Primly, she said, “I stopped swimming with boys at least a year ago.”
A brow lifted. “I stopped being called a boy much longer ago than a year.”
Aunt Missy interjected. “As far as I’m concerned, any male younger than thirty is still a boy.”
Mr. Law bowed in polite defeat. “I suppose I’m a boy for another four years, then.” He turned his dark eyes to Isabella. “I’d be delighted to see your garden.” He nodded again to Aunt Missy. “Ma’am, it was a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for your hospitality. I hope our paths cross again.”
With true warmth, Aunt Missy reached out and took his hands before giving them a squeeze. “I do as well, Mr. Law.”
He blinked at the contact and then gave her a lopsided smile that almost banished the sorrow in his eyes.
Isabella carefully picked up the sleeping kitten from her lap and replaced her on the divan. “There, Mimi, you may rest here.” Without looking at Isabella, Mimi stretched, jumped off the divan, and trotted off. “Hmm. Perhaps not Mimi, then. I must think up a new name for her.”
Mr. Law stood and held out a hand to invite her to lead the way. In the garden filled mostly with wildflowers, Isabella and Mr. Law strolled along the paths that followed the fence by the road. At one point, he looked up and down the road.
“Are you worried about what has become of your father?” Isabella asked.
“No, I don’t believe something has befallen him.” He cast a quick, cautious glance at her before returning his gaze to the ground. One of his booted toes swiveled in the gravel path below their feet. “We were not on the best of terms. He might have left without me. Deliberately.”
Isabella’s mouth dropped open. “He abandoned you?”
“I thought it was an idle threat and that he’d wait for me at the next crossroads, prepared with a lecture.” He let out a huff of cynical laughter. “I have never understood him. I understand him less now. It’s clear I won’t find him here, so I will bid you good day. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Where will you go?” As she stood next to him, their difference in height became apparent, as did the breadth of his chest. The breeze carried his scent, strong and clean and oh, so provocative.
“I’ll follow the road.” He bowed. “Good day, Miss Montgomery. It was a pleasure.”
“I wish you luck.”
He bowed again and strode to the gate leading to the road. She watched him walk, tall, confident, and proud. After the briefest pause, he chose a direction and headed down the road. How could she let him leave without knowing how to find his father? Yet what could she do?
Uncle Joseph rode up from the opposite direction. Wearing his vicar’s cassock, her guardian glanced at Isabella and then at Mr. Law’s retreating back. “Did we have a visitor?”
She nodded as an oddly unsettling sensation of loss edged into her usual cheer.
“You seem preoccupied, child.”
Isabella indicated the shrinking figure on the road. “I found him walking the road. Apparently, his father . . . well, they became separated.” Revealing that his father had left him would reflect poorly on both father and son.
“You found another lost soul to rescue?” Uncle Joseph’s eyes crinkled in a kind smile.
She shrugged. “It seems so.”
“And you’re concerned about what may become of him.”
“Well, yes. He’s all alone.”
Uncle Joseph swung down off the horse and said in a conversational tone, “Do you think he is of good character?”
She considered. “I think so. He is mysterious and reluctant to talk about himself. But I think it’s because he’s grieving, not because he is up to mischief. He was wearing a mourning band. I worry what will become of him.”
Almost to himself, Uncle Joseph quoted, “‘For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.’”
Isabella watched him. “Are you thinking of taking in this stranger?”
“I should discuss it with Missy first, of course.” He handed her the reins to his horse. “Be a good girl and walk Noah, would you?”
Taking the reins, Isabella clicked her tongue and walked the horse around the house. Through open windows, Uncle Joseph’s voice mingled with Aunt Missy’s. A few minutes later, Uncle Joseph returned, took the reins, and swung into the saddle.
“Set another place for dinner, m’dear.” He urged Noah to a canter toward Mr. Law’s distant figure.
Isabella hugged herself in an attempt to quell her excitement at spending time with Mr. Law again, possibly for days. Really, she ought to be merely concerned for his welfare, not thinking about the shape of his lips or his manly scent or how tempting it had been to give him his requested kiss.
