“Yes, sir. I stepped outside a moment ago. I think the coachman would likely advise remaining where they are at present, given his cautious nature.”
“You don’t think he tried to bring her home ahead of the storm?” Marcus turned his back to her, walking all the way to the window, seeing the truth of her statement as a large fir tree near the drive rocked in the wind.
“They would already be here, were that the case. It’s been snowing most of the afternoon.”
He stared at the gravel path leading from the road to their door, realizing it was completely obscured by snow. Why hadn’t he noticed? Why had no one informed him of the impending storm? Tension built in his shoulders as he considered the situation, knowing his wife was five miles away and likely stuck for the evening.
Ellen wouldn’t be home for dinner or their conversation in the library.
She wouldn’t sleep in the room adjoining his.
Nor would she be at breakfast.
Mrs. Burk didn’t look concerned by these things and he wondered why.
“I ought to try to go for her,” he said, turning to look at his housekeeper. “I could get there ahead of the storm and make certain she’s safe.” He took a step toward the door and opened his mouth to ask that his horse be readied.
His plain-speaking housekeeper’s words stopped him in his tracks. “That would hardly be wise. You could do yourself or your horse an injury. Mr. Henry would’ve been here by now if they left ahead of the storm. The fact that she is not here means that Mrs. Calvert is safe and snug with the Banners.”
Marcus knew her reasoning was sound, and more than likely correct, but he ought to do something. A man shouldn’t sit at home in his library if his wife was stranded elsewhere in the middle of a snowstorm.
“You wouldn’t make it very far before the storm rendered you blind, sir,” Mrs. Burk said, her tone finally more sympathetic. “It’s best you remain here, where you’re safe, and go to fetch her back as soon as the storm clears. Tomorrow afternoon the roads may be better.”
“Tomorrow afternoon?” He flexed his hands and began to pace the room, shaking his head from side to side. “That’s a long time for Ellen to be trapped.”
“Sir, she’s with good company. The Banners will see to her every need and comfort.”
But that was Marcus’s job. He ought to be the one seeing to her. Why had the woman stayed gone so long? If she would’ve come home sooner, they could be readying for dinner even now, their routine uninterrupted, her safety assured. What could she have been thinking, to stay so long? It was hardly proper. Most visits to acquaintances lasted no more than half an hour. At most.
“It’s a good thing for her, Mr. Calvert,” his housekeeper, with an uncanny knack of reading his mind, stated. “This will be a fine way for her to grow close to Mrs. Banner and solidify their friendship. Even a small crisis can true friends make.”
The woman was right. Her ability to view the situation for what it was, a small crisis, a passing concern, not at all an emergency, should have calmed Marcus. He did his best to dispel his doubts through a deep breath.
“Yes, Mrs. Burk. I see what you mean. Thank you.”
“Shall I have a tray brought in for you, Mr. Calvert?” That was all. In Mrs. Burk’s mind, the matter was settled, the conversation closed, and they must return to normalcy. “Or would you prefer to eat in the dining room?”
He stared at her, uncomprehending. Should he eat when he ought to be worrying about his wife? Marcus didn’t feel equal to the task. But she stared at him, awaiting his response.
“A small tray, if you please. Thank you.”
Marcus sat down again, looking at his books on the table. He supposed he ought to occupy himself, continue his studies, make notes for the things he wished to discuss with Ellen.
The dinner tray arrived after a short time and he put his things aside long enough to attempt nibbling at the meal. His eyes were drawn to the window, where the sky looked near black, despite the heavy white snow falling thickly. He put the meal aside and decided he would get nothing done in the parlor, staring down the drive.
He took his books to the library and sat in his usual chair.
But there, his eyes kept turning to the empty seat beside him.
“Stop,” he muttered to himself. “She’s perfectly safe with the Banners.” He looked down at his book and realized he needed to turn to a fresh page before continuing his notes, but once the cream-colored blankness lay before him he stared at it for a time.
Perhaps it would be best if he sketched to pass the time until he went to bed. Such as a depiction of a new orchard he thought to plant, using the principles he was learning from his studies.
Marcus hesitated before telling himself, firmly, that he could sketch something as innocuous as a row of trees without becoming overly involved in the act.
He went to work quietly. Having avoided the practice since his unfortunate heart break at the hands of Selene, remembering well her mocking smile when he gave her the sketches he made of her likeness, Marcus hadn’t wished to ever put another drawing on paper again.
But as part of his work, it made sense.
The page was too small.
Marcus glowered at it for a moment and looked at the pencil in his hand with the realization that it was an inferior instrument.
If he was going to draw, he would do it correctly.
Marcus went to his study where he had dropped the sketchbook and pencils purchased for him by his wife. He hadn’t made use of them nor had he planned to. They were nestled in the bottom of his desk drawer, underneath a pile of old ledgers. He dug them out and opened the finely made book to the first page. He began to draw the apple trees and the rows in which he would plant them.
The exercise soothed him and occupied his mind more than his studies had. His mind on other things, he forgot, for a short time at least, that Ellen was not at home where she should be, sitting by the fire with him.
