Pulling her hand through the crook of his arm, Henry gently urged her back to the shore. “Have you painted many portraits?”
Isabella glanced up at him. “Not lately. My sisters used to sit for me during the winter months before they got married, but I am more interested in painting landscapes and am starting to make a name for myself with them. Now I mostly paint oils from studies during the colder months, unless there are interesting views to be had from the windows.”
Henry looked thoughtful. “My cousin’s castle has some charming views of the snow-covered woods in winter, and my ancestral estate in Norfolk has very dramatic views of the sea at any time of the year.”
“Oh, is that where you live?” Isabella inquired.
Henry shrugged; he had no love for the gloomy medieval pile in Norfolk, but knew there were those who thought it romantic. “I grew up there, and have to visit three times a year to attend to my lands, but I live mostly in London and visit frequently at Avon, where my daughter lives with my grandmother and my cousin’s family.”
Isabella turned to have one last look at the angry waves. “Yesterday Lady Kistel mentioned an estate not far from here. Do you own that too?”
The rain had let up some, but the wind battered them fiercely.
“Yes. Charmely is rather lovely, with a bluebell wood and the cliffs on the far side, but I don’t spend much time there. It was my great-grandmother’s summer seat and has only enough farmable land to grow vegetables and grains for the estate’s use. The land above the cliffs is grazed by sheep, and they don’t take much managing.”
Isabella looked at him with surprise. “I didn’t realize you were so involved in the management of your land. Most landowners hire a man for that.”
Henry grinned down at her. “I inherited four crumbling estates, but I have managed to make all four of them profitable, two of them very profitable indeed. It turns out I’m a dab hand at figuring out what will grow where, and whether there is a market close enough to make it worth the while to grow it.”
Isabella smiled. This was one more thing to like about Sir Henry: he was not one of those self-important, self-indulgent fribbles who thought their estates ran themselves. “My father constantly struggles with the profitability of his crops despite our having the best soil you could possibly want, but perhaps he doesn’t consider the markets he delivers to.”
Henry thought Baron Chancellor’s estate to be somewhere in the Cotswolds. “Where exactly is your father’s estate? And how does he sell his crops?” He hoped he hadn’t offended her by assuming such knowledge from a gently bred female, but she answered without hesitation.
“I believe he sells his grains to an agent, and we only grow enough vegetables and fruit for our own consumption.” She wrinkled her brow in contemplation. “Perhaps that’s the problem: my father’s estate is just outside of Bilbury, close enough to Gloucester and Cheltenham to sell vegetables at market there, if we had any to sell.”
Considering Isabella’s obvious interest, Henry warmed to the subject. “Despite food shortages in some of our cities, growing grain is barely worth the trouble at present. I do better with the potatoes I grow in Lincolnshire on nothing but rocks than I did with the corn I grew in Berkshire before I built my glasshouses there.”
They were almost back at the Marine Parade now, and Isabella was starting to look forward to a hot cup of tea, but the mention of glasshouses stopped her in her tracks. “You have glasshouses? As in glasshouses, plural, more than one? Are they not horrendously expensive and difficult to maintain?”
Henry urged Isabella toward the hotel where Sally huddled under the awning. “Yes, well, the initial investment was quite considerable, but when I inherited the estate from my mother fourteen years ago it was barely profitable despite the rich soil. Luckily my mother also left me a small amount of money, and I decided to spend it on two glasshouses in an area clearly too wet to be used for growing grains. I spent a month building raised beds before the glasshouses were constructed on top of them and then went back to the Peninsula to fight Bonny. By my next visit home, my head gardener had grown a crop of strawberries in January and earned enough money with it to build the next two glasshouses. Now I have eighteen of them on four fields and can harvest berries, herbs, and green vegetables all year round. The estate is in the Thames valley near Reading and close enough to London to get my produce there fresh and sell it at a premium to people who can afford the luxury.”
