10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
J ames had been grooming his horse outside the stables behind the saloon when a cough announced the arrival of his student. He turned around and thanked his lucky stars that Davey, the butcher’s son, had been the right size to lend a pair of pants to Miss Willburne. The dark blue denim hung a little strangely from the waist to the hips area but nicely hugged her thighs.
She strutted forward to the other horse, moving with the confidence and ease of someone wearing pants her entire life. “So, this is my horse?”
James woke up from his stupor and stretched out his arm to stop her. “Never approach a horse from behind.” He waved his hand toward him, then led Miss Willburne forward. “You come from the front, pat her head and neck, like this.” He ran a hand over the filly’s smooth, silky hair. “That’s how she gets to know you.”
“As long as she doesn’t spook,” Miss Willburne grumbled, and followed his movements .
“If you treat her properly, she won’t.” James continued his lesson, moving around the filly while keeping a hand on her, explaining small details as Miss Willburne followed. “And you’ll also want to caress or pat her neck every once in a while, when she’s being a good girl. They like that.”
Miss Willburne looked at him sideways. “How do you manage to turn everything into an innuendo?”
He smiled. “Miss Willburne, I have no idea what you’re referring to.” He returned to his horse to strap on the saddle.
“Are they smaller than usual?”
“They’re mustangs. Smaller, but hardier.” He patted his horse’s neck and looked over his shoulder. “This is Black Charlie.”
“He’s brown.”
“It reflects on his soul. He was a wild one back when we got him on the ranch. Tamed him myself. He gave me blue and purple bottom for a month.”
“You tamed a horse? Like, an actual wild one?”
James nodded, finding himself strangely satisfied at the admiring look in her eyes. “And yours is Maria.”
“You named a horse Maria?”
“No, Vince did. He names everything Maria. His pistols, his fiddle, his horse, his wife … her name’s Elizabeth, by the way.”
She laughed, her green eyes dancing. James brushed away a tingling feeling her laughter sent across his skin and got back to work.
He explained the basic commands, posture, and how to mount and dismount. He demonstrated by mounting Black Charlie and making a circle around the stables, while Miss Willburne watched, stroking Maria’s neck every now and then. Finally, as she proclaimed she was ready to try, he helped her up, brushing a pair of unusual shoes she was wearing—bright red and white, with white laces. James had never seen a woman wear something that flashy, and couldn’t imagine a woman who would.
Except for Miss Willburne, apparently. And they fit her incredibly well.
She wiggled in the saddle to find the right position.
“Remember, always have a straight back.”
“Clearly, you’d never worn a corset.”
James laughed. “Keep your legs relaxed, in line with the hips. Don’t pull the reins like that. You grip them firmly with one hand, but don’t yank. Relax the arm in line with the reins. With the other, you can either grip the horn if you need balance, or you can let it rest right … here.” He slowly led her hand to her thigh.
“James?”
“Hmm?”
“Hands. Off.”
He released her, strolled to Black Charlie, and mounted him in a swift move. “Let’s go. We’ll start this easy.”
***
Hand raised, Will paused in front of Lady Ross’ door. This was the first time since he’d brought Emily here that he’d be alone with her for a significant amount of time. Something about it felt strange—wrong, but not in the way wrong things usually felt.
Stop complicating. Get the device and the pendant, and you’re done. He knocked.
Lady Ross’ room was similar to his own—simple whitewashed walls and worn-out wooden floor, with the bare minimum of furniture, except hers also featured a dressing screen and a crate covered with a sheet—probably left over from the renovation. Lady Ross stood gazing through the one small window and turned as he entered. She’d changed her usual traveling clothes for a dark blue and cream striped dress with long sleeves and a high neckline embellished by a wine-red sash. Thanks to the new length, her hair was still somewhere between order and disarray, but it gave her a relaxed, more youthful look. It added a gentleness to her that reminded Will of the ladies in Renoir’s paintings.
Where on Earth did you get that from?
“Mr. Marshall?” Based on how she said it, Will assumed this wasn’t the first time she’d called him.
“Uh, yes. I came for the device.”
“Of course.” She retrieved the box from her valise and came to him. “All yours.” Her fingers, ungloved, brushed his for a mere second while giving over the box. “If that’s all …”
He blinked a few times. The pendant. Right. That was going to be harder. He moved over to the crate and rested the box on top of it. Sadly, its physical support did not extend to moral. “How are you settling in?”
