The kitten ignored her. Perhaps she needed time to adjust to the name Isabella was trying on her today. Or it wasn’t the right name.
As she rounded a bend in the garden near the willow, a figure lounging on her favorite wooden bench came into view. Mr. Law stared upward as if fascinated by the changing colors. His dark hair and black clothing stood out in sharp contrast against the pastel colors of the garden and sky.
She sauntered towards him. “Good morning. I don’t normally find others out so early.”
He stood and effected a half bow. “Good morning.”
Isabella bent her knees in a curtsy and continued toward him. “Do you always rise so early?”
“Not normally, but I find it difficult to sleep in an unfamiliar place.”
She took a seat on the bench so he would not, as a gentleman, feel he must stand. Patting the bench next to him in invitation, she studied him. All manners and grace, he sat next to her but lost the relaxed posture he’d had before her arrival. Nearby, Gypsy stalked a lizard.
“In all our excitement, we may have talked you into going on an outing you’d rather not attend,” she said.
“Not at all. I look forward to a diversion.” He trailed off as if he wanted to say more but changed his mind.
“Was there something else you’d like to do while you are here?”
He glanced at her as if to gauge her reaction. Oh dear. He wasn’t about to ask for something scandalous again, was he? She might have to turn him down this time with a right hook like her brother taught her.
His expression remained serious. “I’m hoping to find someone.”
She leaned forward. “Who?”
“A girl.”
She might have known. “I see.”
In halting tones, he explained, “Her name is Ann, and she lives here in Brighton—at least she did two years ago.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew something, then opened his hand. In his palm lay a curl of hair the deep, rich gold of old coins, and a miniature.
Isabella peered at the miniature. A tiny, delicately painted eye set in a narrow gold frame looked up at her. The golden-brown brow arched over a honey-brown eye rimmed with surprisingly thick eyelashes. She’d never seen a Lover’s Eye so beautifully painted.
She mused, “Brown eyes and blonde hair? An unusual combination.”
“It’s all I know of her. I must find her. She doesn’t know . . .” He paused and swallowed, then turned his head and coughed softly.
Barely above a whisper, Isabella asked gently, “What doesn’t she know?”
“What happened to my brother.”
His brother. That explained the mourning band and his sadness.
Very gently she asked, “What happened to him?”
He swallowed again. “Accident. Steeplechase.” A long pause. “Ten days ago.”
He must be positively grief-stricken. She wanted to hold him and offer solace.
In a soft voice, she prompted, “Ann was special to him?”
He nodded. “He told me once that she is the only girl he ever loved. But my parents wouldn’t sanction a union between them.”
“How tragic.”
He said nothing.
“Was she impoverished gentry? Working class?”
He exhaled. “I only know she was deemed unsuitable. She has probably not yet learned of his . . . death.” He stumbled a bit over the word.
“That is very thoughtful of you to tell her personally.” Perhaps she had misjudged him. Though obviously a charmer with enough town polish to impress even the fussiest grandes dames of society, here sat a grieving gentleman whose top priority was not finding a way back to his mansion but finding a stranger to inform her of his brother’s fate, despite her obviously inferior social standing.
He’d lost a brother. So had she. This common loss opened up a new connection for the gentleman.
She picked up the Lover’s Eye and studied it. “I cannot recall seeing eyes like this, but it is difficult to say without the whole face. I’m not certain I’d recognize my own brother if I only had a painting of an eye to identify him.”
Perhaps she was foolish to want to help Mr. Law. But help him she would, if possible.
Of course, that meant she would have less time to devote to her paintings, and she had at least one more to finish before the art show. Surely Mr. Corby would see her talent and accept her as a student this year.
“I’d be happy to help you search for this blonde, brown-eyed girl named Ann,” she promised.
He tucked away the lock of hair and jewelry. “Thank you.”
She stood. “I do believe I’m in need of breakfast. Have you already eaten this morn?”
He rose to his feet in a fluid motion. “Not yet.”
