Chapter 18
Arabella
Lady Farthington did not respond to Mama’s dinner invitation until the following morning at breakfast. What a relief to tell Clodwick that he could finally meet her.
“I am overjoyed,” he said flatly when I told him over my plate of ham and eggs. Neither his expression nor his hunched shoulders did anything to display emotions that matched his words, but I believed him. Sometimes a woman just knew what the man she was going to marry was thinking.
“How is your wrist this morning, Miss Delafield?” Rowan asked, reaching forward and refilling my water glass.
The footman could have done it, but I admit it was nice seeing a man act the part of a gentleman—especially this one.
What surprised me more was his continual concern about my wrist. No one else besides my parents had remembered to ask about it.
“It is much improved this morning.” There was still a bruise, but the swelling had almost completely disappeared. “Thank you for asking,” I added as an afterthought.
“You’re most welcome.”
I tried not to read into his sincerity. It both bothered me and intrigued me when I wished to have my mind empty of thoughts of him altogether. Today was about pleasing Mr. Clodwick by finally unveiling my paintings.
By the time we finished eating, everyone had gathered in the breakfast room besides Mr. Mason, who had slipped out for a ride.
I didn’t care to showcase my unpracticed painting skills for all and sundry; however, I could not bring Clodwick to the conservatory alone.
It would not only be improper, but the very idea made me a tad nervous.
I was certain it was natural for a bride-to-be to feel this way.
Someday soon we would be married, and by then, I had no doubt that I would be comfortable with the idea of being alone together.
“Would anyone be willing to trek up to the third floor to the conservatory?” I asked the room at large. “I have promised to show Mr. Clodwick my paintings.” My eyes settled first on Tabitha and then Elizabeth, my brow arched in question.
“I know you long for the company of a wise old man,” Father said, “but my solicitor should be here at any moment.
“And I must review the menu if Lady Farthington has agreed to join us tomorrow,” Mama said.
I really hadn’t meant to invite them in particular, but their responses made me smile.
“I will join you,” Rowan announced, his cheeky smile momentarily distracting me.
“Anyone else?” I asked, pointedly ignoring him.
“Elizabeth and I will come.” Tabitha stared at Elizabeth, brows raised.
I had shared my concerns about Elizabeth with Tabitha before bed, and she and I were determined to watch Elizabeth and keep her from throwing away her future on a handsome groomsman—who we had learned through a little sleuthing knew how to read and write and might be the source of all her correspondence.
“I appreciate the company,” I said to my sisters, before reluctantly including Rowan in my gaze. We all pushed back in our seats and stood, dropping our napkins on the table. I waited for Mr. Clodwick to come to my side before accepting his arm and leading the way from the room.
My sisters followed closely behind us, laughing at something Rowan said.
Once we were all enclosed in the conservatory, warm sunlight bathing the room, I released Mr. Clodwick’s arm and took a wide step away from him.
I would not complain about my lack of attraction, but neither could I force myself to enjoy his nearness for overlong.
It was a small problem—one I was certain I could address once we were married.
“Shall we see your paintings?” Clodwick asked.
I had been so caught up in my thoughts, I had momentarily forgotten to find them. “Oh, certainly.”
“I will fetch them.” Tabitha crossed to the opposite end of the room where a large easel stood. “I know where to look.” She rifled through the leather case on the tiled floor and pulled out three paintings tied in a pink ribbon. “Oh . . .”
“What is it?” I asked.
“They are not quite as I remember.” She slipped the ribbon off and peered at one and then another. “I suppose it has been three or so years since I’ve seen them. I cannot be expected to remember every detail.”
Her sheepish laugh left me uneasy. “I hardly remember them myself.” I had tried to tell everyone that she had exaggerated my talent. I wasn’t Girtin or Sandby, but at least I was decent enough not to be ashamed.
Tabitha crossed the room and handed me the paintings.
I blinked several times. The one on top was clearly a house with two lines for outer walls and a black rectangular roof.