“Very well, if it’s not evident from yesterday evening.” A slight hint of self-deprecation colored her words. She quickly collected herself. “There’s no need to worry about me. You’ve done your part. You’re free to leave now.”
She sat on the bed. Her hand reached up, as it usually did to fix her hair, then stopped midway. It fell back into her lap, and she let out a small sigh.
Why didn’t he make a plan for approaching this? Should he ask her outright? She’d think it suspicious, no doubt, but short of stealing the necklace, he couldn’t get it from her in an inconspicuous manner .
He toyed with the sheet on the crate while figuring out what to do. Under it was a long, shallow wooden box. Will narrowed his eyes at a few dried color splashes on the box, then opened it. Strewn across its insides were half-used, smudged tubes, and a collection of brushes.
“Mr. Marshall?” Lady Ross’ eyes examined him curiously.
He turned the box so she could see. “Paints. Left here from the renovation. Or a previous occupant.”
“You said you liked to paint.”
“I do. Did. I’ve been doing a lot of other things recently.”
She nodded, then again fixed her eyes on the opposite wall. When they’d talked in the woods, Lady Ross expressed her interest in the arts. It wasn’t much—just one simple chat about hobbies—but it creaked open a window into her soul. Not that it mattered much. Stuck where she would be for a while, it was unlikely she could educate herself further. No exhibitions here. And not much opportunities …
Will looked at the painting case in his hands. Then he looked at Lady Ross, waited for her to catch his gaze, and asked, “Would you like to try?”
***
James led Miss Willburne around town, letting her adjust before they headed up a trail that followed the stream into the mountains. Maria was a docile horse, trained so she needed only the slightest input from the rider, and in a short time, Miss Willburne relaxed in the saddle. Nonetheless, James rode next to her, making sure he could quickly intervene if something went wrong .
The air in the forest was cooler, the earthy smell mixing with a heavier scent of tree sap. The path rose steadily, the gaps in the trees occasionally allowing a stunning view of the valley.
“So, Miss Willburne,” James began after a few minutes of silence. “Where are you from? Your speech is unusual.”
“Says the man who can’t choose between British and Cowboy.”
He let out a soft laugh. “It’s better not to out oneself as a stranger right away. It’s all about the adaptation.” He paused, letting his learned accent slip away. “Of course, if the lady wishes me to speak properly …”
She only gave a quick roll of her eyes—progress. “You haven’t responded,” he reminded her.
“Savannah. Georgia.”
“Never been. Apparently, I’ll have to visit.”
“You can.” A corner of her mouth turned up. “But you won’t find me there.”
“How so?”
She hesitated before answering, “I’m going off to college.”
“University? Interesting.”
“Why?”
“Well, I know women are going now. It’s not standard yet, though. And some view it unfavorably.” He cocked his head to the side. “Then women will get ideas, such as that they should pursue a career and not only look for a husband. You’re lucky to have your parents’ support. Or”—he cracked a smile—“brave for defying them.” He could imagine the fit his mother would have if Sylvia proclaimed she wanted to pursue higher education. Of course, his parents had also made sure “silly” ideas like this would never even enter Sylvia’s mind .
Miss Willburne, though, had grown serious. “I never thought about it that way,” she muttered, as much to herself as to him. “It’s kind of expected where I come from. Besides, it’s not a fancy college like your Oxfords and Harvards.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Good for you for pursuing what you want.”
She still looked pensive and stared ahead, dropping her posture.
Something in the trees moved—a bird, mostly likely, but it was enough for her leg to twitch and Maria, in turn, to start off.
“Aah!” She leaned back, trying to counter the momentum.
“Hold—” James reached for the reins, intending to stop the horse if it decided to bolt, when Miss Willburne flickered.
He could only describe it like that—one second, she was leaning back, hands pulling on the reins; the next, she resumed the right posture. He hadn’t even blinked.
“All good.” She smiled at him, even though her voice was still slightly shaky. Maria had calmed and continued her walk.
“Are you sure you’re fine?”
“Yeah. I’ve got this all figured out, cowboy.”
James decided he must’ve seen wrong—maybe the fumes from the sap were getting to him—and signaled Black Charlie to catch up with Miss Willburne.
