Chapter 8 #2
If Lady Hartwell wished for Emily to court her son, the baron, that ought to count as a small victory.
And an honor, truly. Courting a baron would fulfill her family’s hopes and expectations for her.
Marrying a man with wealth or a title would solidify their attainment of nobility.
Helping their position in Society. A thing her father wanted.
But she wasn’t certain she wanted more of what London had offered, when every day left her thinking of green hills and quiet afternoons in a comfortable home.
The time before she had worried overmuch about suitors, enjoying local assemblies and balls without the worry over marriage, had not been perfect.
But it was easier than this. Back then, she had known marriage would come if it was meant to, that her family expected her to care for the home as their parents aged, that her marrying was of no consequence to anyone but herself.
Bending closer to a rose, to inhale its fragrance directly, she winced when the strength of the scent made her head throb. With a hand to her temple, she walked on. Not about to make that mistake again.
Romanticizing the past would not benefit her in the least. Best to focus on the present circumstances.
Mr. Eastwood had saved her at the dinner table.
She could not forget that. Nor could she forget the warmth in his eyes when she first arrived that evening, as though he looked forward to seeing her.
His encouraging glances at dinner, even before he put a stop to talk of gossip and rumor, had kept her from falling silent.
Lyness Eastwood made her feel welcome and even wanted.
“Ridiculous,” she chastised herself. “He is merely kind. A true gentleman.”
The memory of his smile stayed with her, though. It eased something in her chest, to know he enjoyed her company.
As though summoned by her thoughts, Lyness stepped out into the garden at that moment. She saw the movement from the corner of her eye, and turned to find him there, already coming down the few steps to ground level, coming to her with an open smile.
Her heart skipped and her stomach dipped, to see him approach with a warmth in his gaze she was not accustomed to.
When he was mere steps away, he spoke. “Here you are, Lady Emily. I hope I am not intruding. I only… needed a moment’s peace myself.” The air between them seemed to soften, or perhaps it was only her heart. “Will you forgive me for inflicting my company on your quiet contemplation?”
“I cannot think of ever objecting to your company, Mr. Eastwood,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow warmer as she spoke. “You are most welcome. Especially given that these are your family’s gardens. I would be a rude beast if I tried to keep you out of them.”
He appeared happy to hear her welcome, though it did not strike her as the most elegant of speeches.
“I will never object to your company either, my lady.” He tipped his head forward, then offered his arm. “Tell me, what do you think of my mother’s roses?”
She looked about her as she slid her hand through the crook of his arm. “She has so many. I think roses are beautiful, of course. One cannot find them otherwise. But I have never been in a garden that has so many.”
“To the exclusion of most other plants,” Lyness said with a shake of his head. “The different varieties cheer her. It means more colors, shapes, and different blooming seasons. At least, a little difference in seasons.”
“It is a good occupation, I think, for anyone to garden. Or to work with living things.” She looked down the row of rosebushes. “It makes me miss my own garden, though it was not so elegant, as an herbal garden.”
That pulled an expression of interest from him, with his head tilted to one side and his eyebrows drawing together. “Herbal? And what did you do with your garden’s bounty?”
“I made things. Useful things.”
“Such as?” A smile tugged at his lips as he asked. “I am curious.”
The genuine interest in his tone and eyes gave her leave to relax. “Simple things. Oils and tinctures. Home remedies for teas and aches. Nothing that would pass for ladylike accomplishment.”
“But my lady, you are mistaken,” he said so quickly she startled.
He chuckled and ducked his head. “Forgive my enthusiasm, but ladies of all stations often devote a part of their time to herbal gardens. They make perfumes, medicines, artwork, all of it from their herbs and flowers. Most have stillrooms dedicated to such things, where they can dry their flowers and sort them into bottles or steam them into droughts. Has no one told you this?”
Her eyebrows crept higher with his words, she slowly shook her head.
“No. But then, I suppose they were busy telling me all the things that I did not yet know about behavior. And I never thought to ask. I doubt my brother and sister-in-law even know of my interest, with Jack away so much from the family. I have made quite a show of weeding Juniper’s gardens, though. ”
“We must amend that at once,” he said quietly. “You ought to have your own stillroom.”
Excitement bloomed in her heart. She had kept a stillroom, which was more the size of a closet, in her father’s country house.
She had distilled, steeped, dried, and preserved a variety of things for their family’s use.
The house her family had in London had a stillroom, but it was part of the housekeeper’s responsibilities.
She had seen it during the tour, and assumed that at her station she was not to bother with it, that only a housekeeper would see to such things in a noble household.
“You do not think it would be presumptuous to ask for one, truly? Or beneath my station to tend to such things?”
He shook his head adamantly. “No. Not at all. And I must confess, my lady, that I now wonder what other things you might enjoy that you have put aside without reason.”
That pulled a soft laugh from her. “I cannot think of much else. I still draw, and that is one of my great joys, though I doubt I will ever feel confident enough to paint. Even though I am told watercolors are quite the thing for ladies.”