As they ate, Isabella questioned Mr. Law on anything else he could remember about the girl he sought, but he knew nothing more. Sipping her tea, she turned over in her mind every blonde who might be the right age to have caught the eye of a wealthy young gentleman but not high enough in status to be deemed eligible. There weren’t that many blondes in the area. Surely finding Ann would not be so difficult.
An idea came to Isabella. “There’s a wealthy merchant with a blonde daughter about my age. I cannot recall if she has brown eyes or not, nor do I recall her name. I will ask Aunt Missy if she remembers.”
He nodded. “A chit would certainly not please my parents.”
“Do you mind if we enlist Aunt Missy’s help—or Uncle Joseph’s?”
“As I don’t know how much time I have here, including your family would be wise.”
Aunt Missy arrived in the breakfast room. “Good morning, my dears. Are we ready for an outing?” She picked up a plate and began serving herself from the buffet.
“Yes, indeed,” Isabella said. “Aunt, can you think of any girl—of any class—here in Brighton who is blonde, has brown eyes, and is named Ann?”
Aunt paused and lifted her brows questioningly, then furrowed them in thought. “Ann, with blonde hair . . . hmmm. The Joneses have a pretty blond girl. I cannot recall her name . . .”
Isabella tapped her chin. “I believe you are right.”
“It’s been some time since I last looked in on them, and I heard Mrs. Jones has been poorly. I shall prepare a basket and take it to them.”
“Might you go before we leave for our visit to the seashore? It’s important.”
Aunt Missy paused, then shrugged. “As you wish.”
In the kitchen, Isabella helped Aunt Missy prepare the basket with bread, cheese, apples, a jar of soup, and a small tin of tea. “Aunt, when you are there, please take notice if their daughter has brown eyes as well.” She quickly explained Mr. Law’s goal to find his brother’s forbidden love.
“I’m always happy to help.”
After Aunt Missy left with basket in hand, Isabella helped the cook assemble the baskets for their picnic at the seashore and store them in the buttery to keep them cold. Then she gathered up her sketch pad, pencil, and other art supplies she’d need if a view at the shore inspired her.
When Aunt Missy returned, Isabella pounced on her. “Well? What is their daughter’s name?”
“Her name is Margaret. And her hair is more red than blonde.”
“Oh.” Isabella drew a breath. “Very well. Now we have one less place to look.”
Aunt Missy patted her arm. “We’ll do all we can to help him, but it may not be possible to find her.”
Isabella ensured her kitten—Gypsy, today—had enough food and water and remained indoors where she wouldn’t wander off again and need another rescue. The kitten still failed to pay any attention to her name. Yet Gypsy was such a perfect name—she did like to roam.
When the family gathered in the parlor, Mr. Law appeared still wearing all black and with a tragic air surrounding him. Perhaps a day at the seaside would do him good, although experience had taught Isabella that little helped so soon after a loss like one he’d suffered.
Mr. Law addres
sed Aunt Missy. “Any luck?”
She shook her head. “Wrong name and wrong hair color.”
He nodded soberly. “I didn’t think it would be that easy.”
“We’ll keep trying,” Isabella promised.
His eyes softened when they focused on her, and the first hint of a real smile touched his mouth. “I’m very grateful to you.”
They all bundled into the carriage. Uncle Joseph drove them through town, taking them down the street where the prince’s mistress, Mrs. Fitzherbert, resided.
Further down the road, they stopped in front of the prince’s seaside retreat, known as the Royal Pavilion. Though the latest construction in this new phase of remodeling had not yet been completed, it reigned like a palace with Indian-inspired domes and towers spread out on each side in jaw-dropping splendor.
“Astounding,” Mr. Law said.
Isabella sighed. “If only I could get a look at all the artwork inside. It must be wondrous.”
“I’m sure it is,” Mr. Law said. “Perhaps you will go inside someday.”
She laughed. “I haven’t the connections to gain entrance inside a royal residence.”