The door was another rectangle and completely out of proportion—as if a toddler had painted it.
I frowned and held it away from me. “I didn’t paint this. ”
“Let me have a look,” Rowan said. “I have been just as anxious as Clodwick to see your hidden talent.” He took the simple watercolor house from my extended hand. “Ah, a . . . house.”
“A solid guess,” I bit out sarcastically.
“And look, your initials: A.D. How old do you suppose you were when you painted it? Four? Five?”
I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing, especially since I knew these were not my paintings. I reached for it, and as soon as I had it in my hand, Rowan grabbed the next in the pile. A stick figure girl lying underneath a tree. My eyes widened.
He clucked his tongue. “Did you paint someone who died, Miss Delafield?” Then he bent forward and whispered. “I am not sure that’s in good taste.”
I snatched that one back too, dropping the third in the process. “I am quite certain I did not paint any of these. Tabitha, look again inside the case. There has to be more.”
Mr. Clodwick picked up the third painting, and I grimaced. The moment of reckoning had come, and I couldn’t even say what the pictures were of. A series of vertical lines covered the bottom half, and the top was dots. Lots and lots of dots. Perhaps I had done these as a toddler.
“What an interesting painting.” Mr. Clodwick turned and held it up to the window as if the natural light would improve it. “What is it?” he asked.
I barely withheld a groan. “I couldn’t say.”
“It’s flowers, obviously.” Rowan strode to Mr. Clodwick’s side and tapped it. “See, this is a rose.”
There was nothing obvious about it to me. Wait, how did he know the details of the painting? My eyes narrowed. Did he have something to do with this?
Tabitha returned to my side. “The only other art belongs to Mama.”
“Extraordinary,” Mr. Clodwick announced, his voice fluctuating in tone the barest degree. “I have never seen anything like it. We must have it framed.”
“Pardon?” I asked.
A small smile hovered on his lips—a generous smile if I might say. “I want to hang it over the drawing room mantel at Gravehurst.”
“You do?” The offer was unaccountably sweet. But then again, all the art he valued was locked up in his gallery. Even so, I could tell in his eyes that this was costing him, and I was truly thankful to him. Beyond all that superstition and paranoia was a good heart.
Rowan coughed. “Did you say Gravehurst? That’s the name of your house?”
Mr. Clodwick nodded.
“Perhaps you should pick the painting of the dead girl then.”
I had to bite my tongue to stop the sudden desire to laugh. Even if it had been a good joke, it was in poor taste. I cleared my throat and forced a glare. “None of these are being framed. Once I find my actual paintings, Mr. Clodwick may have his choice of any of those.”
“At a price though, right?” Rowan asked. “Because if your talent is at all improved from this,” he tapped the page of lines and dots, “then they could be worth at least a shilling.”
“Very funny.” Mr. Clodwick’s praise was worth much more than a shilling to me.
Not everyone could praise such a pathetic painting.
His gentle kindness had been one of the reasons I had thought we had suited from the beginning.
With Rowan around, I had nearly forgotten this desirable attribute, as it was often a quiet quality and outshone by others.
“Can I keep the one of the house?” Rowan asked, standing much too close. “That one is the best of three, I think. And if Clodwick gets to keep the roses, then it’s only fair I get the house.”
“Take it,” I said, thoroughly annoyed. “You likely know the real painter better than I do.”
He nodded. “We did grow up together.”
“That is not what I meant.”
He looked genuinely confused.
I was about to accuse him of substituting my paintings, but his expression left me unsure.
Which meant, even though my wrist was improving, I probably should not hit him again.
“Never mind. I have a headache. Excuse me, Mr. Clodwick. I will see you at dinner.” Not even for him could I summon better manners.
Once he had a chance to think on how completely unartistic I was, he would be excessively disappointed.
It would be up to Lady Farthington to impress him now.
Otherwise, I might end up engaged to Rowan Ashworth. Heaven forbid. He was back to his old tricks. I knew he hadn’t changed completely, and somehow I would prove he was responsible for this catastrophe.