3

I made a point of being the first down to breakfast. I couldn’t have the Napiers thinking me lazy, nor that I’d forgotten my true purpose for being their guest. I nearly had the night before, when I had joined Roland and Celia for dinner. They had fidgeted opposite me at an enormous table laid for three; clearly it had been a while since their last formal dinner. I had decided not to mention my meeting with Wakeford, the formality of polished silver and liveried footmen begging simple and polite conversation. I managed to mostly listen as Roland told me about the house and their family—Gwen had two little ones and had lost her husband in the war.

Wakeford himself had been mentioned but once before Celia, who’d been quiet, quickly stole the conversation to ask me which medium I preferred. Oils, I’d told her, and pencil drawings, as plate after plate was brought from the kitchen. The amount of wine was truly staggering, and had caused me to do just that—all the way upstairs to flop onto my bed.

The hangover only lasted as long as it took me to wash and dress, for breakfast cured me in an instant, plate piled with poached eggs, bacon, smoked herring, and roasted tomatoes from the sideboard buffet. A small voice in the back of my head warned, Slow down, Bertie, or you’ll not fit your girdle for long! I told her to pipe down, and had another slice of toast. The war had taught me not to take fresh butter for granted.

Celia and Roland came down at precisely the same time, leading me to wonder if they’d been having a chat about me beforehand. Perhaps I’d spoken too freely at dinner? Mother was always saying I was too bold. I could only hope I didn’t offend.

Celia went directly to the tea urn, hardly meeting my eyes. Roland, however, plucked his plate from the table and smiled. “Good morning! I trust you slept well?”

I dabbed my lip with my napkin, nodding. “Rather. Better than I have in years. My old mattress isn’t at all forgiving.” That didn’t take long.

“You mentioned you were thinking of moving to London,” he said from the sideboard. “What is it that keeps you on a lousy mattress?”

“I’m afraid my parents don’t agree that an unmarried woman is capable of living independently.” I sugared my tea and lifted the saucer. “And since I don’t yet make my own money . . .”

Celia faltered slightly at the last bit. Drat; I oughtn’t to have spoken of money. I sipped my tea and hoped the comment would pass quickly.

In the interval, Roland assumed the head, kingly with his straight-shouldered posture. Huxley came forward with a silver salver to deliver the post, bowing his head to speak softly to Roland: “His lordship has taken his breakfast, sir.”

Roland thanked him and returned his attention to me so instantly that the last few seconds might’ve been a trick of the eye. “You hope, then, to make a living selling paintings?”

“Hope, yes,” I said. “I often think it’s all I’ve got.”

“Nonsense! Have a look around.” Roland lifted both arms, indicating the walls. We ate in what the Napiers affectionately called the “small dining room,” though it hardly earned the name. Hand-painted wallpaper depicted a scene of great palms and curly clouds, under which soldiers trudged with determination towards the sea, lapping up against the fireplace. “There are hundreds of great houses in England,” Roland went on, “all with dozens of rooms and thousands of walls, sheltering wealthy men who wish nothing more than to pay for someone else to make them beautiful.”

He was right. Everywhere I looked here—from the furniture to the arrangements to the ceiling—there was art. And soon, my canvases would be amongst them.

“And, you’ve caught the attention of one already,” said Roland, plucking up his fork. “My brother has an eye for such things. I daresay you’ve more than hope, Miss Preston.”

I pushed my food around dreamily, relishing in Roland’s encouragement. Had anyone been so confident that I’d succeed? I began to imagine the hundreds of houses with their dozens of rooms. What I wouldn’t have given to speak to Lord Wakeford just a moment longer, to ask what had moved him to give me such an opportunity.

Celia stirred her tea erratically so the sound of silver on china arrested the room’s attention. “I think it’s topping that you wish to live on your own, Miss Preston. How courageous and modern. I should really like to do the same. I cannot bear this house.”

Roland chuckled. “You wouldn’t survive a day on your own, sister mine.”

“I believe I would,” she said, raising her chin. “I’ve been on my own a sight more often than any of you.”

Rather than have another go, Roland simply smiled at her and shook his head. “Well, considering your contempt for Braemore, I suppose I shall be the one to show Miss Preston about this afternoon. If she’s agreeable.”

I chewed hastily and swallowed. “Quite, though I had been hoping his lordship might give me an idea of what he’d like me to paint.”

