Chapter Twelve
Dear Owen,
I hope you do not mind, but I’ve commandeered the room at the back of the coastal house for a studio.
There is a small pottery operation in the town, in fact, and they have allowed me to use their kiln until I am able to construct my own.
I have enclosed a cost estimate for the studio expenses this quarter.
I could not wait for it to be running properly to get my hands on the clay!
I made you the vase in this box. I do not know if you have need of a vase, but I do recall that the Duke of Swynford’s house has a lovely garden out back.
Perhaps the Duchess of Swynford can help you find some nice flowers for it.
I chose the glaze colors based on things that remind me of you, so I hope it is to your taste or goes well with your decor in London.
The blue matches almost precisely the color of the walls in the main parlor at Caer Newydd, although, to be honest, the color reminds me of your eyes.
I have met a delightful woman called Catrin who lives just a short distance up the road. She has taken a keen interest in pottery, so I have been teaching her how to work the wheel. She has such a talent for it that we may soon have our own pottery company right here at the house…
The box had been a curiosity, but as soon as Owen had seen the letter, he nearly ripped it in his eagerness. It was foolish of him to get so excited about Grace’s letters, but somehow, he still got a thrill whenever the post arrived and a letter in her hand was among the contents.
She’d made him something. And she’d put some thought into it.
The box itself had been carefully packed. He had one of the footmen fetch him a hammer so that he could use the claw to pry the nails out. Inside, wrapped in blanket surrounded by crumpled up newspaper was indeed a vase. He pulled it out and looked at it.
It was exquisite. It was about eight inches wide at its widest and eighteen inches tall with a rounded belly and then a twist through the middle that opened up to a top that reminded him of the bloom of a lily.
The piece was gleaming white, though she’d painted a blue lily and some leaves on the belly of it.
He’d never seen anything like it, and the piece struck him as quite beautiful.
She’d carved a swirly GT on the base—for Grace Thomas, he assumed.
He put the vase in a place of honor in his dining room, far from frequent foot traffic, but in a safe spot where it could be admired.
Thus he invited commentary on it when he hosted a dinner party a week later.
He had not originally intended to host a large party.
Originally, he had just wanted to have Rockingham round for dinner to talk Parliament business, but then Beresford overheard him mention Rockingham’s name and had chimed in that Rockingham had a niece on the short list of potential brides and insisted on inviting himself.
And then Lark, in a jealous pique, had invited himself as well, and suddenly Owen was hosting a dozen people for dinner.
Beresford was the first to arrive at the dinner party, and as Owen poured him a glass of sherry, he said, “I thought you did not want to marry.”
“I don’t.” Beresford’s tone was hard.
“Then why insist I invite Rockingham’s niece to this party?”
“So that I can verify that she is just as dull as the rest of them, and then report back to my mother that she will not do.”
“Right.” Owen handed him the glass.
Dinner was fine, if a little awkward at times.
Owen had put Rockingham at his left so that they might discuss the Luddite rebellions.
Rockingham seemed to not have any particular conviction but was interested in stopping the rebellions—“Those machines are so expensive, it won’t do to have angry workers destroy them”—but in the end, Owen secured his vote.
His niece, a lovely girl named Charlotte, seemed intelligent and charming.
She wasn’t the prettiest girl Owen had ever seen—like Rockingham, she had a nose that was too big for her face and she paled in comparison to Grace—but he found nothing objectionable about her.
Beresford seemed unmoved, though, as though meeting her was just another item to strike from his list. Lark watched every interaction between them like a hawk.
Hugh had brought his wife, who was always delightful company.
And Fletcher had brought his friend Lady Louisa, reasoning that there should be a few women at the party so that Charlotte did not feel too singled out.
And then Owen had invited two other MPs and their wives to round out the table, but they all seemed disinterested in discussing government business.
After dinner, Owen urged his guests to their respective gender’s rooms. Wine and conversation for the women in the front sitting room, brandy and cigars for the gentlemen.
Lark and Beresford lingered after Owen saw everyone out of the dining room, and Beresford said, “I’ve been staring at that vase all night. It’s quite striking.”
Curious about where Beresford was going with this, Owen said, “Oh?”
“Is it a Makepeace?”
“A what?”