After gawking at the opulence, they moved on. In a shop, Isabella purchased her paints and more paper. Mr. Law roamed the store in idle curiosity while Aunt Missy bought more tatting supplies.
As they paid for their purchases, two women entered. One, clearly older, strode to the display of yarn. The other, a woman of approximately thirty wearing a pelisse that was in fashion at least five years ago, admired a box of shoe-flowers with the kind of expression of someone long denied. Golden-blonde curls peeped out from around her bonnet. She removed her gloves to touch the shoe-flowers. No ring adorned her finger. Could this be Mr. Law’s mysterious Ann? Isabella had pictured someone younger, but Mr. Law’s elder brother might have loved someone near his age. Isabella moved toward the woman, pretending to admire boxes of goods as she moved. As she neared, the woman glanced up at her with gray eyes.
Not her, then. Isabella smiled at her in greeting, despite her disappointment. She might be overly optimistic to think they would find Ann so easily, but anything could happen.
Isabella returned to Mr. Law. “We have what we need. Do you require anything?”
He shook his head, probably reluctant to ask them to buy anything for him. It must be humbling for such a fine gentleman to find himself without funds.
Back outside, they headed toward the carriage. George and Uncle Joseph stood chatting with three ladies. As the elder lady turned her head, her face came into view. Isabella recognized Mrs. Stockton, a mother of three daughters, two of whom were out. George seemed to be in a particularly animated conversation with the elder daughter. Her laugh trilled, and she briefly touched his arm in a flirtatious gesture. After they parted, George, still smiling, and Uncle Joseph returned to the carriage.
Isabella smiled at George. “Did you have a nice conversation with Miss Stockton?”
He grinned. “I did. Funny that I never noticed how pretty she is.”
Isabella put a hand over her heart. “Another young lady to succumb to the charm of George Montgomery.”
He puffed out his chest. “I am rather charming, aren’t I?” He grinned. “I asked Miss Stockton if I might call upon them on the morrow. She agreed—so did her mother.”
Mr. Law clapped George on the shoulder in a congratulatory gesture. “Another ‘port’ with a girl?”
“Perhaps.” His confident grin suggested a happy anticipation.
One day he’d find the right girl and give her all the love in his romantic heart. Did such a love await Isabella? She stared ahead, seeking the seascape, but her vision landed on Mr. Law. She would do well to help him and send him on his way; if her intuition was correct, he belonged to a higher class than the orphaned daughter of a ship’s captain. Besides, she knew nothing about Mr. Law except that he was well-spoken and occasionally spouted flattery.
No, that wasn’t fair. She also knew he’d had a falling-out of sorts with his father and he mourned his brother. Not to mention, he sought the girl his brother had loved so he might give her the news of his death. That suggested a noble heart. Besides, he’d rescued her kitten.
Still, she was not yet nineteen. Life had not entirely passed her by. She probably hadn’t met her match yet. In the meantime, she had a puzzle to solve with Mr. Law and an art contest to win.
As Uncle Joseph took them through Brighton, pointing out sights of interest, Mr. Law made appropriate comments of appreciation.
After completing their tour of the area, Uncle Joseph turned their carriage toward the seashore. The seaside welcomed them with a uniquely fresh, salty tang of the ocean and warm sand. Others who came to enjoy the shore sat under parasols or portable tents reading or watching passersby or seafaring vessels sailing past. Bathing machines stretched out into the waves to dip ladies in the invigorating seawater. Boys and men cavorted in the surf. Children and ladies with their skirts tucked up waded in the waves after looking for shells or chasing seabirds. Those looking for a feast combed the sand for clams and crabs.
Isabella loved the seashore! Could it inspire her today to paint a piece that would gain the notice of the art master?
While George and Uncle Joseph set up the tent, Mr. Law helped them bring baskets, blankets, and folding chairs. Aunt Missy set out the food. After luncheon, Isabella took up her sketchbook and captured everything that caught her interest.
