Isabella liked her hair the way it was; besides, the wind on the cliffs would pull it apart anyhow. But if letting her mother stick pins in her scalp got her a few hours of freedom, she would gladly endure it. “Certainly, Mama, if you think it necessary. I had planned on wearing my wide-brimmed hat and securing it with a scarf since it is rather sunny today.”
The baroness assessed her with sharp eyes. “The hat certainly is a necessity; we really can’t let you get any darker. But you are a baron’s daughter, not some barefooted heathen. Your hair most decidedly needs to be pinned up if you show yourself in public.”
Isabella colored a little at the recollection Sir Henry had actually seen her bare feet. But he had liked her that way, which made her like him. She covered her blush by bending over her eggs and applying herself to her meal.
As soon as they had finished breakfast, her mother dragged her upstairs to dress her hair. Half an hour later Isabella and her maid were on their way to the Hove side of town, but long before they reached the cliffs, Isabella handed her maid her purse and sent her shopping for ribbons. She would devise a way to weave said ribbons through her hair to hold it up, rather than letting her mother pull and poke at it until it was ripped out by the roots.
HALFWAY UP THE FIRST INCLINE to the bluffs, Isabella heard footsteps moving closer behind her, and just as she turned to see who might be in such a hurry, Sir Henry took her painting board out of her hand. “Good morning, Miss Chancellor. I spied you from the salon window. Will you let me tag along for the morning if I offer my services as a mule?”
Genuinely pleased to see him, Isabella smiled and surrendered her burdens with a curtsy. “And a good morning to you! Does that offer include a ride on your shoulders?”
Henry laughed and bowed lightly. “Absolutely, my lady. Would you like to mount now or later? I promise a smooth ride.” His voice dropped on the last sentence, and there was a gleam in his eyes hinting at something more than what was said.
Isabella blushed and all of a sudden didn’t know what to do with her hands. He’d flirted with her the night before, but his last comment left her with the knowledge he was referring to something that eluded her, and it made her wary.
On seeing her discomfort, Henry clamped the drawing board under his arm to free one of his hands and offered it to help her up the slope. “Don’t mind me, I’m an ass.”
And just like that, all the tension and embarrassment evaporated. It was as if he were asking to withdraw whatever he had alluded to, and she was more than happy to oblige.
Chuckling her relief, Isabella put her hand in his. “Let’s go, then, long-ears!”
Henry hated that he had made Isabella uncomfortable. He had assumed her to be too innocent to pick up on his innuendo. However, she was only too innocent to know what it meant precisely, but not innocent enough to dismiss it as banter. Something had happened to her to put her on high alert the moment a sexual note was introduced; he would have to bear that in mind.
They achieved the height of the bluffs and followed the footpath along the edge between the summer meadows and the short grass closer to the water. Eager to regain their conversational ease, Henry asked, “Are you planning to paint the same scene you struggled with yesterday?”
She turned to him, one hand on the crown of her wide-brimmed hat to stop the wind from blowing it away. “I am. Mrs. Curtis’s housekeeper says that juniper is the only shade tree close to the ocean for miles, so I might as well make use of it.”
Letting her step ahead of him as the path narrowed, Henry admired the graceful line her body made with her arm raised to hold her hat in place, her scarf endlessly concealing and revealing her neck. “Indeed! The day promises to be rather warm, so shade will be welcome.”
Isabella sighed, lifting and then dropping her bronzed shoulders. “Yes, I better not get any darker or my mother will insist I stay out of the sun altogether. How am I to master the painting of waves then?”
“You could always come and paint from the front parlor at my hotel, or you could rent one of the bathing machines,” Henry offered.
She half turned back to him so he could hear her better over the waves and the wind. “Oh, that’s right, you said you stay at this particular hotel for the view of the ocean.” She lowered her fatigued arm, but had to rescue her hat with the other a moment later, shooting the thing an exasperated look. “I thought of finding a spot under the new pier and making a few studies of the waves from there, but I like the idea of sitting in one of the bathing machines, sheltered from the wind as well as the sun.”
