CHAPTER
23

HENRY AND JACOB sat in the library of Roxwell Abbey, waiting for Hayward to finish reading the prospectus. This was apparently the room where Hayward’s great-uncle had spent most of his time during his declining years. It had a comfortable and well-worn aspect, and the books looked as though they had actually been read. A refreshing breeze came through the open French doors.

Hayward had received them cordially. They’d spent an hour or so catching up, for their paths had not often crossed in the years since they were at Oxford. He was as genial and easygoing as Henry remembered.

After luncheon, Henry had finally been able to turn the talk to business. Hayward was receptive to the topic and agreed to read the prospectus. He was taking his time with it, which Henry regarded as a positive sign.

At last, Hayward set the documents on a nearby table and stood up. “This is very interesting. How about we go for a walk while we discuss it?”

They went out the French doors to a small terrace and down to the gardens. “Please excuse the state of the place,” Hayward told them. “It’s in desperate need of sprucing up. My great-uncle didn’t concern himself with landscaping toward the last.”

As they strolled through the gardens, Hayward described some of the projects he planned to initiate, both on the grounds and in the house. He seemed in no hurry to speak his thoughts on the proposal. Henry perceived that Hayward was in the polite and roundabout process of declining. Henry looked at Jacob. His friend met his gaze with a conciliatory half-smile that showed he was thinking the same thing.

Leaving the gardens, they walked along a field bordering the stables. Four horses and a pony grazed in the afternoon sun. “I plan to enlarge the stables so I can do some breeding,” Hayward said. “It’s a passion of mine. I’ve just bought a horse I want to run in the Derby next year. At present he’s at my father’s stable, which has a proper exercise track.”

As he spoke, the horses wandered over to them, either looking for treats or just out of curiosity. The pony, a chestnut with splashes of white on its muzzle and forelegs, gave Jacob a nudge with her nose.

“I don’t suppose this one is for racing,” Jacob said with a smile.

Hayward grinned. “That’s Maisie. I believe my cousin’s daughter rode her whenever they came to visit my great-uncle. He rather doted on that girl. She’s outgrown the pony now, though.”

Henry reached out to pat one of the horses but was too on edge to fully participate in the casual conversation. He kept waiting for the ax to fall. He decided it was better just to get it over with. “So, about that prospectus . . .”

“Yes, forgive my rambling.” Hayward answered as though he were at fault, even though Henry had rudely changed the subject. “It’s clear your mining venture has solid potential. I’ve no doubt it will be a great success when you find the right investors.”

“I understand,” Henry said. He was disappointed but not really surprised.

“Much of my funds, such as they are, will be needed to fix up the house and grounds. As you can see, I have some work to do to make this a pleasant place to bring my bride next spring. What money that is left over is tied up in an export company in Liverpool.”

“I don’t suppose his lordship might be interested?” Jacob ventured, referring to Hayward’s father, the Marquess of Dartford.

Hayward looked away for a moment, studying the landscape. “I don’t wish to be untactful, but my father is a close friend of the Duke of Crandall, and . . .”

“You don’t need to say anything more,” Henry interjected. There was probably some truth to the reasons Hayward was giving for declining, but even if there weren’t, Henry couldn’t fault him for not wanting to place himself in a position that might antagonize his father.

“I hope this won’t cast a pall on our relationship,” Hayward added. “Being neighbors, I’d like us to be on friendly terms.”

He proffered a handshake, which Henry accepted. “Certainly. I hope you will pay us a visit soon.”

“I should like that. My fiancée and her family are coming here in a few weeks. In the meantime, I’ll be working hard to get the place presentable.” He added with a smile, “I don’t want Sir John to backtrack on his permission to marry her!”

The subject of business being effectively closed, they walked back toward the house.

After a few steps, Hayward paused. “I’ve just thought of something. You were telling me about your little ward, Amelia. Would she be interested in Maisie?”

Mr. Perrine arrived promptly at ten o’clock. Although he was nearing seventy years old, he still had a spry step. He came in a small one-horse carriage, which he even drove himself.

Henry and Jacob left soon after breakfast, but Cara had started worrying long before that. She’d spent the night and early morning vacillating between revealing everything to Henry and keeping things just as they were.

She had hoped to speak with Langham, curious what Henry and Jacob were trying to accomplish during their visit to Lord Nigel’s home, but Langham had sent word that he’d been up late and would join them at luncheon. This left Cara alone with her questions and concerns. They never completely left her mind, even during the lesson. It was fortunate that the drawing master’s attention was primarily centered on Amelia.