Rowan stared blankly at the vicar who’d ridden to him. Surely he’d heard him wrong. “You want to what?”
Of a similar height now that he had dismounted, the older man who had introduced himself as Mr. Williams held his gaze steadily. “You heard me. Is it so hard to believe that I’d offer a bed to someone who’s a bit down on his luck?” The older man smiled, his eyes kind.
Rowan chuckled darkly. “It wasn’t exactly luck that brought me here.”
Mr. Williams raised a pair of gray eyebrows. “Have you a place to sleep?”
“I will when I find my father.”
Mr. Williams considered him as if he toyed with whether or not to divulge a secret. “Was your family coach black with red wheels?”
Rowan went still. “Yes.” It came out more like a question.
“I saw it at the coaching inn up ahead.” He pointed with his chin. “A gentleman wearing a yellow coat came out of a private dining room and entered that coach. They left perhaps two hours ago.”
Two hours ago? His father had left. He’d had a meal and then simply driven off, knowing Rowan was alone in an unfamiliar place, without friend or money.
Rowan ran a thumb across his chin. “I see.”
After all that talk about how Rowan, as the new heir, was so important and how they had much to do—a declaration that began mere hours after Hadley’s funeral—his father had simply left.
Had Rowan pushed him too much?
If Father had indeed ceased his attempt to educate Rowan on the aspects of how to properly care for their estate—the properties, tenants, crops, and holdings—then who was Rowan to argue?
Perhaps, freed from Father’s unwelcome attention, Rowan would enjoy a much-needed respite here in Brighton. A holiday at the seashore might do him good. He might even find the mysterious love of his brother’s.
Rowan pressed a hand over an inner pocket of his jacket, where he kept the tiny oval frame containing a miniature painting of an eye, complete with lashes and brow. The Lover’s Eye, along with a lock of golden hair and the name Ann, provided the only clues to the identity of his brother’s love. Would they be enough?
In order to do that, he needed a place to sleep. Still . . .
Rowan drew a breath. “That’s very kind of you, sir, but I couldn’t impose.”
“Not at all. Our vicarage once housed nine children. Now it only houses two young people. It’s surely more humble than you’re accustomed to, but you are welcome to stay until you are reunited with your father—or until you can make other arrangements. Let’s give it a week, shall we?”
A week under the same roof as the delectable Miss Montgomery, and the chance to locate his brother’s Ann. This vicar’s hospitality seemed a perfect answer. “Very well, sir. I thank you for your generosity.”
“Excellent.” Leading his horse, Mr. Williams walked next to Rowan as they headed back to the vicarage. “I should tell you that I’m particularly protective of my ward, Isabella. Though she’s not my blood relative, I feel great responsibility toward her and her brother. I expect you not to trifle with her heart or her virtue.”
“Sir, I would never—”
Mr. Williams held up a hand to silence Rowan. �
��It’s easy to say that now, and I’m sure you mean well, but I was your age once and I know how young men’s thoughts run when a pretty maiden is close at hand. If I even suspect ungentlemanly conduct on your behalf, all my goodwill toward you will vanish in the blink of an eye. Are we understood?”
“Yes, sir.” No stolen kisses. Understood. Not that he really would, tempting as it had been. Besides, she’d already made it clear she would not succumb to his advances. Clearly, she was no ordinary girl.
They reached the vicarage, and Rowan took a better look at the abode that would be his haven for the foreseeable future. A two-story building made entirely of brick with white trim sat in the sunshine. It seemed to smile at him.
Inside, Mrs. Williams welcomed him warmly and showed him to his bedchamber. A tiny yet comfortable room greeted him. Sunlight streamed through a window overlooking the front of the house. A cool breeze blew in, stirring crisp, white curtains at the window. A cheerful quilt covered a bed that looked barely large enough to fit his frame. He’d have to be careful when turning over. The soft green carpet, though faded, appeared free of dirt and stains. This family may not be wealthy, but cleanliness and care reigned in this little home. The small, quaint space seemed to breathe with light and cheer.