The ride continued peaceful and uninterrupted. They chatted lightly about this and that: James’ adventures while trying to tame Black Charlie; Miss Willburne’s time in Boston when she went shopping with Sylvia and had to admit defeat—Sylvia had much more shopping stamina than she did. The differences between Colorado, Georgia, and England; the food, and what was the deal with the beans; how James’ father taught him how to shoot and was obsessed with fox hunts, but would probably shudder to see James casually stroll around with his two six-shooters. James had strapped them on today for a practical purpose—they were going into the woods, and one never knew—but he didn’t necessarily mind how Miss Willburne’s eyes occasionally flicked to his hip area.
Some ladies just liked the guns.
After two hours, they made their way back to the stables.
“That wasn’t half bad,” Miss Willburne said, waiting on Maria while James dismounted. “I reckon I could do it for an hour or two more.”
“You’re not adjusted to it yet, so it’s better you don’t.” He approached her. “You’d need hours upon hours to get properly used to it. Right now, you can bet you’re going to be real sore tomorrow. It’ll catch up with you.”
“Oh, like with volleyball. When I get back to it after a break, my arms always hurt like hell for the next two days.”
Weird things she said, like that one, were what interested James the most. She spoke like no other lady of his acquaintance. That town of hers must’ve been on a different planet.
“Now, to dismount, hold the reins close and be sure you’re stable in the stirrup,” he said. “Then slowly pull one leg over.”
He stood close, ready to stabilize the horse while Miss Willburne, with an adorable half-yelp half-grunt, pushed her leg over. She started to slip and yanked the reins, but he quickly grabbed her by the waist and set her down.
“There. I’ve got you.”
They were almost touching; as she took a deep breath, her blouse brushed his shirt. Something prompted James to reach one hand up to the back of the saddle; with the other holding the reins, Miss Willburne was trapped between him and the horse.
“You did very well,” he said .
“You think I’m good to go?”
Right. She was leaving.
No time like the present, then.
“Oh, you are very good to go, Miss Willburne. Fully, thoroughly approved.” His eyes stopped on her slightly parted lips, then lifted to meet her gaze. They stood motionless, caught in a silent dare, her heat radiating into his, her breath picking up, and—
Like that, she was gone. James blinked, then, for good measure, shook his head. The space between him and the horse was empty. A few feet away, Miss Willburne stood at the stables, tugging on her braid.
“What the …” James swatted the air in front of him. “How did you do that?”
“I, uh, I have to go.” She started retreating. “Thanks for the ride!” And she was gone again—only this time, he’d watched her walk away.
***
Sylvia had to admit to herself that outside the town, this part of the world wasn’t so bad. In the shadow of a cluster of trees, she enjoyed a slight breeze and a beautiful view of the valley. They hadn’t gone too far with Mr. Marshall—just a little up the hillside, so they had a better view for painting, even if they didn’t have all the proper supplies. The paints were half-dried but usable. Mr. Marshall found a bottle of linseed oil to use as a thinner, but they found no canvases, so he chose two planks of wood instead.
“That mountain is a good subject for painting.” He nodded approvingly as he saw where she’d set up. “Shall I do the same one? Or something else?”
“Oh, something else, please. I don’t think I could stand competition. ”
“I’m sure you’re selling yourself short. But have it your way.” He moved further up, then brought her the palette with an array of colors squeezed onto it. “You have this. I’ll use the box.”
“You seem very much at home, doing this.”
“I suppose I do. Feel like I’m at home.” He returned to his position. “When I was little and still lived in Provence, I drew and drew and drew for days. Then I painted. Mostly our vineyards. I’m sure I made a mess every time, but my mother always praised me.”
Sylvia couldn’t imagine having parents like that. Praised, for not doing something perfectly? How odd.
And yet, Mr. Marshall had turned out just fine.
Unlike how, half an hour later, Sylvia’s mountain was turning out. She’d grown warm, so she popped a few buttons at the top of her jacket, but that didn’t magically raise her painting skills.
“Not bad,” Mr. Marshall remarked as he came to check it out.
“It’s horrific,” she said. The paintings they had at Charlingham Hall—they were all so fine, precise, detailed. Once, she’d spent ten minutes studying a lace detail on the dress of one of her distant ancestors; it was incomprehensible how a human hand could paint, in two dimensions, something that looked so realistic.