Henry bowed slightly. “Always glad to be of service.” She acknowledged him with a small grin and then turned forward, her attention on the path again. He followed a few steps behind and imagined taking off her hat in the relative privacy of a bathing machine, removing the restricting pins from her hair, and kissing the gentle curve where her shoulder met her neck. He wondered what she smelled like without the heavy perfume she had worn the night before and imagined her melting into his arms. But then he remembered her earlier reaction, and that cooled his ardor faster than a hailstorm.
Isabella, completely unaware of the struggle within her companion, strode out toward her destination, absorbed in assessing the light over the water. Yesterday she had started with the sandy cliff, the rocks below, and the curve of the beach, then had gotten completely lost trying to fit the ever-moving sea into her painting. The waves had arrived on shore, crashing over the rocks, throwing themselves against the cliff, obscuring her reference points, and frustrating her to no end.
Today she would start with the water, get the movement right, and work on the color, and if the cliff never made it into the finished piece, so be it. Mr. Turner had exhibited several canvases capturing the essence of the ocean entirely with light and color, so maybe she should try the same. It was exhilarating to be so challenged by her work.
They had gained the highest part of the bluffs now, and before long, arrived at the juniper tree. Henry took off his coat and hat and settled in the shade, resting his back against the tree trunk, while Isabella dampened the stretched paper on her board with sweeping brushstrokes and then prepared her little cakes of color by wetting them down too.
He watched her intently as he pulled a slim volume from his coat pocket, then rolled the garment into a tight log and wedged it behind his head. “Why do you wet the paper first? Doesn’t that make the colors run?”
Isabella unwound the scarf from her neck and took her hat off, her eyes still studying the waves below. “I usually sketch out my paintings before I go in with color, in a style similar to Thomas Girtin, but that approach didn’t work for me yesterday because the water is so very dynamic. Mr. Turner is developing a technique of blocking out colors on wet paper and then going over it again and again with layers of color until the form of things reemerges. I quite often use this technique for my skies, but today I want to see if it improves my rendering of the waves.”
Henry was familiar with both Mr. Girtin’s and Mr. Turner’s work. Their paintings were widely exhibited in London, and Henry had long admired the luminosity of a Turner sky, so much so that he had purchased two of his paintings. One, a view of the Thames at night, currently shared wall space with Isabella’s watercolor in his grandmother’s sitting room. The other was a landscape shrouded in morning mist and held pride of place in his bedroom in London. But he had never thought about what technique the artist might employ to achieve a certain effect, and marveled at Isabella’s knowledge of her craft. She had studied her medium and honed her skill, and was not afraid to try something different to solve a problem. She truly was an artist and not just one of society’s more accomplished young women.
Henry followed her gaze to the seascape below. “Do you mind if I sit here whilst you work? I brought some reading and I have some thinking to do. I’d rather not leave you alone up here.”
Isabella shrugged with an apologetic half smile. “I’m generally not keen on having an audience, but as l
ong as you don’t huff in impatience, I suppose I can bear with your presence.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, but bent to pick up her palette and started to mix her first color.
Henry grinned at her bluntness. In his opinion, too many women of his class buried their resentment in polite attentiveness. Isabella clearly wasn’t one of them. “I shall keep the huffing to a minimum, my dear.” He watched the one corner of her lips he could still see quirk up in a little smile.
Arranging himself more comfortably against the tree trunk, Henry finally immersed himself in the history of the abandoned abbey. He had found the slim volume on the bookshelf in the hotel’s drawing room and had slipped it into his pocket when he saw Isabella pass on the promenade earlier.