“I meant what I said yesterday. He won’t see you.”

But hadn’t he opened the door for me the previous evening? Surely if he indulged me once, he might do it again. “He saw me yesterday, in fact,” I said.

A fork fell against china, and Celia’s eyes came up, wide with shock. I looked from her to Roland. Golly, it hadn’t taken long for me to do myself in.

“Forgive me for moving against you,” I said. “Last evening, I was passing his door and I heard a crash. I thought he might be hurt . . .”

Roland’s brows knitted. “He opened the door?”

“Yes . . . sort of.”

Both of them looked confused. Either that, or I’d certainly overstepped, and would soon be out on my ear. “You didn’t see him?” Roland said. “You didn’t go inside?”

“I didn’t—” I paused, seeing their distress. I had gone too far already. One more stumble would risk everything I’d sacrificed to be here. “I was concerned about the crash, that’s all. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Celia wrinkled her chin and sent a scorn to Roland. He ignored it, his face softening in a way I couldn’t have expected. “Julian was injured in the war—badly hurt by a blast. He keeps himself hidden away, has done for years now.”

I winced. I’d seen such cases on active service. Shells exploded upwards from the ground, taking with them entire pieces of a man. Some had to learn to walk again; others wrenched in agony as we fed them egg flip through rubber tubes. I had only seen a glimpse of Lord Wakeford—there was an abundance of things that might have still been ailing him.

All along I’d been picturing the earl as a much older man, too old to have fought. But he was just like the rest of them, wasn’t he? His eccentricities no longer required explanation. No man had returned from war the same as they were when they’d gone.

“You don’t ever see him?” I asked carefully.

Roland shook his head. “He takes tea with Gwen once a week, but he won’t see anyone else. Which is why we’re astonished to hear he spoke to you.”

All of a sudden, I felt responsible for Celia’s distress. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know.”

“Never mind—no harm done.” Roland turned to put his hand over his sister’s, but she pulled free and stood to cross her arms. “Cece, please—”

“You must see it, Roland, surely?” Her tone was sharp. “The first chance he gets, and again—”

“Hush!” Roland’s ears flushed, eyes daggers. “Not here.”

Celia scoffed, arms falling to her sides. “If you’ll excuse me.” She marched from the room, and I stared curiously at her uneaten breakfast, wondering what had lit the flame.

“You must forgive her,” Roland said. “She was but a child when it happened. Doesn’t quite understand.”

“Of course.” I forced a tasteless bite of egg and chewed, thinking he was wrong. There had been harm done, perhaps not to Lord Wakeford, but certainly to his sister, and all because I’d failed to keep my nose from where it didn’t belong. And I was so concerned with being taken as a professional! What true artist would dare to meddle in their employer’s business? I was meant to be an observer only, like the butler who stood silently at the sideboard.

Roland’s chair creaked under him. I expected he would quit the room, leave me to finish my breakfast alone. Probably, it would be for the best.

Instead he leaned forward, voice low: “Given he opened the door once, I wouldn’t discourage you from knocking again.”

I was so surprised I merely stared at him like a doe who’d caught the scent of danger. “I couldn’t . . . I would hate for him to feel I was imposing.”

“What if I told you my brother would never have the heart to turn you out?”

“I would say that unlike me, you’ve nothing at stake.”

Roland broke into a smile. “Too right. Though I do wonder . . .”

I looked at the tiny tea leaves remaining in the bottom of my cup, as if to read them for answers. Naturally, I wanted to knock again. Apart from my curiosity, I truly did wish to speak with Lord Wakeford about my work. I was starving for affirmation, for someone to look me in the eye and tell me I had any worth as an artist.

“You expect he’ll see me?” I asked.

Roland shrugged and returned his attention to his breakfast. “We all feign to understand Julian, but clearly he’s more complicated than we imagined.”

---

•   •   •

After being swept off of my feet by the romance of Castle Braemore and its inhabitants, I had to regain my footing. I certainly did not wish to disturb the family any further than I had already done, but would need their trust if I hoped to bring pathos to my paintings. If I could prove my integrity, both as an artist and a woman, perhaps I might gain entry to his lordship’s apartments and speak with him properly. And to do that, I decided to offer him a sample.

I told Roland I preferred to wander the house alone for inspiration. He gave his blessing, and said nothing would be off-limits to me, besides of course the earl’s dwellings. So I fetched my new sketchbook and pencil to begin my wander.