Her mountain looked like a great big lump of granite. Well, she guessed it was just that.
“Not at all,” Mr. Marshall said. “I think you’re going with the times very well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Expressive painting like this is all the rage right now. Bold colors. Dramatic strokes. You can even swish your brush …” He led her hand to the wo od and gently moved it in circles as she held the brush. Shades of gray and blue mixed, leaving behind a swirly trail.
He stopped. Sylvia looked at the brush, then at their joined hands, both smudged with paint. As if her gaze had burned him, Mr. Marshall jumped back.
“Thank you,” she said, suddenly very interested in the grass. “I’d never done anything other than watercolors. Painting like this is not ladylike.”
“But you’d seen other techniques? Newer works?”
“Actually …” she fiddled with the brush, and slowly raised her eyes. “Not really. I only know what I’d read or heard from others. I …” Stop it. He doesn’t need to know your stupid life story — “I’d been at our family home, in the country, for most of my life. I first got to London a few months ago. Before that, I’d been too young for my parents to bother to take me, and then James left, and then Papa died …” Stop now. What else was she going to tell him—how every set of eyes followed her because of her brother’s scandal; how the fine ladies of the ton whispered behind her back; how she had to keep her head high and pretend she saw none of that; how Mama would grip her teacup a little bit tighter every morning after another failed ball, where every man that had asked Sylvia to dance just wanted to know if Lord Haverston’s sister was just as loose as his lordship was?
Except for Sir Richard, who, regardless of what the others might think of him, looked past the scandal and only invoked the old family friendship. He didn’t love her with a fiery passion Sylvia had read about in that one novel that slipped past Mama’s censorship—but Sylvia didn’t care about that. She’d only seen him as a friend, too, and didn’t need romantic love. In fact, if romantic love left behind such devastation as seen in the Queen, who still mourned her husband thirty years after his death, then Sylvia didn’t want any of it .
And now, Sir Richard, the one man kind enough, the one man not caring for the society, was a murderer. What did that say of her judgment?
“Lady Ross.” Mr. Marshall’s voice brought her back. “You appeared to be very deep in thought.”
Well, Mr. Marshall was kind, too. And she dared hope he was not a murderer.
But that didn’t mean he could ever be anything more. He was leaving tomorrow, and Sylvia had made her bed. It wasn’t fair to think it, and she wasn’t even sure why she was thinking it, but she wished she could do something to make him stay.
Forcing a small smile, she raised her eyes to his. But Mr. Marshall was—was he looking at her chest?
Caught, he quickly averted his gaze. A faint blush rose to his cheeks—similar to Sylvia’s, no doubt.
“May I see yours?” she asked, just to move on from her thoughts.
His painting was no masterpiece, but given the circumstances, still much better than Sylvia’s. At least it was obvious he knew the technique and the basics; his sky was a more realistic shade of blue, the clouds light and puffy, the grass shaded in greens and yellows, and in the center was a shape—a white and blue figure, standing in front of a makeshift easel—
“You painted me?”
“You did say I should not attempt the mountain.”
Nobody had ever painted her. Against her better judgment, Sylvia wondered how a proper portrait would look like—if he had all the colors, a good canvas, if she’d sit like this, on a hill fresh with the smells of grass, flowers, and summer sun—and he’d draw her face …
Now she really needed to stop .
“I think I’m quite done,” she said. “We should return. My brother will be wondering where I am.”
He gave an abrupt nod and started collecting their stuff.
“What will we do with the paintings?” she asked.
“They won’t be of use for long. Oil paints are not meant for wood, at least not untreated. The surface needs to aerate in order for the paint to dry properly. This might dry, but it might also rot the wood. In any case, it won’t last.”
Sylvia clutched his painting in her hands, and a little tug of disappointment passed through her chest. What a shame. “May I keep it? Please?”
Mr. Marshall looked at her a bit oddly. “If you wish. Actually, I was …” His eyes flicked back to her neck, so quickly she almost missed it. “Never mind,” he said then. “Let’s go back.”
Once in her room, and alone, Sylvia set the painting by the wall and sat on the bed.
He’d forgotten to sign it.
It didn’t matter. Like he said, it’d probably rot away.
Frustrated—about everything in her life, but mostly herself—Sylvia unbuttoned her dress with vigor and burrowed into her bed to take a nap.