Once the lesson got underway, it was apparent that Mr. Perrine had a wellspring of patience and experience when it came to working with strong-minded children. Amelia naturally wanted to rush headlong into painting with a full palette, as the studio was filled with tempting supplies. Mr. Perrine had to carefully explain why she must first master drawing with a pencil in order to understand the basics of proportion and perspective. After an hour and a half of rigorous instruction, he ended the lesson by encouraging her to draw whatever she wanted. Her choice had been no surprise, and Cara thought there was already marked improvement in the way Amelia drew the figures.

Mr. Perrine clearly enjoyed working with children. “That’s what keeps me young,” he quipped as they enjoyed a cold luncheon under the trees after the lesson. “I take great satisfaction in helping them develop their raw talent. And, of course, you never know what they’ll come up with.” He chuckled. “Dinosaurs, for example.”

When Langham arrived, he greeted Mr. Perrine jovially, like an old friend. He also complimented Amelia’s drawing, which she had brought to luncheon.

“I am drawing in pencil for now, until I master proportion and perspective,” Amelia told him, echoing Mr. Perrine word for word. She turned to the drawing master. “When do we begin painting with colors?”

“As soon as you are ready—and the more you apply yourself, the faster you will reach that point,” Mr. Perrine promised. “Perhaps one day you will rival your cousin Langham. But you will have to work very hard.” He turned to Cara. “Langham was one of my best students. I always knew he had the potential to be a great artist. I tried to persuade his parents to send him to the Royal Academy.”

“Unfortunately, my father was having none of that,” Langham put in sourly. “All of the Burkes have gone to Eton and Oxford, and I was to be no different.”

“You’ve made superior progress, even so,” Mr. Perrine said. “I saw a few of your paintings in the studio, and they exceeded my high expectations. I wonder if you and I might review them together for a few minutes before I leave.”

“Shall I run and call for your carriage, sir?” Amelia said, always glad for a reason to go to the stables.

“Are you that excited to see me leave?” he replied with a chuckle. But it was clear he took no offense.

“We’ll go together,” Cara told her.

Mr. Perrine and Langham crossed the lawn to the dower house, deeply immersed in conversation. The drawing master might enjoy working with beginners, but he clearly loved discussing advanced techniques with skilled painters. Spending time with someone who was knowledgeable and passionate about art would surely be a balm to Langham’s soul, as he seemed to be facing so many objections from his family. Cara could not understand why they had been so adamantly against art studies for him.

Amelia tugged at her hand. “Let’s go!”

Before setting off, Cara spoke to the two maids and the footman who were clearing away the luncheon dishes. “Thank you so much. The meal was delicious, and this setting under the trees was perfect.”

They paused, surprised to be addressed like this. Cara didn’t know if she was breaking protocol to do so. She only knew that she’d been in their position once, invisible to the people they worked for and expected to do their jobs seamlessly. They had succeeded, for neither Langham, Amelia, nor Mr. Perrine seemed to give a second thought to the fact that they were being waited on so fastidiously. Cara wanted the servants to know that she, at least, had noticed.

They looked at one another, perhaps unsure how to react.

“You’re very welcome, miss,” one of the maids said.

“That’s kind of you, miss,” the footman added.

Cara read pride in their faces at having their good work acknowledged. She made up her mind that she would do her best never to take such service for granted now that she was on the receiving end of it.

She and Amelia went to the stable, where the groom, Mr. Hart, hitched Mr. Perrine’s horse to his carriage. They all rode it together the short distance to the dower house, which Amelia found to be great fun.

As Mr. Perrine and Langham emerged from the studio, Cara could see that their time together had been good for Langham, as she’d anticipated.

It wasn’t until Mr. Perrine had driven away and Amelia had gone to inspect some butterfly bushes in the little garden beside the dower house that Cara was able to speak with Langham alone. “Why was your father so set against your going to the academy?”

“He said I needed proper discipline and I wouldn’t get it at an art school.”

“Were you that much in need of discipline?”

Langham’s lips quirked. “I am always in need of discipline. Haven’t you caught on to that by now?”

It was hard to be amused at this because she heard the pain beneath his words.

“I was sixteen and would have been among the youngest pupils at the academy. But my father said no, off to Eton you go.” He heaved a sigh. “He told me I had to pull my weight, find a ‘real’ profession. Just as Henry tells me now.”

These were not problems Cara had ever associated with the aristocracy. She’d thought they had nothing to do but enjoy their leisure pursuits. But in the short time she’d known him, she had yet to get the impression that Henry had any leisure time at all. “What is the business venture mentioned at dinner last night? Something about a mine?”

