Chapter 26
Afternoon sunlight filtered through the climbing roses that framed the stone terrace, scattering pale petals across the flagstones; their rich scent mingled in the air, which hummed with bees and birdsong.
Beyond the balustrade, the gardens stretched outward, encasing them in a world of greens, purples, pinks, and yellows.
It was a day meant for leisure and laughter, and Thea had arranged everything accordingly.
The table was placed in the perfect position, allowing them a touch of breeze without disturbing their task, and a plethora of supplies sat atop it.
Slender sable brushes were arranged neatly in a row, their polished handles gleaming in the light, alongside cakes of watercolor paint in shades of vermilion, ochre, and ultramarine.
For drawing, a leather roll of pencils lay unfurled beside a scattering of pastels in every hue imaginable, and a few sheets of paper were weighed down at the corners with smooth stones to keep them from lifting in the breeze.
Though none of the artistes preferred easels, there were three standing at the ready, should they wish to abandon their seats. But then, it would take them farther from the selection of biscuits, cakes, and tea.
In short, it was an artist’s paradise, and by every outward measure, it was a perfect afternoon, yet Thea had never felt less at ease.
Mina leaned back, her brush hovering above the board upon which her painting was affixed, and looked at it with narrowed eyes, her head canting this way and that as she examined the subject before setting another streak of blue across the horizon.
On Thea’s other side, Phoebe’s pencil moved briskly, each stroke traveling across the page with determination, as though afraid that the rose she sketched would sprout legs and scurry off the table if she didn’t act quickly, and the rest of the tools she’d brought were arrayed with precision, like soldiers awaiting their mistress’s command.
Glancing at her paper with a frown, Thea stared at the half-formed shape. Her mind was so occupied with her guests and everything else of late that she’d neglected her subject, as was evident from her inept rendering. Not bothering to begin again, Thea picked at the painting.
Mina worked with delicate precision and hummed contentedly to herself, oblivious to Phoebe’s tight-lipped focus, who (in turn) radiated an air of patient endurance that made Thea’s stomach knot.
It was like trying to make two magnets meet at the wrong ends, and no matter how she turned them, they simply repelled.
This was meant to be a pleasant afternoon, and having faced so many battles of late, Thea needed a clear victory.
What miracle of social engineering would it take to make the afternoon bearable?
If her two dearest friends could not bond over their shared love of art, then truly, what hope was there?
Despite being surrounded by sunlight and birdsong, she felt a wall standing between the two as solid as stone.
“How lovely the light is today,” Thea said at last. “It makes everything seem so—so alive.”
Mina murmured agreement without looking up. Phoebe nodded once, the faintest curve of her mouth acknowledging the remark before she returned to her work.
Pressing her lips together, Thea’s gaze wandered to the edge of the garden where a pair of butterflies danced above the lavender. It ought to have been perfect—the setting, the company, the gentle hush of summer all around them—yet somehow, that perfection only made the silence louder.
Thea dipped her brush into the water, stirring idly, and watched the color swirl away in pale ribbons.
If friends could be blended as easily as paint, she would have found the right balance by now.
But no matter how carefully she mixed, Phoebe and Mina resisted one another, and she could not fathom why.
With a sigh that she hoped went unnoticed, Thea bent over her painting, willing herself to believe that, in time, the day might yet right itself. After all, surely even the most stubborn colors found harmony in the right light.
Thea lifted her head, searching for topics to draw the pair out.
Something that was bound to interest them both.
Her gaze flicked between Mina’s serene concentration and Phoebe’s tense precision, and her resolve faltered.
How could two such excellent women, both clever and kind, find so little to like in each other?
It was utterly baffling. Still, she could not just sit there watching them work in polite misery.
Clearing her throat softly, Thea forced a smile. “Have you seen Mrs. Drew’s new acquisition? Mama, Mina, and I called there earlier this week, and she showed us the painting she purchased from London. It reminds me of the landscape hanging in your parlor, though not nearly as striking.”
“The Drews purchased it this morning, so it will soon hang alongside their London acquisition.” Phoebe’s words were clipped and cool, and her pencil moved in quick, decisive strokes, as though each line might strike down the thought itself.
“They did? I hadn’t realized…” Thea’s words faltered.
But Phoebe’s lips pulled into a wry smile that was more bitter than happy, a single brow arching upward.
“The vultures are beginning to circle. Though the bulk of the estate is to be sold at auction, some of the nicer bits and bobs will be snatched up piecemeal as they pick over Dunsby Hall’s carcass. It will be a feast.”
Thea’s stomach twisted. Though Phoebe spoke in a light tone, her words were sharp and had all the sweetness of a lemon. And rightly so when the truth was a bitter pill.
Searching her thoughts for something that might soften the moment, Thea set down her paintbrush.
But what could she say? An apology was too close to pity, and silence was too apathetic.
She longed to reach across the table, to offer some reassurance that none of them thought less of her, but Thea’s heart ached with the futility of it all.
It was impossible to fix something so delicate once cracked; every word, no matter how kind, only splintered it further.
Mina cleared her throat, her eyes on her painting, though she sent a furtive glance toward Phoebe. “I am so very sorry, Miss Voss. I wish things were different, but you are strong, and I have no doubt that your family will find your footing once more—”
“And all will be right in the world? Our status will be restored. Our coffers filled. Our home returned to us?” Phoebe’s pencil stilled. Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes cool and sharp as a blade. “You make it sound as though it is naught but a dropped glove or misplaced book.”