A familiar figure sauntered along the shore with an easel, canvas, and a box of paints. Smiling, Isabella waved. The figure changed directions and approached her. Old Pete’s nearly toothless smile set in a weathered face greeted her.
He touched his cap. “Miss Isabella.”
“Are you finding inspiration today?” She gestured to his painting supplies he carried.
“Not yet. Just got here. You?”
“I did, too. I’m looking for something really remarkable—something that will impress Mr. Corby.”
“You don’t need to impress him,” Pete said. “You only need to impress your muse. Once you’ve done that, you’ll never run out of art.”
“But he could teach me so much.”
Old Pete held up a hand. “Probably so, but I daresay not much more than you need to keep your heart happy. Good day to you.” He touched his cap to Aunt Missy. “Ma’am.” Still carrying his paint supplies, he moved off down the shoreline to find a spot to paint.
She envied his simple pleasure and confidence of his place in the world.
Mr. Law sidled up to her. “An old friend of yours?”
“He’s a gifted artist. Not classically trained, but one of the most naturally talented artists I’ve ever met.”
Miss Potter caught her vision. Isabella wandered over to where Miss Potter sat behind her easel, facing the town rather than the sea. Her masterful strokes captured the scene yet gave it a somber, tragic, dramatic slant as it revealed the paradox that was Brighton: the bright and the dark, the affluent and the impoverished, the elegance and the squalor in a shocking combination of colors and textures. Though the subject repelled Isabella, it captured an impressive depth of emotion.
She could surely never create such a piece of art. Did that mean she wasn’t good enough to study with the art master? Was her work too ordinary and tame to be called true art?
Troubled, Isabella returned to her family’s tent. Mr. Law stared out over the water. Closing his eyes, he drew a deep breath. As he exhaled, his shoulders lowered as if tension left him.
“I feel as if I have come to a haven of sorts,” he said softly.
She nodded. “Many people feel restored after only a few minutes here.”
“I wish I never had to leave.”
She closed her mouth before she said the words I wish you didn’t have to leave, too. Yes, he was handsome and in need of both cheering and completing his quest, but that did not mean she should form any sort of attachment to him.
Was she too tame and ordi
nary to attract a gentleman such as Rowan Law?
After one of the most truly relaxing days of his life, Rowan lounged in the family parlor. Mr. Williams and George sat at a chessboard, Mrs. Williams took up her sewing, and Miss Isabella Montgomery worked on her newest painting.
After getting permission to mail a letter, Rowan scribbled his request and set it out to be posted. With that task complete, he wandered about the room and ended up in front of an ancient pianoforte.
He gestured to the instrument. “May I?”
Mrs. Williams glanced at him over her sewing. “Of course. Forgive us, Mr. Law. We are unaccustomed to company. Perhaps we ought to play a game?”
“Not necessary. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your normal lives. I can amuse myself nicely here.” He sat at the piano and began a sonata. A few of the keys played out of tune, but he immersed himself in the melody.
“I have it,” Miss Montgomery announced.
Rowan stilled his fingers, his attention focused on the girl. She stood, holding a paintbrush in one hand, and made a gesture. Rowan pressed his lips together to avoid smiling at the blue smudge of paint on her cheekbone.
With her eye alight and her voice bubbling with excitement, Miss Montgomery said, “The Fosters have a blonde daughter a bit younger than I am. Her name is Anna. They are respectable, but she has no dowry—only her pretty face to attract a husband.”
Hope lit inside Rowan. “She might be the one.”
Miss Montgomery nodded. “I shall pay a call upon them on the morrow.”
George Montgomery sighed dramatically. “And I shall pay a call upon the delectable Miss Stockton on the morrow.”
“I just took your bishop, lover boy.” Mr. Williams chuckled as he moved chess pieces on the board.
“Oh, no!” Mr. Montgomery said, throwing a hand over his heart. “How shall we marry without a bishop?” He grinned as if he were the most entertaining person in the room and moved a rook.
“Might I suggest a humble vicar?” Mr. Williams quipped.
A Week in Brighton Page 19