The Gentleman's Daughter

by Bianca M. Schwarz

  Just then the dowager entered the room, prompting Lady Chancellor to stop pacing and turn to her, “Oh, Your Grace, I am desolate to have to spoil your plans for the weekend, but Mr. Curtis died suddenly. I have to escort my friend Mrs. Curtis home and help her with the funeral arrangements.”

  The dowager’s sharp eyes surveyed the scene in front of her and found those of her grandson. She had no trouble seeing the silent plea in them. Henry had fallen in love with the delightful young artist, and Grossmama was all for the union. The solution to this particular problem seemed obvious.

  “My dear Lady Chancellor, of course you do.” Grossmama led the baroness to a sofa to calm her. “Do you need your daughter’s assistance during the journey? Or would it be helpful if she stayed with us on Henry’s estate, under my chaperonage of course, until you return from your mission of mercy?”

  Lady Chancellor squeezed the dowager’s hands with a warmth she normally reserved for her titled married daughters. “Oh, Your Grace, that is a wonderful suggestion.” She lowered her voice in a rare moment of discretion. “I would hate to break up the young people at such a delicate state in their acquaintance.”

  Grossmama whispered conspiratorially, “I do believe we want the same thing here. You may leave your daughter in my care, and we will expect your return within a fortnight. Will that give you enough time, do you think?”

  The baroness nodded. “Ample, I should imagine.”

  With her daughter’s chances with Sir Henry restored, perhaps even improved, the baroness stood to address Isabella. “Daughter, Her Grace has graciously invited you to stay with her and Sir Henry at his estate until I return from taking Mrs. Curtis to her family. Please remember to make yourself agreeable.” Believing the subject closed, she marched into the foyer and hollered for Isabella’s maid. “Sally, you are going to Sir Henry’s estate after all, but for a fortnight, so repack your mistress’s trunk accordingly.”

  Isabella, embarrassed by her mother’s high-handedness, took Mrs. Curtis’s hand. “I hate to leave you like this, Mrs. Curtis.”

  Mrs. Curtis was a good-natured woman and, despite her obvious grief, would have none of it. “Oh, no, no, don’t mind me.” She waved a weak hand, then rallied a little. “You know, my Timothy used to say ‘Life is for the living.’ Do go and live, dear.”

  Isabella embraced the dear lady and then allowed her mother to hustle her out to the foyer, while Henry expressed his gratitude and said his goodbyes.

  OUT BY THE STAIRCASE, EMILY heard the baroness’s commands. Having never met the deceased and therefore untroubled by his demise, she whipped up and down on the balls of her feet with excitement. “I think this means we are staying out at Charmely until your mama returns,” she told Isabella. “We can ride every day, Grossmama can give you piano lessons, and you can teach me how to paint with oils.”

  Seeing Isabella wrinkle her nose at the thought of piano lessons, Henry intervened. “Isabella prefers to sing. And I don’t mind accompanying her, so we might have a concert one of these evenings.”

  Isabella’s thoughts were still with Mrs. Curtis, her smile not quite reaching her eyes yet. “That would be fun. And I’ll be happy to teach you a few things about oils. That reminds me, I need to make sure Sally packs all my painting supplies.”

  Isabella perked up considerably at the prospect of unlimited painting time. Glad to see the sadness lift, Henry watched her hips sway as she ran up the stairs with more energy than decorum, and pondered which of the lesser salons at his house had the best light so it could be turned into a studio.

  Half an hour later, William handed Sally into the coach holding all their luggage while Isabella’s trunk was secured to the top. Lady Kistel and the dowager had made good use of their time while waiting for Sally to pack. Notes had been sent to hostesses regarding previously accepted invitations. They cancelled everything except for a luncheon at the Royal Pavilion on Tuesday next. One simply did not cancel on the king.

