Chapter Twenty-Six
Meanwhile, requests for portraits by Mr. Fielding continued to arrive, especially when friends of Lord and Lady Bushnell either saw his portrait of Genevieve, or heard from them and others how extraordinary it was.
In the end, having thought it over, the artist decided he would, after all, accept more commissions, even those that came from further away than he would normally have contemplated.
He would complete as many as he could now, so that he didn’t have to work at all in the coldest months.
He remembered the previous winter. He had often worked in rooms so cold that the paint would be unworkable, and in barns heated only by the animals in them, then had to walk to inns where he might or might not find a bed.
No, this year, he would earn enough while the weather held to keep them all comfortably until the spring, with more than enough to eat and ample wood for fires in all the rooms. When he told Cynthia his plan, she protested, not about his not working in the cold, which she thoroughly supported, but about his spending money on fuel for them.
He turned a deaf ear to all her protests.
“I want us all to be warm without you worrying about the cost of fuel,” he said. “I plan to sit by a roaring fire all day and have you read to me.”
“In that case, we’d better not only buy more wood but more books.” Cynthia smiled. “I think we’ve exhausted what we have.”
“You misunderstand, my dear Miss Rowley,” he replied. “I don’t care about the book or the story. It’s your voice washing over me that fills me with contentment. And playing with Teacup, of course. My days will be very full. I have my program worked out already.”
He recited as if from a list:
“Mr. Fielding shall:
Rise when he smells the breakfast in the kitchen.
Eat a hearty meal and converse with Ruby and Will.
Go to the henhouse to collect the eggs and talk to the hens.
Dust while Miss Rowley sweeps, or sweep while she dusts.
Sit by the fire and play with Teacup until dinner.
Eat a hearty dinner.
After dinner, sit by the fire while Miss Rowley reads to him.
If she is sewing, play with Teacup
At teatime, eat a hearty tea.
Sit by the fire with Miss Rowley and Teacup until it gets dark.
Go to bed.”
Cynthia laughed. “I can tell you are going to be fearfully busy. I don’t know how you’re going to fit it all in.”
So Andrew wrote back to the people wanting portraits setting out his terms: He would require a carriage to take him and his equipment to the home of the subject and back.
If it was more than ten miles from home, he would require a room and meals for as many nights as the portrait took.
He raised his price to a level that would have made Cynthia gasp, had he allowed her to see it.
It is well known that the more a thing costs, the more people value it.
Not a single potential customer refused these terms. Accordingly, Mr. Fielding ordered more paints and canvas from London, and when they arrived, departed on one commission after the other.
If the location of the new commission was closer to where he had just finished than to Cynthia’s, he would go straight there, rather than come home, with the result he was sometimes away for weeks at a time.
During this period, Cynthia found herself being hailed by Mr. Vernon every time she was returning home from the village or from visiting the Vicar’s wife.
She would just have walked past the church when she would hear the clopping of a horse behind her.
It would be the sexton in his gig, offering to take her home.
She wasn’t to know that he would see her going into the village and keep a watch for her return.
The first time it happened, she had been astonished to hear her name being called, and to see the gig draw up beside her.
“I’m glad I come along, Miss Rowley,” said the sexton. “It’s a tidy step back home fer yer, and I’ve got this new gig, as you see.”
This purchase had caused him a good deal of thought.
He had been using his old cart, but once he had convinced himself that he was in no danger from the artist, and, in fact, rarely saw the man, he wanted to press his suit with the spinster.
A lady like Miss Cynthia wouldn’t take kindly to a cart, he reasoned.
It was worth shelling out the blunt for a gig.
Old Rufus would pull that just as well as the old cart.
Besides, if he played his cards right and did a part exchange, he considered he could get a gig for not too much more than the value of the cart.
So here he was, proudly trotting up in a vehicle that, if it wasn’t this year’s model, or even last year’s, or the one before that, was definitely a step up in the world.
Cynthia had no desire to ride beside Mr. Vernon, but she didn’t like to hurt his feelings.
He seemed so proud of his new vehicle. He, however, was perfectly sure she would accept the ride and had already jumped down to take her elbow and urge her up the steps.
She mounted them, thankful there was no one around to see them.
She knew only too well what the gossip mill was, and the last thing she wanted was for her name to be linked with that of the sexton.
The following Sunday Mr. Fielding wasn’t in church, and Mr. Vernon offered to give her a ride home.
She couldn’t think of an excuse quickly enough.
She couldn’t say she would enjoy the walk, because it had come on to drizzle.
Not for the first time did she regret the lack of foresight she and her mother had shown when they had purchased their own gig.
At that time, they had only thought about her and her mother, and a two-seater was deemed sufficient.
But now that Will and Ruby were getting older, she felt selfish taking it herself and making them walk.
So after a good deal of argument, they usually drove and she walked.
She didn’t mind walking. When Mr. Fielding was at home, Cynthia and he would walk together, and she positively enjoyed it.
When he wasn’t, she would stride along, smiling at their remembered conversations, and thinking of all she would tell him when he got home.
Will and Ruby would be there before them, and Will would bring in the wood, build up the fire in the parlor and sit down for his Sunday beer, while Ruby got the dinner ready for when the other two arrived.
She therefore didn’t particularly want to ride with Mr. Vernon, and especially not to have the whole congregation see them get into the gig together. Cynthia wondered why he was constantly offering to drive her. She thought perhaps the vicar’s wife had asked him to see her home safely.
She tried to make pleasant conversation with him at first, asking about his job and if he was content to have made the switch from his earlier employment.
He answered her briefly, but showed no inclination to introduce topics of his own.
After that, their rides had been mostly achieved in silence.
It was most odd, and she was trying to work out a way of politely refusing his offer in the future.
For his part, Ben Vernon was beginning to be more than a little frustrated.
He had picked her up several times on weekdays and had driven her home after church more than once.
The first time, they’d had a bit of a chat, but after that, she just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, quiet as a mouse.
It was true he didn’t want a rattlepate for a wife, but his Jenny had always been ready with something to say, and that was what he expected from a woman.
Miss Rowley just thanked him very kindly for the ride and went indoors without a backward glance.
On Sunday, he could smell the dinner and had thought she would invite him in.
It wasn’t natural for a woman to leave a man hungry like that.
She must have known he was ready for a meal.
He cast his mind back to when he was courting his Jenny.
How had they got around to it? As far as he could remember, she’d been the one who’d given him the glad eye, edged close to him and that sort of thing.
He couldn’t remember doing anything much himself.
’Course, Miss Rowley was more of a lady, and she’d been a spinster all her life, don’t forget.
She probably needed a bit of coaxing. He just hoped that artist would stay away.
He didn’t like to see them walking off together of a Sunday, talking nineteen to the dozen, when she hardly had a word to say to him.