Isabella was fascinated. “So it’s largely about knowing what the people you can reach are willing to pay for your produce and producing what they want.” She cocked her head in thought while Sally fell in step behind them. “It’s not unlike me painting watercolors because they are in fashion and letting the gallerist decide on the price since they know better what their clients are willing to pay. That painting you bought in Reading would’ve cost at least a third more in my Mayfair gallery.”
Henry laughed and gave her hand resting in the crook of his arm a little squeeze. “And so it should be. Those are the principles of supply and demand, and if people are fool enough to think they are getting a superior example of your work because they are purchasing it in a fancy London gallery, they deserve to pay more for it.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Isabella winked, and Henry’s whole body warmed in want of her despite the chilly weather. He tucked her closer so he could feel the swish of her skirts against his leg as they walked. Rather than protest, Isabella wound her arm tighter around his and smiled up at him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
UPON THEIR RETURN, HENRY STAYED ONLY LONG enough to fortify himself with a hot cup of tea, then escorted Lady Kistel back to their hotel. There, Henry changed into plainer garments and took himself on a visit to the widow Twill.
The rain had stopped, and the heavy cloud cover blanketing the South Downs was breaking up in places, letting the occasional ray of sunshine slip through. Mrs. Twill’s cottage, on a quiet lane in North Brighton, was set behind a low hedge with a white-painted wooden gate leading into a small garden, fragrant from the earlier rain. The whole picture was so wholesome, it should have been a million miles away from anything nefarious, and that very idea set Henry’s instincts ablaze and his teeth on edge.
Henry knocked on the door and was admitted by a pretty young maid in a starched white apron. She led him into a small but well-appointed parlor, where he was welcomed by a rotund matron in her sixties. She greeted him with a far-too-friendly smile and cunning in her eyes.
“A visitor, how perfectly marvelous!” Mrs. Twill stood and offered Henry her hand, the local brogue evident in her voice.
“Forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Twill. I’m Sir Henry March. I’ve come to inquire about your husband’s books.” Henry saw just the slightest hint of a widening of her eyes as he took her hand and bent over it. He wondered if she recognized his name and had been told to expect him. Looking around at the exceedingly tidy abode and spying the extensive and well-kept back garden, Henry also wondered how she afforded a maid and a gardener. The woman certainly did not seem the type to exert herself if she could help it. Surely her husband’s obscure little books didn’t provide an income large enough for the upkeep.
Mrs. Twill indicated for Henry to sit in an armchair directly opposite the sofa she occupied. “Of course you have, dear. Will you have some tea?”
“My thanks, Mrs. Twill, but don’t trouble yourself. I just came to ask a few questions.”
She simpered up at him. “Oh, it’s no trouble. I have so few visitors now, and it’s always so gratifying to talk about my dear Mr. Twill’s work.” She then leaned toward the open doorway and hollered, “Miny, bring us the tea tray.”
To Henry’s surprise, the girl hollered back, presumably from the kitchen, “Won’t be but a moment, Mrs. Twill.”
Henry’s twitching lips threatened to give away his amusement. The widow Twill may have had more than average funds for her station, but she clearly was not as genteel as she wished to appear.<
br />
“So which one of my late husband’s books have you read, Sir Henry?”
Convinced the widow had her own agenda, Henry decided to keep his inquiries about the abbey for later. Sometimes one gleaned more from the questions others asked than from the answers they were willing to give. “I found his book on the Steyne most informative and his volume on Warthon Castle charming. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the earl, but am almost tempted to call on him just to get a good look at his abode.”
Mrs. Twill heaved a rather affected sigh of regret. “The earl is sadly getting on in years and not as welcoming to visitors as he once was. But he still maintains the footpath to the abbey. Have you read my dear Mr. Twill’s book on that?”
And there it was: someone had surely told her he might come asking questions about the abbey. Henry wondered if Mrs. Twill could be induced to communicate with that someone. “Indeed I have. I suppose I wasn’t quite as interested because I had already seen the abbey. But it was fascinating to find out what a part it had played during the Reformation. As Gothic ruins go, it’s most impressive, but a little gloomy for my tastes.”