He turned to Mrs. Williams. “I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable here. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your—”
“Tut tut, Mr. Law.” She waved away his words. “No need for all that. We’ve all needed a friend now and again. You rest now, and we’ll call you for dinner shortly.”
He glanced down at his dusty traveling clothes and boots. “I fear I have nothing appropriate for dinner.”
“We’ll have an informal dinner al fresco.” She beamed at him and left him alone, closing the door behind her.
Rowan took out the Lover’s Eye and lock of hair, his clues to finding his brother’s beloved Ann. Where would he start? He knew nothing about her—not even a last name. The vague reference to Father deeming her unsuitable was no help. She could be a member of the impoverished gentry, with no dowry. Or an innkeeper’s daughter.
An hour later, Rowan met the family in their small parlor. The moment he caught sight of Miss Montgomery, Rowan checked his steps. A fresh loveliness about her called to him.
Mr. Williams’s previous warning rang loudly in his head.
Rowan took a seat on the opposite side of the room, where he’d have to turn his head to look at her. Moments later, a housekeeper old enough to have been alive during the Roman Empire toddled in to announce dinner.
Mr. Williams escorted his wife out of the room, followed by the Montgomery siblings, who flanked Rowan.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Miss Montgomery said. “Our cook was so excited to have a dinner guest that I think she prepared enough for twice as many people.”
Rowan glanced at the lovely girl. “I’ll do my best to eat enough to let her know her work is appreciated.”
“No doubt George will finish whatever you don’t.”
“Eat quickly,” George advised Rowan with a grin.
Outside, under a deepening blue sky, they dined at a table set up under a tent. Linens, china, and silver graced the table. The western horizon blazed with a setting sun, and the birds serenaded them as sweetly as any string quartet. Rowan sat at the vicar’s left, with the lovely Miss Montgomery on his other side. So as not to give his host reason to doubt his word, Rowan kept his focus on the menfolk and his food. Miss Montgomery’s calico kitten wandered about, sniffing at flowers and chasing bugs.
As if separated from them by a filmy curtain, Rowan observed the family conversing with familiarity and affection punctuated by laughter and good-natured ribbing. An ache opened up inside him.
He’d never known it until now, but he’d longed for this all his life. Even while visiting home during school holidays, he’d never enjoyed this comfortable warmth around a dinner table with his family. They’d been too busy wearing impeccable clothing and using impeccable manners.
Rowan glanced at the lovely Miss Montgomery. Well, he’d meant to glance, but he couldn’t look away. The curve of her cheek, the elegant tilt of her head, and each motion of her mouth captivated him.
She caught him looking at her. “Have you been to Brighton before, Mr. Law?”
“Only briefly. I should like to see more.”
“I believe an outing to the seashore is in order,” the vicar said.
George perked up. “Jolly good.”
The matron of the family clasped her hands together. “Shall we plan to go on the morrow?”
Four pairs of eyes focused on Rowan as if awaiting his agreement.
Rowan spread his hands. “As it happens, my social calendar is open tomorrow, and I cannot imagine a more pleasant diversion with a more charming group of people.”
“It’s settled.” Mr. Williams nodded.
Excited voices filled the air as each member of this makeshift family chimed in about things to do and places to see in a happy cacophony. How unlike all the various places he’d referred to as home, depending on which estate they were residing at the time. A sense of familiarity about this humble vicarage stole over him. A tight knot in his chest loosened—one he had never noticed before now. He took a deeper breath than he had in years.
As the light faded, the ancient housekeeper and a girl-of-all-work came out and lit the lamps. They returned moments later with a cake before quietly retreating.
Apparently, the vicar had few servants, but he and his family seemed to live simply without the army of staff that his father’s estates required.
