Chapter Eleven #3
Sir Harry Emerson stood in the middle of a pile of wood and packing material. Two paintings leaned against the wall and two footmen lifted another out of the last crate under his supervision.
“Oy, careful! That’s canvas, not a piece of steel.”
“What an intriguing man.” To her surprise, Francesca stood at her side. She replied to Diantha’s raised eyebrows with a shrug. “You didn’t think I was going to stay for another of Iona’s lectures, did you?”
Diantha chuckled. “Come along then.” She descended the rest of the stairs. “Harry! You’re making a mess.”
“I expected you needed a diversion.” His easy smile widened to include her companion. “Besides, you brought reinforcements.”
“Francesca, please allow me to present Sir Harry Emerson, a dear, if untidy, friend of my family’s. Harry, Lady Francesca Urquhart.”
He bowed. “My pleasure, your ladyship.”
A flush spread across her new friend’s face, but she kept her composure. “Don’t let Diantha frighten you off with my title. Your accent tells me you are from Yorkshire, sir.”
Harry straightened, his face neutral. “Aye.”
“I grew up not far from Helmsley.” Francesca bestowed one of her wonderful smiles on him.
The industrialist gave her one in return that Diantha could only describe as foolish. “I’m from Hull myself.”
“Harry! I thought I heard your voice!” Her father emerged from the billiard room at the back of the house, looking genuinely pleased for the first time since his arrival.
Kieran followed him, a frown marring his face. “Emerson. I did not know Diantha invited you.”
She had prepared herself for this reaction. “I invited him for Papa’s sake.”
“Thankee, my girl.” Her father patted her shoulder in an awkward gesture of affection.
“What do you think?” Harry waved a hand at the paintings. “Dina commissioned me to purchase these before she left Paris.”
Papa peered at them. “Can’t tell what they’re supposed to be.”
“They do seem to have rather a lot of daubs.” Francesca tilted her head to one side.
Kieran came to Diantha’s side. She could smell the lavender and bay of his soap. “That’s what you asked him about at the Opera?” His eyes twinkled. “Dina?”
Her father harrumphed. “Silly pet name, Mrs. Quinn’s mother started calling her that in the nursery.”
“Hetty always swore the name suited her.” Harry cleared his throat. “My late wife.”
“It’s called impressionist painting. Step back here.” The words all but squeaked out as she led them nearly to the front door. At a distance the paintings resolved themselves into outdoor scenes that captured sunlight and shadow as it fell on buildings, meadows, and people.
“How clever.” Francesca sighed wistfully. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to a proper gallery.”
Kieran nodded. “We’ll have to find a place to hang them where they’ll show to best advantage. For now, we should put them in the study and let the rest of our guests take a look at them.”
“I am so gratified that you like them.” Her heart danced at his approval, though, of course, she did not dare throw her arms around his neck as she wished. “Of course, Harry deserves the credit for finding them.”
“Indeed.” Kieran held out his hand. “You’re quite the connoisseur, Emerson.”
“Self-taught, no more.” Despite the gruff words, the Yorkshireman failed to hide his pride.
Her guests occupied her time over the next days.
Advised by Kieran’s mother, she had prepared activities for both sunny and inclement weather.
Sunny days brought walks through the garden, and sketching parties for the ladies.
Kieran oversaw fishing excursions and practice shooting sessions for the men.
On rainy days and in the evenings, guests occupied themselves with cards, charades, or games like “Twenty Questions.” Others played the piano in the drawing room or sang.
The day before grouse shooting started featured a picnic near the estate’s fishing village.
The community welcomed Mr. Quinn particularly, and he responded by becoming as human as Diantha had ever seen him.
Under her mother’s horrified eyes, he and Harry examined the existing fleet of boats and bantered with their crews.
Mrs. Quinn pressed a scented handkerchief to her lips. “Everyone else is staring! I shall die of mortification!”
Diantha barely heard her, for she could not take her eyes off Kieran.
He spoke to nearly every man, calling them by name and asking after their families. The wind blew his dark waves of hair around his perfect profile as he spoke to one of the youngest fishermen.
They seemed to be arguing about something and she wondered what the trouble could be.
Iona bustled up, scowling. “Come away, it’s time to leave.”
Diantha’s brows snapped together. “I do beg your pardon, Aunt, but as hostess I believe that is my decision.”
Barclay, following his mother, attempted to placate both of them.
“That was a bit abrupt of Mother, but indeed, there’s no need to linger.
I daresay Kieran can bring your father and Sir Harry along after they’ve finished with their new acquaintances.
” He drew the final word out in a sarcastic manner that set her teeth on edge.
She dug in her heels at his condescension until she caught sight of the others aimlessly sitting and standing near the carriages. “Very well, Barclay.” She stretched her lips into a saccharine smile. “You may escort my mother.”
She took Iona’s arm, which she knew the other woman would detest. “Shall we go, Aunt?”
Several of their guests looked askance when Kieran arrived at the picnic site with Papa and Harry, but the three men ignored the stares.
After the meal, Kieran signaled the footmen.
Grinning, they produced several long bags from under carriage seats.
Their owners pulled out long clubs that ended in thick wood knobs or narrow iron blades.
Alarmed, Diantha wondered if the Scots were about to engage in some sort of ritual combat, like fencing.
One of the friendlier Rossburn relatives rubbed his hands together. “Now for the entire point of the day! Did you bring the gutties, laddie?”
With a grin, her husband opened a box filled with small, pale spheres. “Hard to play golf without them.”
They offered to teach the game to those unfamiliar with it. Diantha declined, but her brothers tried their hands at it. To Diantha’s amazement, the Scots, male and female, spent the next hours whacking the balls into a series of holes among the heath that grew just beyond the seashore.
“That is the most absurd thing I have ever seen.” She addressed the remark to Mama as they sipped lemonade some distance away from the course.
“Lawn tennis is more enlivening. But I’m told that royalty patronizes some golf clubs. Perhaps you should take up the game.”
Iona sat nearby, watching Barclay play. “That would be most suitable. The dowager baroness never did take up the game.”
Which only demonstrated her mother-in-law’s good sense. Diantha kept the words to herself to preserve the rare accord between the two women.