotes she might offer and hanging upon her every word.
Just last night at supper, Vanessa had arranged for Lord Jacob to be to Emma’s right, but Sir Henry somehow maneuvered himself into that position, sending Lord Jacob down to take his seat next to Morgan.
All things considered, Emma believed Sir Henry might be forming a bit of an attachment to her—perhaps even a tendre. Thank heavens for that. She was spending so much time in his company that any chance one of the other gentlemen might develop an interest in her was quickly falling by the wayside. More and more, Sir Henry Irvine was looking to be her only possibility at leaving Vanessa’s house party with a gentleman admirer.
Even better than that was the fact that Emma did not feel overly fond of Sir Henry. Not like she’d begun to feel toward Mr. Cardiff.
Yes, she did enjoy his company. He was a very kind man, and he’d done her an immeasurable favor by taking on the task of training Kingley. But Emma had no fear that she’d fall in love with him any time soon. She did not believe there to be any great likelihood that she’d lose her head and devote herself to him before he was well and truly her husband, if that were to happen.
The beginnings of this relationship couldn’t be more perfect, as far as she was concerned. He was a baronet, and so a perfectly respectable gentleman with whom her father would be unable to find fault, while also not being of such a lofty position he would look down upon her family. He had a thriving hobby with his dog breeding and training, but one would not truly consider it to be an occupation, so he could mix within the higher echelon of society.
Cardiff Siblings 01 - Seven Minutes in Devon Page 14