A Courtship to Remember: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  Selina rolled her head to her left, encountering the gaze of a red deer. She went still, not wanting to startle the woodland creature. The backdrop of the woods framed the deer perfectly; coupled with the rolling sky, there was only one thing that she could do. Selina slowly got up, keeping her eyes on the deer.

  “Do not run away, please.”

  Her sketching materials lay beside her, ready to be picked up and put to work. Selina settled herself into a comfortable position and placed the sketchpad upon her knees, but as her hand met the page, a sudden gunshot echoed throughout the surrounding area, startling the deer and causing it to disappear into the woods behind it.

  “Balderdash! What ill luck! I have half a mind to give those hunters a piece of my mind! When will they let those poor pheasants alone? How many pheasants can one possibly eat?”

  Selina was against hunting for sport, believing it to be futile and savage.

  “Mother Nature has done a splendid job of controlling animal population upon this earth for centuries. Why do humans believe it acceptable and desirable to kill animals? And yet they would seek to imprison poor people who hunt for sustenance. Deplorable behaviour.”

  The deer was gone, but she still needed a study to sketch.

  “Perhaps I shall find something suitable as I return to the house.”

  Selina got to her feet, still disgruntled by the loss of her deer. She had yet to sketch anything that afternoon, and her main aim had been to find inspiration in nature. Selina had already drawn flowers, trees, birds, and the river that ran on the far side of the estate, but today she wished for something else.

  “An emotion, something that says much but does not speak. That deer would have been a most perfect specimen. I would have allowed her eyes to speak, captured the tense stance of her nimble body.”

  But there was nothing for it; she needed to focus her creative flair in another direction. Selina retrieved her sketching material and went in search of something worthy to sketch. Not that the scene about her was not decent, but nothing had communicated with her as the deer had done. She headed back to the house, taking her time as she did so. The country estate was vast, stretching across acres of land that included expansive green lawn, a tailored flower garden that, although beautiful, seemed almost unnatural in its geometric style.

  Selina had noticed that a river ran towards the edge of the country estate, but she had been too far to explore it any further. She had already gone farther than expected by that point, and evening had been fast approaching. But tomorrow she intended to go down and hopefully be inspired by the river. Selina stopped her slow walk back to the house to flip through the pages of her sketchbook, admiring her own handiwork. Not that she was prideful of her work for she was a modest young woman, but not even she could deny that her eye for detail did make for a vivid picture.

  The sketches seemed almost alive as if she could reach out and touch them, feeling the smoothness of a petal or the warmth of an animal. She resumed her walking, pondering upon her works. Selina may not be accomplished in the areas that matter to her mother, but she had the ability to bring a mere sketch to life. That mattered more to her than the sweetest of singing voices, the nimblest of fingers upon a piano, and a graceful poise during a dance. Ophelia was more so gifted in these areas, but Selina did not begrudge her sister anything.

  “Better her than me. I would much rather be out in the open than behind closed doors, pandering to the gentry as they survey me with critical eyes.”

  Her belly grumbled, alerting her to the fact that she had last eaten breakfast many hours earlier. However, she had no intention of returning to the house just yet.

  “Perhaps a few apples from the orchard shall settle my hunger pangs. But I must take care not to be noticed by Mama, or she will demand that I enter the house and take up a more suitable pastime, such as writing letters to my dreadful cousins.”

  And they indeed were dreadful beings. Selina’s father had a brother with four children, two of whom were close in age to her. They just happened to be two girls who had a penchant for bullying her, especially in their schoolroom days. Susan and Martha possessed a mean streak that they revealed to a select few people, and by that she meant herself. The sisters were two years apart, with Susan being the eldest of the two as well as the ringleader to all her bullying.

  Selina, always being the shorter one of the family, remembered being tied to trees and left alone, chairs being pulled out from under her as she meant to sit down, her clothing mysteriously turning up with holes, and of course, that would earn her a scolding from her mother. Now that they were older, their taunts had taken on the form of cleverly-crafted comments that cut to the quick. Many of their comments were a dig at her red hair and the light smattering of freckles across her nose.

  “Although I do gather that they will see fit to torment me with unbridled hatred.”

  They had all attended the Season together, and lo and behold, Selina’s combination of alabaster skin, titian hair, and emerald green eyes had been a success. Suitors had been clamouring to speak with her, and her cousins had been livid. Long had they drummed into Selina that her appearance was no match for their more conventional brunette hair and peachy skin. English roses, they called themselves, while Selina was compared to a prickly thorn. Imagine their surprise when she turned out to be a success. However, they should not have become angry as Selina’s popularity had soon waned when the suitors discovered her intelligence, as well as her open manner of using it in conversation.