The book contained a rather pompous yet vague recounting of the abbey’s history. The writer, Edmond Twill, asserted the entirety of the Hove Parrish had once belonged to the convent of which the abbey had been a part. According to Mr. Twill, the abbey had been built in the fourteenth century and constructed out of a mixture of local sandstone and granite. Three architects were credited with various parts of the structure, but Henry, not being particularly interested in Gothic architecture, had never heard of any of them. The writer further related the convent had built its wealth through wool, but given the area was still a smugglers’ haven, he speculated the monks may have paid for the abbey with French spirits.
Smuggling accusations led to the monastery’s dissolution during the Reformation. Mr. Twill reported in some detail how the land, and the abbey on it, had been gifted to the second Earl of Warthon by Henry VIII. The earl had promptly attacked the convent, chased off the inhabitants, and ransacked their dwellings. He removed anything of value from the abbey and let it fall into ruin to assert his authority in the area. The ghosts haunting the place were said to be the monks who had died defending the abbey and its sanctuary against the earl’s men.
It took Henry less than two hours to read through the volume, and even less time to realize it served only two purposes: to advertise the abbey as a hiking destination for those seeking a thrill during daylight hours, and to keep everyone away from the place at night. A wailing lady in white may have attracted some adventurous souls, but slaughtered monks were singularly unappealing, even as ghosts.
The edition Henry held in his hand was printed in 1803 and included three rather lovely illustrations. One was a woodcut of the convent as it had been in its heyday, while the other two were pen-andink drawings of the ruins. It occurred to Henry the Earl of Warthon could have commissioned this volume to create a cover for his meetings, and he resolved to seek out Mr. Twill, if indeed he was still alive.
HENRY WAS JUST ABOUT TO put down the book when Isabella set down her palette, stretched her arms overhead as she stood, and stepped back to look at her work. Several escaped ringlets danced around her ears and neck. Henry liked the way they softened her countenance, and wished he had the right to step behind her to rub her shoulders. And then she took one more step to the left, positioning herself directly between him and the sun-bright ocean. His breath caught at the sight of the light shining through her skirts and silhouetting her slender, slightly spread legs. She had dispensed with petticoats on such a warm day, and Henry could do nothing but admire her perfect shape.
When he remembered himself, he hastily grabbed his rolled-up coat and draped it across his lap to spare her innocent eyes the sight of his growing erection.
No sooner had he taken that precaution than Isabella looked over her shoulder and inquired, “What are you reading?”
Collecting himself sufficiently, he answered, “It’s just a little volume about the abandoned abbey on the Earl of Warthon’s estate.”
Stepping closer, Isabella warmed to the subject. “Oh yes, I heard about it from the housekeeper. It’s not too far from here, I believe. Maybe I’ll walk out there one of these mornings; it might make a good subject for a painting. ”
Henry didn’t like the idea of her going to the abbey alone, but if he accompanied her, he could use the opportunity to have another look around. “I went there yesterday before I met you. The abbey itself is rather gloomy, but the walk there and back is beautiful indeed. With the meadows in bloom and the path winding up into the Downs some ways, it makes for some delightful vistas. I’d be more than happy to venture there again if you want the company. We could take a picnic.”
Isabella knelt in the short grass beside his outstretched legs and took the book out of his hands. “I’d like that. Does this have any illustrations?”
Henry turned the pages to the pen-and-ink drawings of the ruins. “At the beginning of the book there is a picture of the whole convent before it fell to ruin, but this is more or less how it looks now.”
Isabella studied the drawings. “These are rather nice. Hm, overgrown Gothic arches; it might be just the thing for the gallery in London.”
Henry raised one brow. “You have a gallery in London too?”
Isabella’s attention was still on the drawings. “I have two. One in Mayfair, just off Regent Street, and one down by the Strand, not far from the Royal Academy at Somerset House. The one in Reading you know about. I also have one in Bath, and if Freddy comes down whilst we’re here, he’ll help me get a watercolor or two into the little place on the Steyne where the king is said to have bought a few paintings.”