I strolled with no real direction, opening doors as I went. There seemed to be an endless number of reception rooms, some clearly decorated for entertaining women, others smelling of centuries’ worth of smoking tobacco. Another was adorned with gilded wallpaper of Japanese cranes flying in endless circles, and furnished with antiques from the Far East. Further into the house I found the library, fuggy and dark with heavy curtains blocking the windows, and a lonely study. Even the passageways were meticulously furnished, serving some purpose to display either a collection of minerals or a stretch of aging tomes.

Through double doors beneath the balcony in the Great Hall, I found the saloon. This must’ve been where the Napiers had once held their balls. Simple, gilded furnishings dared not distract from the rococo ceiling—robin’s-egg blue with intricate moldings of griffins, garlands, and fleurs-de-lis. Two enormous teardrop chandeliers hung low, magnificent crystals catching sunlight to send it blinking across damask walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows glimpsed vistas of the Italian garden and rugged hills beyond, with three sets of French doors leading out to the terrace.

It was a shame to see such an ornate room all but forgotten.

On the terrace, I belted my cardigan. The previous day’s weather had been teasing—now the sun bobbed in and out from behind clouds, and the breeze carried a damp chill. Two substantial stone urns stood at either side of the stairs, housing scarlet geraniums, their sweet perfume enticing me down into the gardens.

Holding my hat, I turned to look at the house as I stepped away. It was breathtaking, entirely different to look at up close. Perhaps I’d have to do a larger, more detailed picture, and another with a vantage point farther away to include the landscape. I squinted in the grey light, gazing over the rolling green ahead. In the distance, a lake shimmered low on the parkland. That might do for a bit of movement.

My heels drilled into the plush lawn. I’d need to ask for boots next time if I had any hope for my shoes to survive the summer. Still, it was impossible not to enjoy the walk, feeling so delightfully far from home. Everything here was so immaculate, not a single hedge with a wayward sprig, nor weed disturbing a flower bed. Yet I could see no evidence of a being who might be caring for it all. If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed its perfection organic.

In fact, the property was so vast and seemingly empty, I was relieved to stumble upon a family of deer. They would bring much-needed life to my drawing. I had always been keen to paint scenes with people in them, capturing moments that were otherwise lost to memory. But looking back at Braemore, it didn’t seem the place would ever budge. How could one forget how it looked just now? Surely it would look just the same in a hundred years.

The notion gave me a newfound sense of purpose.

The bank of the lake was overgrown, an old dock sun-faded and missing boards. I walked the perimeter until I came to the other end, and by then I was warm enough to remove my cardigan. I laid it in the grass to sit on, smiling at my accomplishment.

Yes, this was just where I needed to be.

I began to sketch the lake in the foreground, skirted by trees. Then the parkland in the middle distance, neatly trimmed and dotted with deer. Beyond, hedges stretched over the gardens nearer Braemore itself. I drew rough lines where I wanted the house—to the right of the trees to create a satisfying balance—then the clouds in the background behind the dome, lined in silver light from the hidden sun.

My hand took over. I lost myself in the lines, in the sounds of rippling water and swans honking. As I drew, I thought of Wakeford. How might he see Castle Braemore? He loved it, of course, or else he’d never have written to me. I imagined the estate through his eyes. First, the small boy who was brought up playing on these grounds, knowing they’d someday be his. Then the man who’d gone to war with no notion of whether he’d return. Thoughts of Braemore, plush and warm, must’ve been a respite when remembered from a cold trench. Finally, I imagined how he must see it now, his family’s unchanging home after so many years of uncertainty.

I saw it with pride.

A change in lighting brought me back to the surface. The sun had moved, casting shadows across the parkland where I didn’t want them. I paused to wipe a bead of sweat from my brow, studying what I had. It was terribly rough, but it was all there, the plan for what was possible.

Returning to the house, I took the stairs in leaps before I could lose my nerve. All was quiet outside the earl’s apartments. It was just before luncheon—I would need to make haste or risk crossing paths with Huxley. Carefully, I tore the drawing from my notebook, using my now dull pencil to sign the corner of the piece. After a moment of hesitation, I turned over the page and made a short note.

My lord,

I hope you can forgive my disturbing you yesterday. Your home has been the most extraordinary subject.

Yours,

Miss Bertie Preston

Then I bent and slipped the drawing under the door.