Mina’s cheeks flushed. “No, I did not mean that—”
“Ought we to sit about, waiting for good fortune to turn in our favor?” Phoebe asked flatly, the words soft but heavy with restrained anger.
Thea’s heart sank. “Phoebe, you are twisting her words.”
But the lady turned back to her work, the stiff lines of her shoulders making it clear that no apology, however well-intentioned, would be welcomed. Mina looked down at her brush, her cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson, and Thea sat between them as her fragile hopes for the afternoon shattered.
There was no fixing this. Not with any amount of charm or gentle mediation. The only thing she could do was sit quietly and pray that the time would pass quickly.
“I did not mean to offend, Miss Voss,” whispered Mina, her eyes fixed upon her painting. “I was speaking of my own experience. We lost my mother and my infant sister in one fell swoop, and though it altered my family forever, the pain faded in time. Life will not always be a misery.”
Phoebe shifted in her seat, the pencil trembling faintly in her hand. Puffing out her cheeks, she let out a sharp huff and scowled inward.
“I apologize, Miss Ashbrook.” The words tumbled out with that breath, and Phoebe rested her fists on the table, forcing her hands to relax, but a quiet nod was all the answer Mina gave, and Phoebe’s shoulders fell.
“I feel as though I am fraying at the seams,” she added in a whisper. “I do not know what we will do.”
Thea’s hand yearned to reach for her friend’s, but she stopped herself.
Phoebe’s prickles had been far more pronounced of late, and even a kindly meant bit of sympathy might go awry.
So Thea sat there instead, throat tight, her heart aching with the helpless certainty that Phoebe was right: between pride and survival, there was little space left to breathe.
Silence settled thickly over the table, broken only by the faint creak from her chair as Phoebe reached for her pencil again.
Mina bent over her paper with determined focus, her movements brisker than before, though Thea suspected she was no longer painting but rather avoiding everyone’s eyes.
The faint buzz of bees amongst the roses sounded louder in that stillness.
Thea tried to swallow the ache rising in her throat. She needed to say something, anything to ease the strain, but no words came. All her usual tools—kindness, humor, sympathy—felt useless. She couldn’t ease Phoebe’s troubles any more than she could force these two ladies together.
The sunlight glowed too warmly, as if mocking the turmoil inside her. Her fingers tightened around the brush until the wood bit into her skin, and Thea set it down before she snapped it in two. Nothing made sense anymore, and she could not fathom how to set the world to rights again.
Being resolute was one thing; knowing how to resolve the issue was another altogether.
And no amount of stubbornness could stop the heavy futility that settled into one’s heart when the only path forward was waiting.
There was nothing to be done. No action to take.
Like so many virtues, patience was far easier to embrace in the abstract.
The faint crunch of footsteps on the gravel path broke through the heavy silence, and all three ladies lifted their heads at once, like startled birds. Thea’s pulse gave a faint, grateful leap: any interruption would be a mercy.
Then a familiar voice carried through the open air as Mr. Winwood called from beyond the roses, “Miss Keats, there you are.”
The strain melted from Phoebe’s posture, and her eyes gleamed as her mouth curved into a smile so bright it banished every shadow, and Thea hardly had time to process the shift before the lady rose to her feet.
The gentleman appeared from around the hydrangea bush, sunlight glinting off the brass buttons of his coat, with an equally bright smile upon his face and a small bouquet in his hand.
“What a pleasant surprise. How glad we are to see you today,” said Phoebe as she stepped forward to greet him.
Mr. Winwood stopped short, surprise flickering across his face so quickly that Thea would’ve missed it had she not been watching.
But she saw it plainly: the quick lift of his brows, the faint tightening about his mouth.
He recovered at once, of course, with a polite bow and a smile, yet the moment’s hesitation left Thea wondering what, precisely, had brought him there—and whether Phoebe’s joy was misplaced.
“Miss Voss, I assure you the pleasure is all mine,” he said with a bow of the head.
Phoebe motioned toward the table. “We are enjoying the fine weather. The farmers may bemoan the dry summer, but it is an artist’s paradise. Please, join us.”
If the gentleman thought it odd that Phoebe quickly moved into the role of hostess when it clearly belonged to Thea, he gave no notice, and Thea did not begrudge her friend the oversight.
“I do not wish to intrude,” he said with such disappointment weighing down his tone that one might think it was the greatest of disappointments. “I did not intend to interrupt your painting.”
“Nonsense,” said Phoebe, stepping forward to usher him to the table. “We can have a chair brought round, and there are plenty of refreshments. And we would certainly welcome the company as we work, wouldn’t we?”
“Of course,” said Thea, giving the fellow a decisive nod before moving to call a servant—though she paused when she spied Mina’s expression.
The discomfort was evident in the tightness of her lips and shoulders, though the lady said not a word of disapproval, and though Thea did not wish to make her cousin unhappy, she couldn’t allow Phoebe’s opportunity to slip by.
“Those are beautiful,” said Phoebe, reaching for the posy.
But Mr. Winwood pulled away.
Clearing his throat, he glanced at Mina. “These are for Miss Ashbrook.”