Langham scrunched his nose. “The family is in need of money, so Henry has decided to sully his hands with business and trade.”

“How can he be in need of money? He’s an earl!”

Langham laughed at her naïveté. “Blue blood is often in need of gold coin.”

“But all this—!” Cara indicated the beautiful landscape all around them.

“It costs money to run and maintain. Farm rents no longer cover it all. Henry was locked out of a lucrative investment opportunity by a powerful duke who doesn’t like him. We have a copper mine in Cornwall that could bring in a lot of money. However, it takes a great deal of capital to get the operation going. Henry needs investors. He’s hoping he can get Hayward to be one.”

“It’s critically important, I suppose?”

“I expect the future of our family depends upon it.” The words were heavy, but Langham spoke nonchalantly, as though he had a sense of fatalism about the family falling to ruin.

“What if Lord Nigel turns down the offer?” Or worse, she added to herself, what if that should happen, and it should somehow be her fault? She supposed it was an unreasonable fear, but then, fears were rarely reasonable.

“He’ll get it straightened out somehow.” Langham fanned himself with his straw hat. “Let’s get back inside. There’s money in painting, even if Henry refuses to believe it.”

Langham was soon lost in his work. Cara was starting to recognize when his focus was exactly where it needed to be. He seemed unaware of anyone around him.

With Amelia happily engaged outside, Cara decided to spend time on the portrait she’d begun of the child. It was a first pass in watercolors, based on some of the drawings she’d made over the past weeks. Perhaps one day she’d attempt a proper portrait in oils. Whether she could match the skill on display in the other paintings at Morestowe Manor remained to be seen.

In the end, she found it impossible to concentrate. Her mind kept returning to Henry, trying to envision what might be happening. They would be traveling home by now, for it was nearing teatime. Would he return in jubilation at having secured the financial deal he needed so badly? Or was he coming in anger, having learned a criminally negligent woman was spending time with his ward? She would not rest easy until she knew that nothing terrible had come from today.

Setting aside her work, she went looking for Amelia. She found her lying on her back on one of the garden’s marble benches. At first, Cara thought she was dozing, but then she saw the girl had a rose in her hand that she must have picked from one of the nearby bushes. She was staring up at the clouds, twirling the flower in her fingers and singing. It sounded like a lullaby, but it wasn’t one Cara had heard before.

Happy rosebud, happy May; baby sleeps till break of day.

When the dew falls on the nest, robin sleeps on Mama’s breast.

Never worry, never frown; Papa soon returns to town.

“That’s very pretty,” Cara said, approaching the girl. “Where did you learn it?”

Amelia sat up, looking startled. “It’s just something I remember from before. From when I was little.” She rose from the bench. “Is it teatime? I’m hungry. Can we eat under the trees again?”

As they returned to the house, Cara thought over Amelia’s words. It was tempting to smile at the idea of a seven-year-old saying when I was little, but perhaps there was something to it. Henry had said Amelia came to live with him at age four. Did she retain some memories of her life before that time? If so, how clear were they? Cara had been six years old when her mother died. Her memories were imperfect and yet powerful, especially the sensation of being wrapped in her mother’s arms.

Had Amelia’s mother sung that song to her? The child had obviously heard it enough times to retain it over the years.

Cara hesitated to ask any further questions. Remembering Amelia’s violent reaction when Cara had said the word orphans, she thought it best not to ask about her mother, but only to accept whatever the child might offer.

Cara was able to arrange tea under the trees. Langham did not emerge from the dower house, so they began to eat without him. Cara knew he would come in his own time.

Amelia seemed content to linger at the table after tea, and Cara, too, felt no desire to leave. There was still no sign of Langham. Nor of Henry and Jacob, for that matter. It occurred to Cara that perhaps she and Amelia were waiting here in anticipation of Henry’s arrival. This spot afforded a good vantage point for seeing carriages as they came up the long drive from the main road.

Before long, they saw the carriage in the distance. Amelia sprang up and began running toward them before Cara had even risen from her chair. The reason for the child’s excitement was plain to see: trotting behind the carriage on a lead rope was a brown-and-white pony.

Cara hurried in Amelia’s wake, desperate to get a good look at Henry’s face and glean what state he was in.

He pulled the carriage to a stop, grinning at the sight of Amelia running toward him and shrieking with glee. As his gaze moved from the girl to Cara, his smile seemed to change, but not to fade. She had the impression he was happy to see her. The burden she’d been carrying all day slipped from her shoulders.