“Oh, and we’ll have to take you by the prince’s Royal Pavilion,” Miss Montgomery said as she served a slice of cake to Rowan. “We aren’t allowed inside, of course, but we can peer at it through the fence. Perhaps we’ll catch a glimpse of the prince himself.”
“No, we won’t, silly,” her brother protested. “He never shows himself. They say he has underground tunnels from his house to a fenced-off area where he rides.” He directed his next words to Rowan. “He doesn’t want anyone to see him—probably because he’s so fat that he knows people will mock him.”
Before Rowan could reply, Miss Montgomery interjected. “Or he’s a private person. Can you imagine what it would be like to have everyone watching you and judging you?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Williams said. “We may not approve of his lavish and indolent lifestyle, but we must not judge him. Only God can see into a person’s heart.” He tapped the air with a finger to punctuate his point. Perhaps he was one of those vicars who pounded the pulpit during his sermons.
The vicar’s wife spoke up. “I think Prince George acts that way because he has a broken heart.”
They all turned to her.
The matron looked at each of them in turn. “Well, can you imagine what it must have been like to have his beloved wife torn from him, to have his marriage declared invalid, and then to be forced to marry another woman whom he obviously doesn’t love? He is probably trying to forget his sorrows with all the pleasures of the world, when really his heart cries out for true love.”
Mr. Williams picked up his wife’s hands and kissed the backs of them both. “You, my dear, are a romantic.”
She certainly was. Of course, the prince made no secret of keeping his former wife as a mistress, nor did he apologize for all of his other lovers, not to mention his exorbitant spending, but Rowan kept that to himself.
Mrs. Williams smiled. “Can you blame me for being a romantic?”
“Not at all, my dear.”
Though darkness enveloped the land outside the cheery rings of lamplight, the family made no move to leave.
“Aunt Missy,” Miss Montgomery said. “Do you think it would be appropriate to bring Mr. Law to the public ball?”
“Of course. No one would object to having another gentleman in attendance”—she looked at Rowan—“if you are in agreement?”
Wryly, he said, “Since I have no idea how lo
ng I will be here, I am afraid I cannot make any promises. However, I would be delighted to accompany your family anywhere you wish to take me while I’m here. Consider me at your disposal.”
“Let us hope you will spend at least a week in Brighton, then,” Mr. Williams said.
Miss Montgomery asked her uncle, “Might we pick up some more paints while we’re out tomorrow?”
Mr. Williams nodded. “Of course. Are you working on a new piece?”
Miss Montgomery’s expression lit up. “I already have it sketched. I need more blue paint, though, before I can paint it.”
“How many are you entering?” her brother asked.
“This will be my fourth,” the young lady said. “Surely one will take Mr. Corby’s notice.”
After attempting to piece together their conversation, Rowan asked, “Is there an art contest?”
Miss Montgomery’s eyes sparkled with an inner vivaciousness. “Mr. Corby is a master artist who lives here. He only accepts one student a year based on the entries in his contest next week.”
“Ah, yes—the art master you mentioned earlier,” Rowan said.
“I would love more than anything to study under him.” She clasped her hands together.
“I hope you’ll show me your art sometime.”
“Of course. You can tell me if you think any of them are good enough to enter.”
Was she teasing him or in earnest? Rowan held up his hands. “I do not consider myself an expert and would never presume to advise you.”
“Well, if my work is truly awful, then I wouldn’t wish to embarrass myself by entering it so you must tell me if you dislike it.”
Honestly, he said, “I cannot imagine you doing anything truly awful.”
“You should hear me sing.” A wry smile curved her delicious lips.
Rowan almost returned her smile, but his mirth slipped away. Surely he ought not be so jovial so soon after losing his brother. Or ever.
Isabella swung her hat by the ribbons and sang “English Country Garden” as she strolled along the garden path. Overhead, a pink sunrise faded to purple and then blue skies. Scampering along behind her, stopping to sniff a rock or chase a frog or butterfly, her kitten kept her company. When the calico trailed too far behind, Isabella called, “Come, Gypsy.”
A Week in Brighton Page 18