  An Englishman did not want a wife with a voice of her own; neither did they want a wife whose intelligence surpassed their own. As a result, Susan and Martha had returned with marriage proposals, while Selina had none. However, this did nothing to assuage their anger, as the very men they were engaged to had done nothing but cling to Selina’s company at first, before moving onto them when they realised that she was not what they wanted. Selina was secretly pleased to have not made a match, despite her mother’s fretful cries. She had no wish to be matched to a pompous Englishman, especially not the sort that enjoyed the company of her insipid cousins.

  “Good day, Miss Seymour. I take it that you have been for a walk?”

  Selina stopped in her tracks, turning to greet the young scullery maid.

  “Good day, Agnes. Yes, I was seeking inspiration from the land.”

  Agnes looked at her smudged hands and dress, grinning.

  “I take it that you found some?”

  Selina had drawn a few flowers and leaves, but they had not been what she was looking for. The deer would have been a perfect specimen, but of course, her plan had been foiled by hunters.

  “Not what I was looking for. I am still searching.”

  Selina only just noticed the basket of apples resting on the girl’s hips. I hope that she has not picked all the ripe apples!

  “Does Mrs Albermale intend to make apple pie?”

  “Yes, some will be turned into pie, but the Mistress wants applesauce for the roast suckling pig that Mrs Albermale will be making for dinner tomorrow.”

  Selina pulled her face. “I take it that one of the piglets that I petted just this morning shall become my dinner tomorrow?”

  The maid chuckled. “I shall leave it there, Miss. I must be going, or Mrs Albermale will have my head.”

  The estate cook loathed to be kept waiting, which was perfectly understandable. Anyone would be impatient when there were several hungry mouths to feed, all of a discerning palate, or rather, said discerning palate. Selina believed that her family tended to put on unnecessary airs in certain company, which could be amusing at times.

  Agnes returned to the house while Selina continued to the orchard, meeting a few other servants along the way. The country estate was always buzzing with activity and only truly settled near midnight. Several times Selina had crept downstairs well after dinner, hoping to find a good book to sink into bed with, and would see a few servants milling about, usually putting things into orde
r ready for the next day or extinguishing a few lamps on their way to their own servants’ quarters. Selina would sometimes stop to chat with them, but if they looked rather weary, then she would quietly pass them by, carrying her own lamp into the library.

  The orchard came into view, and Selina was relieved to see that the trees were plentiful and the apples low enough to reach. Her day dress had pockets, something that she had insisted upon with their seamstress. She placed her sketching materials upon a flat rock and stuffed her pockets with as many apples as possible, intending to give some to the farm animals. Selina decided to steer clear of the pig pen–she was afraid that she would recognise the suckling pig that would grace the dinner table the next evening.

  “I shall stick to the stables and avert my eyes as I pass the pigsty.”

  Which was what she did. The only thing that she could not ignore was the stench as she passed the sty, but as soon as she was some feet away, she could breathe easy.

  “I do love suckling pig, but I prefer not to know the source. There is nothing as terrible as greeting an animal the day before, only to find said animal on my plate for dinner. It is unsettling, to say the least.”

  Selina spotted the stable groom, bringing a quick smile to her face.

  “Isaac! Mrs Albermale has informed me that you are a new father! I am so pleased for you and Lydia.”

  The stable groom smiled. “Ye, me wife had a set of twins, she did, Miss Seymour. The Mistress has given me the weekend off to spend time with me wife and babies. Samuel will take care of the horses then.”

  “That is wonderful, it truly is, Isaac. They are both boys, are they not?”

  “Ye, two sweet, squawling babes that keep their mum up half the night. Never thought I’d have any, but the Lord is good.”

  “That He is, Isaac. Would you mind if I give Prancer and Osiris these apples? I know that they are partial to them.”

  Isaac nodded. “Of course, Miss Seymour. Just do not let the other horses see, or they might be jealous.”

  Selina laughed, finding the notion of the horses being jealous quite comical.

  “I shall ensure that they both eat their apples in secret, but I cannot control what they may speak of once I leave their presence.”

  Isaac looked perplexed for a moment, which made her laugh that much harder. Understanding dawned, and he let rip a whopper of a laugh, his guffaws loud and gay.

  “Oh, Miss. Yer a laugh, yer are. Get on with yer horses, now. Don’t let Prancer get into those papers of yers.”

  “I shall have them safely hidden away, Isaac. He will not chew another of my sketches.”

  Isaac tipped his hat off to her before disappearing into a horse pen. It didn’t take Selina long to feed the horses and whisper a plea not to relate anything of their meeting to the other horses. It was a silly thing to do, but neither could she resist it. Life would be boring if not for the scattered moments of silliness.