  THEIR PARTY RODE OUT OF town in rallying spirits. Isabella’s heart broke for Mrs. Curtis, but she couldn’t deny her relief at not having to escort the lady home. The road climbed up into the Downs, and at the first fork in the road, the little procession of two open vehicles and the coach veered east onto a quiet country lane. Once they had reached the height of the plateau, they doubled back toward the sea again. As the crow flew, Henry’s estate was a mere seven miles from Brighton, but the journey took them the better part of two hours. They passed through a couple of hamlets and finally came to a turnoff on the right. It led them through tall, lion-topped sandstone pillars supporting a wide-open wrought iron gate. The gate, with the oak-tree-flanked lane beyond, already beckoned Isabella to paint.

  As they drove up the gentle incline, the sea came into view, stretching endlessly to the horizon. From the lookout on top of the rise, the drive curved to the left and down to Henry’s two-story house. It wasn’t a castle or even a mansion, but a generously proportioned country home, built out of a light-colored sandstone, like the gate. It was surrounded by flower-strewn summer meadows and grand old trees. Behind the house, protected from the sea winds, was a garden, but from the front of the house the focal point was the ocean beyond the enormous white cliffs. About a third of the way to those cliffs, a low wall hemmed in the wild meadow, and beyond that wall, the hills were dotted with sheep. Out there, the grass was the dense, short kind generally found on the Downs.

  Isabella turned to Henry. “I love the wild meadows around the house. It is, however, an unusual choice for landscaping.”

  Henry grinned. “You want to know why I let the front lawn grow wild?” He paused for dramatic effect and when he saw the spark of amusement in her eyes, he continued. “As it turns out, they built the house right onto the best, most fertile land I have here. The field by the gate we use for corn, oats, and barley in rotation, and the walled gardens behind the house are full of fruit trees and vegetable patches. Out here we harvest some of the best hay in the county. All those flowers you see are herbs that are particularly nutritious for our cows, and the milk and cheese are tasty because of it. The cheese fetches a pretty penny down in Brighton and is prized by my cook in London.”

  Isabella’s grin matched Henry’s. “Is this another lesson in how to turn a profit with agriculture? I would’ve thought your cash crop here to be wool.”

  “Oh, it is, but it never hurts to be self-sufficient. With the grains, the vegetables, the fruit, and the milk products, the people on my land eat well, and because I let them keep half the profit from the dairy, it has become a very successful sideline.”

  Isabella was genuinely surprised. “You let them keep half the profit? That truly is unusual.”

  “Well, it makes sense to me. I pay them to plow the fields, tend the sheep, and look after the house and gardens. Running a dairy is above and beyond. It was my housekeeper’s brainchild, at first. She hates sheep’s milk and asked if we could keep a cow. I bought two because one of my neighbors was selling them cheaper as a pair, and the next time I came to visit, Mrs. Bennett presented me with a delicious cheddar she had made herself. I bought another two cows and suggested they take some of the cheese to market. As soon as the others found out there was extra money to be made, they were more than happy to help out.”

  Isabella tilted her head in thought. “Sally grew up on our home farm, and they make very nice little fresh cheeses wrapped in herbs. Perhaps Mrs. Bennett would like the recipe.”

  Henry smiled at her as he drove into the stable yard next to the house. “I’m sure she would. She already makes a passable Gloucester and a marvelous Stilton.”

  They stopped in front of the stable, where Henry handed the ribbons to his groom. After jumping off the high seat, he walked around to place his hands around Isabella’s waist and swung her down.

  It was the closest Isabella had let any man get to her since George, and she wasn’t entirely sure why she allowed Henry the liberty, but she had come to like it. It was always the same: He
walked around to her side and waited for her to scoot forward and turn toward him. He placed his hands firmly on her waist, and she put hers on his shoulders to steady herself. Then he swung her down, and while she found her feet, he looked deep into her eyes and smiled. There was a moment of infinite possibility then, and even though she knew they could never truly be together, she cherished those moments.

  “I do like a good bit of Stilton with a ripe pear,” she remarked.

  Henry reluctantly let go of her waist and pulled her hand through the crook of his elbow. Again, no corset—he loved that. “We might have pears by now. I hope you don’t mind going through the side entrance. I let the front drive go to seed in favor of the meadow.”