Henry took a good look at the watercolor on the easel in front of him. It clearly showed Isabella had worked out, and truly understood, the dynamics of the waves. She had also achieved a luminosity of color and a lightness of touch that attested to her talent. If she had been a man, Henry would have expected her to exhibit at the Royal Academy within the decade. It was a crying shame that door was closed to her. “You did get the water right today. It’s really very good.”
“It’s just a study, and the water is much calmer than it was yesterday, but I’m rather pleased with today’s effort. If the weather holds, I’ll try it from the beach tomorrow and then work on a simple composition.”
Just then the light dimmed around them and Isabella looked up at the sky. “Talking of the weather holding, I do believe we’re in for rain before long.” She gracefully rose to her feet and busied herself with packing up her brushes and paints.
Scrambling to his feet somewhat less elegantly, Henry shrugged back into his coat, stashed the book in his pocket, and set about dismantling Isabella’s easel. A quick look at the sky toward Brighton confirmed rain clouds were moving in. “We better hurry or we’ll take a soaking before we can get off these bluffs.”
Working quickly, Isabella seemed unconcerned. “Not to worry, it’s just a little rain, and I’m not made of sugar.”
Henry was all too aware she wasn’t made of sugar. Neither was he made of stone, and the mere thought of Isabella rain-drenched in her summer gown had him buttoning his jacket before he turned his body toward her again. And it wasn’t just physical; he hadn’t been this affected by a woman in a long time.
CHAPTER NINE
ISABELLA DIDN’T BOTHER WITH HER HAT, KNOW-ing it would only hinder her progress, and they all but sprinted back toward town. Even so, big fat raindrops began pelting them by the time they reached the last steep grade leading back down to the beach.
Henry had Isabella’s painting bag slung over his shoulder and carried the board with the finished but still damp painting. As soon as the rain started, he clamped it under his arm and held it out a ways on the bottom to protect it from the rain. The other hand he offered Isabella. The wind was now blowing rather fiercely, pulling at them both and whipping her skirts around her legs. They slipped and slid down the rain-slick slope to the sand.
Isabella greatly valued Henry’s steadying hand. Glad he had followed her earlier and stayed with her, she enjoyed his company, his intelligence, his charm, his wit. Sir Henry was undoubtedly a good man to have around in a situation such as this, but he was still a man and therefore had to be viewed with caution. However, once the rain came down thick and fast i
n enormous drops, drenching them to their underthings, Isabella threw caution to the wind. She let him drape his arm over her shoulders, and stepped into the shelter of his body.
And it was a revelation. In seven long years Isabella had not allowed more than a half-hearted brotherly squeeze or a paternal pat on the shoulder. Not even her male cousins or her brothers-in-law had gotten closer to her person than a handshake, but the storm literally drove her under Sir Henry’s arm, and his arm was everything she had once dreamed a man’s arms would be: warm, strong, comforting, and safe. His masculine chest also stirred an unfamiliar feeling of want in her, a desire to be close to him.
Isabella startled at the thought of safety in Henry’s arms. Did she not know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, a man’s arms could never be safe due to man’s very nature? But Henry’s arm around her shoulder did make her feel safe, and just for this moment she wanted it to be true.
Henry felt Isabella stiffen a moment after she had leaned into his side, and thought to reassure her. “Don’t worry, my dear, there’s no one about to see us.”
He looked ahead through the rain at the empty beach. The best course of action was, no doubt, to take her to the Waterfront, get her warm and dry, wait out the storm, then take her home in his carriage. But when he looked down at Isabella, he was confronted with an entirely different problem. She was now soaked through, and the thin cotton of her dress clung to every one of her curves, molding to her body perfectly. She wore jumps underneath, but Henry could still see her peaked nipples clearly, could even guess at their color.
Prying his eyes away from the beautiful sight, Henry directed his gaze toward their destination once again. “Isabella, you best hold that hat in front of yourself. I can see entirely too much of your lovely form.”
The Gentleman's Daughter Page 9