“The artist, Gerard Makepeace. He’s a pottery designer.
He makes the most beautiful vases. I have several of his pieces in my home.
Rutherford has a few, too. Didn’t I mention it at the ball?
Makepeace is extraordinary talented, although also reclusive.
I keep telling the proprietor at the shop that sells his work that I’d love to meet him, but apparently he is not interested in interacting with the adoring public.
” Beresford took a step closer to the vase and leaned down to look at it.
“I suppose you are the sort of philistine who just spotted it and thought it would look nice in your dining room.”
“I will admit to knowing little about pottery,” Owen said, feeling amused now.
“He’s like this,” Lark said to Owen. “One learns to grow patient with it.”
“Do you mind if I pick this up?” Beresford asked.
“As long as you’re careful.”
“Of course!” Beresford picked up the vase and turned it over. “Hmm. This looks similar to Makepeace’s mark, but it says GT instead of GM. Now I’m curious. Do you know who the artist is or did you just pick it up because you like lilies?”
Owen laughed. “Actually, Grace made it.”
“Grace? Your wife, Grace? My former fiancée, Grace?”
“Yes, that Grace. She turned my seaside cottage into a pottery studio and she made and sent me that. It arrived a few days ago.”
“Oh.” Beresford put the vase back on its end table. “Gracie made this? Little Gracie Midwood.”
“Grace Thomas, the Countess of Caernarfon, but yes.”
“Hmm. Interesting that Gerard Makepeace and Grace Midwood have the same initials.” Beresford waved his hand. “A coincidence, I’m sure. This really is a beautiful piece, though. Grace is far more talented than I knew.”
Owen nodded. “I know little about pottery, but I did like the vase. I suppose I should put flowers in it or something, but I like it sitting there empty. It feels more like it is worth displaying on its own, and not just used as a functional item.”
“Indeed,” said Beresford, giving the painted lilies another look. “It’s a beautiful piece. It should be displayed.”
Lark turned to leave the room. “If we’re done here, I could do well with a glass or five of whiskey.”
*
Lark had seemed angry all evening, so when they finally retired to the bedroom in his house, Anthony said, “All right, let me have it.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re clearly upset with me. So I’m telling you that there’s no need to keep it bottled up. Yell at me. Tell me to go to the devil. Let me have it.”
Lark had dismissed his valet a few minutes before and was presently fiddling with the cufflinks on his shirt. Anthony had already rid himself of his coat and breeches and sat on the bed in his shirt and drawers, waiting for Lark to come to bed.
But first, they needed to resolve whatever fit Lark was silently throwing.
“I’m not—” Lark started, but he shook his head. “I’m not angry at you. Well, I am a bit, because you made me think you intended to consider Lady Charlotte a viable option for a wife and then ignored her through most of dinner. But that’s not my main issue.”
“Then what is your main issue?”
“How long can we carry on, Anthony? Realistically. You’re making light of this situation, which is what you always do, but you agreed you’d find a wife by the end of next Season. Where does that leave us?”
“Lark.”
“My family feels less invested in my securing a wife. And now that Laurence is courting the Everleigh girl, I suspect soon enough there will be a baby to whom I can bequeath my title.” Laurence was Lark’s younger brother.
“Laurence was always the more responsible one anyway. Or, I don’t know, perhaps my father will outlive us all. ”
Beresford nodded at that. Lark’s father, the Marquess of Beaufort, seemed impervious to the ravages of time.
He’d just turned sixty but had the energy of a much younger man and kept up a lively social schedule.
Beresford sometimes joked that, at the end of time, after society crumbled, all that would remain would be cockroaches and Beaufort.
“But you could marry,” Beresford said. “That is, you are not cursed to only find men sexually appealing. You are fond of women, too. You’ve lain with your fair share of them.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t want to.”
“Not tomorrow. Who knows what the future holds, but I do not feel I have to, and certainly not while I am still carrying on with you. Which brings us back around to my larger point, which is that you will not be mine for much longer. And I find myself torn between ending things now to spare myself the heartbreak later, and holding on to you for as long as you’re still mine. ”
“Heartbreak?”
“You know as well as I do that the main reason we are still together is that we are… emotionally attached.”
“Emotionally attached.”