Soon his paper was filled with a well-ordered forest of apple trees neatly in a line. But something was missing from the drawing.
The trees are enough. This isn’t an artistic exercise. Planning.
But his hands lingered over the page, pencil in hand, pointed tip touching the paper. Finally, giving in to temptation, he allowed his wrist to move first, then his fingers, and another image appeared among the trees.
Even though they had not been married long, Marcus knew what her silhouette looked like. He knew how she placed her hands on either side of her hips when she stood at her ease, he knew the tilt of her head when she was amused, and he knew the set of her shoulders when she relaxed.
Ellen's form appeared on his paper, standing beneath his trees, looking into the distance.
Marcus stared at the image of his wife, looking at work he had yet to do. Without meaning to, he drew her pleased by her surroundings and his labor. Would she like his plans? Did she care, one way or another, how he went about running their estate? He felt certain she must, given the amount of time and energy she spent in her conversations with him.
Something still bothered him about the drawing, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t think it was the trees. He knew what apple trees looked like well enough. Ellen gave him the unsettled feeling.
He turned a page and tried to sketch her, alone, to make certain he could do the job properly. He drew her form again, in a similar pose, but larger, making her the focal point of the page instead of an extra detail.
He focused on the lines of her shoulders and neck, the slight curve of her hip, and then the sloping folds of her gown. Slippered feet peeked out below the hem of her skirt and it was then he began to see his difficulties.
He turned another page, determined to do her justice.
Marcus cleared his throat and sat back for a moment, scrubbing his eyes with his hands, attempting to rid himself of the ideas at the forefront of his mind.
“What is wrong with me?” he muttered into the quiet of
the study. He stood and paced before the fire, trying to put his mind back where it had started. All he wanted to do, all he set out to do, was sketch his apple orchard.
Sketching, drawing, giving himself over to that artistic endeavor, had never caused him difficulties until Selene. At his most enamored of her, he spent hours putting her likeness on paper, agonizing over her form, the turn of her head, the shine on a single curl. Marcus slaved over those depictions of the woman he loved with a fever. He filled sheets and sheets with every detail of her face until he felt he memorized her perfectly.
The day he confessed his love to her and made his offer, he had first shown her his masterpiece. Drawn in ink, on a beautiful piece of parchment, he felt certain when she saw it she would realize the strength of his feelings. But she glanced at it with mild interest, pronounced it a pretty rendering, and laid the work upon a table filled with gifts from admirers. Selene gave him little of her time that day and acted with impatience when he confessed his love.
He’d never wanted to draw again.
Though he recognized the folly of his infatuation, at the time Marcus did not want to bestir the memory of Selene ever again. A part of him believed if he had possessed more skill she would have realized the depths of his devotion and considered him more seriously for her husband.
Marcus stopped his pacing beside his desk and looked down at the new page, blank before him, and wondered at himself. His skills with drawing would never earn him more than faint praise from society, and it would likely be with derision if any of his peers spoke of it, mocking time spent on a meaningless accomplishment. Most men left drawing behind, in the schoolroom, if it was not necessary to their future income.
But he enjoyed it.
And he meant to enjoy it again.
He sat down and took up his pencil, but his mind remained full of Ellen.
“I wonder,” he murmured aloud. His previous attempt to draw his wife, while it left him discomfited, came to his mind. He did not, on the previous page, attempt to draw her face. Only her figure.
Ellen, his companion since coming to Orchard Hill, would be a fascinating subject to attempt. While pleasing to look at, his wife did not bear the features of someone classically beautiful.
But most people did not look very closely at the fine things right under their noses.
Marcus began to draw, starting with a basic outline of her face and shoulders, beginning a portrait.
The howling sounds of the storm outside began to fade, and beneath the graphite of his pencil, her image slowly appeared.
Chapter Nineteen
Dawn’s light crept across the room until it slid over Marcus’s eyes, causing him to groan and sit up slowly. He sat in his chair by the fire in the library, his sketchbook in his lap. He left the study, late in the night, when he had the idea to sketch his wife sitting in her chair, reading a book.
He tried to stretch his abused muscles and shook his head. “Getting too old for this,” he muttered, pushing himself up.
Marcus looked down at his rumpled clothing, his lack of coat and cravat, and sighed. Drawing would always turn him half wild as he chased his muse. He knew he must look frightful.
He took a staggering step towards the window to look out on the bright morning scene, disheartened to see snow piled high everywhere. His wife would not return to him early. Not in the carriage, with all the world covered in thick, white blankets.
If he could go to her, assure himself of her safety, and bring Ellen home, he would be more settled.
It took several moments of staring blankly at the landscape out his windows before Marcus sucked in a breath, hit with an idea which would satisfy his frustrations.
“Mrs. Burk,” he shouted, tearing from the library and into the entry. “Mrs. Burk!”
Sounds from below stairs, a metal clash and a loud exclamation, turned him in the right direction. Marcus made it as far as the top of the stairs before his housekeeper appeared, looking up at him with wide eyes.
“Mr. Calvert? Is anything wrong?”
“Wrong?” He blinked down at her. “Not at all. But I want my horse readied at once. And send Cray up to me. I must dress quickly and be on my way.”