  Selina had also eaten her own apples, feeling satiated indeed. She was on her way, having a ready smile for the maids and farmhands she encountered to the Ha-ha. The low stone wall gave her a choice of grazing herds on one side, and gardeners on the other. Selina had yet to choose whether it would be human or mammal she would sketch, but as she settled on the wall, the weathered face of a gardener intrigued her.

  “Allan!” she called out.

  The gardener looked up, and upon seeing her, grinned.

  “Why, it be Miss Seymour. Out on yer walk again I see?”

  “Yes. I could not imagine sitting in the house for more than a few hours. Ophelia, however, is more than happy to do so. She is my sister, but we are certainly not two peas in a pod when it comes to our habits.”

  “That be true, Miss. I hardly seen Miss Ophelia out and about.”

  He wiped his brow, shifting his hat as he did so. He would be a perfect study for my last sketch of the day.

  “Allan, would you mind terribly if I sat here and sketched you?”

  He scratched his chin. “Sketch, Miss? Whatever for? I’m hardly a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Art is not dependent upon society’s standards of beauty, Allan. Well, at least mine is not. I wish to sketch you in this habitat, capturing the sweat on your brow, the strength in your hands. Do you permit me to?”

  Allan shrugged. “Far be it from me to deny ye, Miss. It seems harmless enough. I would like to see that there sketch once yer done.”

  “I shall surely show it to you, Allan. You may return to your work so that I might start.”

  The gardener nodded, resuming his activity once more. Selina soon became engrossed in the lines that started to take shape before her, glancing up at Allan every now and then as she strived to capture his essence. She wanted to do him justice and perhaps gift it to him. Between the bleats of the lambs behind her and the sturdy work of the gardener before her, Selina entered her own world of silence, colours, and peace.

  Selina noticed that the sky had suddenly darkened, but it did not deter her from her task at hand.

  “Miss Seymour, I do believe that it’s a storm coming this way. Those clouds look ready to burst.”

  “I am sure that it will hold off, Allan. It may only rain this evening.”

  She didn’t look up when she answered him, too concentrated on perfecting the tufts of hair that peeked out from under Allan’s hat.

  “I don’t know, Miss. I think it best ye return to the house. I’m leaving meself–the last rain I was in gave me a sorry head. I stayed abed for days.”

  Selina finally looked up. “Leave if you must, Allan. I will stay here and complete this sketch.”

  “Are ye sure, Miss?”

  She nodded. “Quite sure. If I start to feel little drops, I will make sure to take cover.”

  “As long as yer sure, Miss Seymour. Wouldn’t want ye to catch a nasty cold.”

  Selina smiled. “I shall not do anything of the kind. I am as healthy as an ox.”

  Allan left, uncertainty clear in his eyes. Selina was not bothered by a bit of rain, in fact, she loved it. She resumed her sketching, ignoring the sounds of the storm approaching her. Why run when it is still in the distance? A drop of water fell and landed with a tiny splash on her arm. Still, she chose to ignore it.

  “’Tis only but drizzle. Hardly anything to write home about.”

  When a drop of water landed on her sketch, she hunched forward–rather her hair catch any wayward droplets.

  “The thickness of my hair is a welcome cover today. One of the rare moments when it is more of a help than a bother. Mama refuses for me to cut it. What can I do with hair that I may very well sit on if not pulled up into a careful hairstyle? I daresay that people do not understand the weight of one’s hair on their necks. Quite the troublesome thing. ’Tis a chore to wash, what with the buckets of water and bending over a wash basin as Sophie lathers my hair. If I should have my own way, I would cut it and be done with it.”

  True enough, she felt nary a cold droplet as it hit her hair. Assuming that it did hit her hair. Selina shaded in the contours of Allan’s face, showing each dip and curve that brought his face to life. It was like magic: a few lines, melded together to create a picture that captured the spirit of a person, animal, insect, or even plant or tree. The only other medium that Selina could accredit such magic to was the art of sculpting. Selina used her fingers to smudge certain areas, not caring that she was streaking her brow with the charcoal. A loud thunderclap had her jerking, losing her piece of charcoal in the process. She bent down, gasping when the rain clouds burst open, sending a heavy downpour of cold rain.

  “My heavens!” she exclaimed.

  Selina stuffed what she could down the front of her dress and took off at a sprint, heading towards the house. She laughed as she slipped on the wet grass, landing on her bottom. Selina was back on her feet again, this time more careful with her footing. Many of the servants were scrambling to find shelter, laughing harder as they were slipping and sliding, landing in puddles.
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