  Isabella smiled at the play of words. “It looks like the seeding was successful; there is barely a footpath left. But I don’t mind the side entrance. It seems practical to step into the house from the stable yard; I do it all the time at home.”

  Their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the arrival of the dowager’s landau. Emily jumped down without waiting for the step to be lowered and strode toward the stables. “I’ll just go take a look at the horseflesh.”

  With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, Henry muttered, “Here we go,” then called after her, “The tall dark bay hunter is a little too spirited, but take your pick from amongst the others.”

  Emily turned to her father, but kept walking backwards while bobbing him a cheeky curtsy. “Why, thank you, Papa.” She turned back to the stables, but Henry was fairly certain her eyes were rolling, and he couldn’t help smiling.

  Isabella had watched the exchange with a little frown, but when she saw his smile, it cleared from her brow. “I take it you got the hunter for her.”

  “Very astute, my dear. I’m hoping my telling her the hunter isn’t safe will make her pick him, and keep her from choosing the white stallion. The two are about comparable in quality, but the hunter has a much better disposition.”

  Isabella crinkled her nose as they walked to the back door. “I know you told me she is a superb horsewoman, but still, a hunter? Are you not worried she will fall?”

  Henry shrugged, not because he didn’t care, but because he knew his daughter well enough to know there was nothing he could do to stop her. “She will jump over walls, hedges, and gates; she might as well be on a horse that knows how.”

  Reaching the door, they were welcomed by a middle-aged woman with a comfortable face, framed by soft brown hair pulled under a tidy white cap and the figure of someone who appreciated good food.

  She curtsied and held the door open for them. “Welcome home, sir!”

  “Good day, Mrs. Bennett. May I present Miss Chancellor? And I need to inform you, we will be staying two weeks rather than the planned two days.”

  Mrs. Bennett smiled broadly. “Oh, that’s grand. It will be a pleasure to have guests in the house.”

  Henry let go of Isabella to help his grandmother up the steps. “Grossmama, are you sure you won’t want the master suite after all? It has the most wonderful view of the ocean.”

  The dowager patted his arm affectionately. “Ach lass nur, mein Lieber. It will be much quieter out to the garden. I do so like my windows open at night.” She turned to the housekeeper, who had sunk into another curtsy. “Hello, my dear. You must be Mrs. Bennett. Would you be so good as to show me where I might wash the dust off my face?”

  “It’ll be my pleasure, Your Grace.” The housekeeper led the company down the broad corridor to the foyer at the front of the house and up the main staircase.

  THE HOUSE WAS LESS THAN a hundred years old, with spacious rooms and high ceilings. Tall, multipaneled sash windows framed the outside world to best advantage, and polished wooden floorboards gave the place warmth. It was a comfortable house built into the most wonderful setting.

  There were eight bedrooms on the second floor, and the one Isabella was given boasted a view of the ocean as well as a small sitting room where she could spread out her painting supplies. It also sported a bookshelf holding a few novels and poetry. Isabella perused the choices and selected one of Lord Byron’s epic poems, which contained some of Isabella’s favorite musings on nature. Everyone had retreated to their rooms to settle in and rest before lunch, but the summer meadow below called to her, so she took the book and headed downstairs.

  Right outside the front door was the head of a little path leading to the sheep wall, the grass-covered cliffs, and the ocean beyond. It seemed Isabella wasn’t the only one who found walking through the meadow appealing. She meandered along the tiny uneven path, letting her hand skim over the heads of the hip-high flowers and grasses along the way. The meadow played a symphony of bees buzzing, cicadas chirping, and different birds singing, all set to the distant roar of the ocean crashing against the cliffs.