“Your horse?” She came up the stairs, her eyes never leaving his. “Where are you going, Mr. Calvert?”
It surprised him she needed to ask. He opened his arms in a wide, obvious gesture. “To fetch back Ellen, of course.” Then he turned and hurried away to climb the staircase to his room, determined not to waste another moment. If Cray didn’t come quickly enough, he could see to himself.
But he had barely divested himself of his waistcoat when his valet came through the door which connected the dressing room to the bedroom. “Sir, I apologize, I didn’t know you would need me so early.” The valet looked to his master’s bed and froze, eyebrows drawn together.
Marcus waived a hand toward the bed, not slept in. “Surely you noticed I never went to sleep last night.”
The servant drew himself up as though his dignity had been challenged. “Mr. Calvert, you have given me leave to retire if you do not ring for me before a certain time. I thought last night was one of those evenings. If I failed you in some way—”
“Not at all, Cray. Unless you fail to have me ready to leave, braving the snow, in a timely manner.” Marcus grinned when that got his manservant moving quickly, gathering up clothing and shaving equipment. “Don’t worry about the shave. I am seeing no one who will be concerned. I want to get underway as soon as possible.”
His valet froze and stared at him in absolute horror. “Go about unshaven? Mr. Calvert, I cannot allow that. You are to see Mrs. Calvert, are you not? She might be concerned with your appearance.”
Marcus had to concede to that point. If he must go rescue his wife, he ought not to look half wild. “Very well. But it must be quick.”
“Yes, sir.” The valet drew himself up and set to work.
In an impressively short quarter of an hour, Marcus’s butler assisted him into his great coat, beaver hat, scarves, gloves, and informed him all was made ready.
Ellen’s maid, Sarah, provided him with her mistress’s riding habit.
Marcus thanked his valet, who still hovered nearby, the butler, a footman, his housekeeper, and then his groom as he climbed onto his horse. They all watched him, from inside and out of the house, but Marcus didn’t care if they thought him mad.
In the night, drawing and redrawing his wife, Marcus came to a marvelous realization. Though his efforts did not reach the fever pitch of frenzy attained drawing Lady Selene, he recognized in his work a devotion to the subject of his sketches. Each line made, each stroke of his pencil, he made with great care and sincerity. He wanted to put Ellen onto the paper in such a way that she appeared to come off of it. He wanted her image to be real to any who looked on her.
Ellen’s portrait must convey her intelligence, her love of learning, her kindness. He wanted more than her smile and freckles rendered; he wanted her humor and compassion on the page.
The more he worked, later and later into the night, the more his heart warmed towards his wife.
Marcus, to know her so well, in such a short time, drew her with a deep affection and dedication he could not remember ever feeling before. Waking at dawn, those feelings still nestled within his heart, he must discover what they meant, and quickly, lest the determination fade with time.
And so, he decided to go after Ellen. Immediately.
Even if it scandalized the servants.
¤
Ellen lounged in her bed, staring up at the canopy, wondering what she would do in these early morning hours. When she awoke early before marriage, she made herself useful by attending to household matters. As a married woman, she had a tray brought to her with chocolate and she would read in her room, until she judged it near the time Marcus would be awake and seeking food downstairs. But here, in a household completely new to her, she did not know what would be best.
Ellen didn�
�t like inconveniencing people.
She sat up and pulled the blankets to her chin, noting the room had grown chilly during the night and no one had come yet to stoke the fire in the guest chamber. She shivered and slid from the bed, picking up a shawl to wrap around her shoulders. The carpet felt cold against her feet, standing at the window, looking out on a world of white.
Her shoulders fell. What if the roads were completely covered?
Ellen wouldn’t know until she consulted with the Banners and her coachman.
She decided to dress, then she could seek out the kitchen and something warm to drink. Making inquiries of the servants would be better than besetting the Banners with questions.
She slipped into the hallway after donning her dress from the day before. Mercifully, she could do up her own stays with an effort, so she was properly attired when she realized she was not alone in the hall.
“Good morning, Mrs. Calvert,” a voice said, startling her.
Ellen looked down to see Arthur crouched beneath a hall table. “Arthur, you surprised me. Good morning. Are you supposed to be out of the nursery this early?”
The boy shook his head slowly. “Nurse is sleeping and so is Essie. But I’m awake.” He crawled from beneath the table and gave her an earnest look. “And hungry.”
“Oh dear.” She reached her hand out to him. “We cannot have that. Let’s go downstairs. I will take charge of you for now, and I’ll help you seek out some toast.”
His eyes lit up. “With jam?”
“Yes. Lots of jam.” Her heart warmed as he grinned and put his hand in hers. Children were a wonder, allowing such small things as toast and jam to light up their faces so brightly.
The servants were already awake and going about their duties, preparing food for the day, cleaning and polishing boots and flatware. There were eight of them in the kitchen, and Mr. Henry the coachman was one of them, eating a bowl of hot cereal.
“Good morning,” Ellen sang into the room, trying to put on her most confident smile.
A chorus of good mornings met her ear as the servants hastily stood.
His Bluestocking Bride: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 3) Page 15