“Watercolors, yes. But drawing itself…I do still wish to see more of your work. If you ever find you wish to share it. I am not a great artist—”
Here she interrupted him, a thing that most would consider terribly vulgar, and yet she could not help protesting. “But you are—I saw the placards in the curiosity cabinet your mother keeps. Your hand is elegant. We also agreed at the ruins that calligraphy is its own art.”
Rather than appear put out by her outburst, his smile turned into a broad grin.
The first she had seen from him, and she immediately matched it with her own.
“I certainly enjoy it, but I cannot call it an art. Roman thinks it a waste of time, and I confess, there is no use for it beyond little things, like my mother’s cabinet.
” He nodded in the direction of the house.
“Making words beautiful could never be useless,” she argued immediately. “I would like to see something else you have done, besides those tiny cards for your mother.”
“I would be delighted to show you. If you show me some of your sketches,” he added with a gleam in his eye. “There now. That is a bargain, is it not?”
“No, that is terrible,” she protested, though she could not help coloring the words with a laugh.
“Mr. Eastwood, you will find nothing sophisticated in my drawings, I assure you. They are mostly from the countryside. Fields. Hedgerows. And cows, rather more often than I ought to admit. You saw the best of it at the abbey.”
His chuckle warmed her. It was the first time she had heard such unguarded amusement from him.
“Then you see beauty where others see labor,” he said.
“I think you will be pleasantly surprised by my interest in your art, Lady Emily. I am often at our country house. Indeed, I prefer it to York. I manage my family’s estate while my brother sees to matters in the city and county.
I enjoy the work, and it is a somewhat traditional role for younger brothers in my father’s line. ”
“It must be fulfilling,” she said, sobering somewhat. “Feeling essential in that way. I rather miss it, at times.”
“Essential. That is the right word for it. Knowing I am protecting my family’s interests and legacy is something.
” His smile faded and he looked toward the house.
His tone turned wistful. “Sometimes, merely being useful feels like a defense of sorts. It keeps one from being overlooked. Or a burden on the family.”
She met his gaze squarely when he looked at her again, her heart going out to him. “I understand that better than you think.”
For a moment, they were quiet, looking at one another.
She studied his gaze, the depth of his eyes, the sweep of his hair, and she wondered what thoughts filled his mind.
If she asked, would he tell her? She was thinking, at that moment, of brushing a curl back from his forehead.
Of telling him that he was not overlooked.
That she saw him. That she rather liked him, too.
Except there was a sudden sound of boots on pavement, and they both turned to see Lord Hartwell coming down the path toward them.
“Ah, here you are, Lady Emily. Lyness. Mother wondered if you had managed to become lost in her garden.” He sounded amused, and when he stopped before the two of them, he looked between them with interest. “Though I admit, it is far nicer out here than in the drawing room at present. There is an argument underway about whether we ought to dance, play charades, or continue in our own pursuits. I think they mean to put it to a vote, and we have need of you both to settle on how to fill the evening.”
Mr. Eastwood had grown stiff as his brother spoke, and withdrew his arm from hers, tucking his hands behind his back.
Something about his posture struck her as defensive.
The tip of his head, when it occurred, deferential.
It wasn’t something she had seen from him before.
“Of course. We will come inside at once. We were merely speaking of our enjoyment of fresh air. Country air.”
Lord Hartwell extended his arm to Emily, and she took it after casting a glance at Lyness. “We will have plenty of that at the races soon enough. For now, there is company to keep indoors.”
Something about the moment felt wrong. Stiff. And taking the elder brother’s arm while the younger walked behind them did not sit well with her. The camaraderie with Mr. Eastwood vanished, and she found herself trying to remember her own polite expression and appropriate posture.
Lord Hartwell’s manners were perfect, and he was quite handsome.
Yet she already missed the less formal, more relaxed manner of Lyness, and the ease of his company.
She never stopped to consider if her behavior was correct when they spoke.
Why was that? Why could she not be as comfortable and confident with herself in the baron’s company?
Surely, she must be doing something wrong, and the guilt of that made her speak in a softer, apologetic tone.
“I hope we were not away too long. I have no wish to worry your mother. Her roses were so delightful, though, I quite forgot myself.” A small exaggeration would not hurt, surely. It was better than admitting she preferred his brother’s company to an entire party of people.
“You must tell her that,” the baron said, a pleasantness to his tone. “She enjoys speaking of them in great detail.”
It ought to have been simple to switch from one brother’s company to the other. Especially given that both were kind and well mannered. Both intelligent. Lord Hartwell was the one she ought to give her own attention to, in full.
But her heart, foolish as it was, sunk in disappointment as she settled on a couch next to Lord Hartwell.
The debate of how to spend the evening went on around her, without her contributing more than a smile and nod of agreement when others set the course for entertainment. A guessing game of sorts.
Emily looked for Mr. Eastwood and found him standing near his mother, head bowed, gaze unfocused toward the fireplace.
That sight, the feeling that he had withdrawn in spirit if not in body, made her feel as though something precious had slipped away.
And she did not like the mood it cast over her for the rest of the evening.