She watched him carefully as he talked, then relaxed back against the sofa. “Oh dear, yes, ever so gloomy. But the walk there is lovely, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely charming! In fact, if the weather is sunny tomorrow, I plan to take my painter friend there.”
Mrs. Twill was suddenly very interested again. “Oh really, will he be painting, do you think?”
Henry smiled at her eagerness. “Quite possibly. She seemed to think Gothic ruins would be just the thing for her gallery in Mayfair.”
Mrs. Twill’s eyes grew round. “Goodness gracious! A lady painter who sells her pictures in a gallery in Mayfair. Whatever next.”
Henry enjoyed the woman’s antics and felt only vaguely guilty for involving Isabella.
“She is very good. But of course she wouldn’t sell any paintings if people knew her to be a woman, so I rely on your discretion.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile, and she looked as if she wanted to pat his hand, but just then the maid entered with the tea tray and, thankfully, Mrs. Twill turned her attention to pouring tea instead.
Henry took a cup of tea and a biscuit from her. “How many books did your husband write? He seems to have done rather well with them.” He let his eyes sweep across her cozy parlor, and she preened with pride.
“He wrote seven of them in all, and he did do rather well with them. Two are still making money for me to this day.”
Henry feigned surprise. “Indeed? How could that be?”
She tittered. “Why, they are being reprinted every year, that’s how. The one about the abbey and the Smugglers Cove one. The one about the Smugglers Cove is my favorite; you should read it.” She got up and walked to a small ornate bookcase standing against the wall and pulled a little volume from it. “There we are, I knew I had an extra copy. Why don’t you take it.”
“That’s most kind of you, Mrs. Twill. I shall return it to you forthwith.” He stashed the book in his coat pocket and stood to take his leave.
This time Mrs. Twill did pat his hand. “No need, Sir Henry, no need.”
AS HENRY STEPPED INTO THE hallway, the maid appeared and walked him to the door. She curtsied very properly, but he could feel her eyes on him as he walked down the garden path and then turned left into the lane, as if to walk back to his hotel.
The moment he was certain he could no longer be seen from the cottage, Henry hopped over a low wall and doubled back, cutting through neighboring gardens, vaulting over fences, and pushing through hedges until he had a clear view of Mrs. Twill’s cottage and into her parlor.
The woman was writing a letter on a little desk by the window. She finished the missive and called out for the maid, but then added a postscript before she closed it up, addressed it, and handed it to the maid with a coin. The girl placed the letter in her apron pocket and seconds later emerged from the front of the house with a blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
Evidently she was headed to the posting inn on North Street, so Henry, rather than follow her, made his way through the neighboring garden to the lane running parallel to Church Street. He walked to North Street at a leisurely pace and, turning the corner into the busy thoroughfare, was just in time to see the girl enter the inn through the front door. Henry, meanwhile, walked into the stable yard, and from there to the back entrance. The yard entrance lay a half story higher than the street entrance. Henry cautiously made his way to the end of the corridor, where six steps set at a right angle to the hallway led down to the lower level. From here he overlooked the taproom to the left and the front entrance with the postmaster’s desk to the right.
Mrs. Twill’s maid stood at the desk, but the postmaster was nowhere to be seen. Just then a matron bustled from the kitchen into the taproom, her arm stacked full with steaming trenchers, and halted briefly when she saw the other woman by the desk.
“If you have the right change, love, you can just leave it, and Mr. Pratt will see to it in a bit.”
Henry stepped back into the shadows as the maid turned to smile at the proprietress. “I’ve got a halfpenny for a letter to London.”
“One sheet?”
“Yes.”
The landlady indicated the writing table with her head. “Then leave it right there.”
The maid placed the letter and money on the desktop. “Thanks ever so much.”