  It was a pleasant stroll. The midday heat was tempered by a mild ocean breeze, but the wind wasn’t strong enough to threaten Isabella’s new wide-brimmed hat, and so she sat on the low wall. The cliffs were truly magnificent. She had, of course, seen them from Brighton and admired the white chalk gleaming in the sun, but this was much more impressive. The short, dark green Downs grass apparently grew right to the edge of the cliffs. They seemed high right in front of her, but to the left, where a brook ran down in little cascades toward the sea, there was a dip in the cliffs and one could walk right down to a small sandy beach and a few whitewashed cottages. Boats bobbed in the ocean and fishing nets hung from poles. Beyond them the cliffs rose once again with all the majesty nature was capable of. This view would most certainly make for a grand painting, and Isabella decided to beg off any afternoon entertainment to try her hand at it.

  With the buzzing and chirping behind her, the thunder of the ocean in front of her, and the heat of summer upon her, Isabella opened her book and looked for a verse to suit the scene. She read a few lines, then let her eyes find the horizon to test how the words went with the grandness of the view. When she found the right lines, the words described what she saw, and the beauty around her gave the words wings. It was a lovely way to rediscover a treasured poem.

  HENRY WAS STANDING BY THE open window of his bedroom when he heard the front door shut below. Looking down, he watched Isabella take the path through the meadow. Carrying a book in her right hand, she spread the left to touch the tall grass, and Henry had never seen a woman look more alluring. He knew Isabella didn’t set out to entice anybody, but, believing herself unobserved, she didn’t bother to deny her urges. It gave the moment a potency all its own. She was sensual by nature, and he so wanted to nourish that quality in her. Henry watched Isabella until the bell calling them to lunch provided him with a convenient excuse to follow her out to the low stone wall.

  Once Henry got to the meadow, he spread his hands and brushed them over the grass like Isabella had done. He wanted to touch what she had touched, breathe the air she had breathed. The thought of sharing a breath through a kiss, the anticipation of one day holding her in his arms and watching her find her pleasure, made him tingle all over.

  Isabella was seated on the stone wall, alternately reading her book and looking up to let her eyes wander over the landscape. Henry had surmised she was reading poetry, but he was still a little surprised to find Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage on her lap. Of course every library in England held a copy of Byron’s work, but to think the rather prudish Lady Chancellor would let any of her daughters read it was unimaginable. Then again, Henry had seen Isabella do, and enjoy, several things the baroness would have objected to. The passage she was reading proved she was intimately familiar with the text; it was perfectly matched to the scene before them. Isabella looked up and smiled as he read the beautiful words aloud.

  “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, / There is a rapture on the lonely shore, / There is society where none intrudes / By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: / I love not Man the less, but Nature more.”

  Henry had stopped reading and started reciting with his eyes on the hori
zon about halfway through the verse. The words trailed off and his eyes sought hers, to find the blue-green pools moist with sentiment. His left brow hitched up a little in question, but she only shook her head no, prompting him to stroke her cheek in silent comfort. Once he was sure her emotions had steadied, he offered her his hand to help her up and across the wall.

  Isabella didn’t know how to close her heart to this man. He saw the beauty in the world like she did, felt it in the words of a poem, heard it in the sound of the waves, and created it with the music he played. And then, when he knew her to be overwrought with the impact of it, he offered tenderness and companionable silence. The tears she had almost shed, however, had not been for the poem, nor for the beauty of nature, but for the life she would not be sharing with him. At moments like this it was so very hard to remember just why it could never be. She took his offered hand and preceded him wordlessly back to the house, where luncheon had been readied.

  Henry watched Isabella’s hips sway, admired the straightness of her back and the purpose in her step, and felt his heart sing “I love you.” The words tumbled to his lips and almost spilled out, but at the last instant he held back, not wanting to overwhelm her, now she was in his house and couldn’t leave until her mother returned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BY THE TIME ISABELLA SAT DOWN TO LUNCH SHE was perfectly composed once again and able to converse freely. They discussed the various options for entertainment, from a walk along the creek further inland, to bathing in the sea, to going to the village for buns and pies. Emily was eager to go for a ride along the cliffs, but Isabella, having already found her motif for the afternoon, begged off. Soon after lunch, she collected her painting bag and a cushion, and went back to her spot on the wall. The afternoon sun brought different light, but also brought out the turquoise of the sea, a lovely contrast to the white cliffs.