Pushing open the door to the street, the maid disappeared into the bustle outside while the matron continued on her way to the taproom.
Henry stepped out of the shadows, walked down the steps, and crossed the entrance hall. Since there was only one letter with a London address, he took a furtive look around, slipped it and the coin into his pocket, and left through the front door. He immediately crossed the street and stepped into the closest store with a display window so he could check the maid hadn’t seen him leave the inn. She was in the butcher’s shop next to the inn and deep in conversation with the man behind the counter.
“Good afternoon, may I help you, sir?” The female voice came from behind Henry.
HENRY LOOKED AROUND HIMSELF AND realized he had wandered into a modiste’s establishment. Making a show of inspecting fabrics and fashion plates, he tried to come up with a plausible reason for his presence, when he recollected Emily’s impending visit. He smiled happily at the modiste.
“My fifteen-year-old daughter is about to pay me a visit and will be in need of a few new gowns. Have you anything suitable for a very young miss?”
The modiste smiled politely and directed him toward a display by the second window on the other side of the door. “I have some lovely sprigged muslins for the mornings and outdoor activities, and some brushed cotton in case the young lady is allowed to attend small gatherings.”
Henry stepped closer and studied the fabrics, touching them, holding them up in the light. He finally picked out three bolts. “This white sprigged muslin will be lovely for a summery day dress, the rose pink for a gown she can wear for dinner, and the blue-gray cotton for a new riding habit. Will you put these aside for her, and I’ll bring her in to be measured? She grows rather rapidly at the moment—in all directions.” The last came out on a little exasperated sigh.
The modiste smiled at him warmly now, sympathizing with the plight of a father watching his daughter grow into a woman. “I would be happy to, and look forward to meeting your daughter.”
Henry smiled back and was about to leave when he caught sight of the most marvelous softly glowing straw-colored silk. It was exactly the shade to bring out Isabella’s coloring. But he couldn’t bring her here, and he couldn’t give her any presents other than flowers and sweets until she had accepted his suit, and even then, buying her fabric would be frowned upon. Still, it was just too perfect. Henry took down the bolt from where it stood on the shelf. “Can you sell me enough of this silk to make a ball gown with a short train?”
The modi
ste hesitated for a moment, probably gauging whether she could talk Henry into letting her make the gown, but ultimately decided to humor a new client. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s called Duchess Satin and comes straight from Paris.”
She took the bolt from Henry and unfurled the softly shimmering fabric onto her cutting table, where it rippled like ripe wheat in the wind. The modiste measured out ten yards, folded the precious silk, wrapped it in a square of linen, and tied it with a blue ribbon. Then she named a sum high enough to make a Bond Street modiste proud. Henry paid her, inclined his head in thanks, and departed the dressmaker’s shop contemplating how to convey his gift to Isabella without arousing her mama’s suspicion—or hopes, as it may be.
Flowers were not an option as a means to hide his offering; the precious satin would be too easily damaged by water. But a confectioner’s box had possibility, so he directed his steps down North Street toward the Royal Pavilion in search of a shop specializing in sweet treats. Finding such an establishment in one of the side streets, he asked the rosy-cheeked matron behind the counter whether she had a large box with her store’s name and address on it that he could buy from her. The woman looked at him with a degree of uncertainty, but then placed three differently sized wooden boxes on top of the glass display case holding an enormous selection of candied fruits and flowers.
Taking the large box off the counter, Henry opened it and placed his packet with the satin inside. It fit perfectly.
“Ah, sending your lady a secret token.”
His eyes snapped up, and he was confronted with the confectioner’s knowing little grin.
“You know, when she sees this box, she’ll be expecting sweets.” She gestured around the shop. “Better not disappoint her.”
Chuckling, he checked the small box would fit on top of the packet inside the bigger box, handed the container to the matron behind the counter, and winked. “I strive never to disappoint a lady, so you better fill this with your most exotic candied fruits.”
The Gentleman's Daughter Page 12