Chapter 2
Two
Not for the first time, Isabel failed to capture that perfect hue of gold as the mid-afternoon sun started its descent, and the leaves in the oak trees hinted at the first inkling that they might wish to shed their green in the coming weeks.
Of course, being the first week of August, only she could see the hints of color that to any other eye were not there.
Likely, she imagined them as all of summer had felt more like spring or autumn.
With the ruins of the old monastery at her back, she couldn’t help but wonder if some monk had taken a rest from copying and embellishing the illuminated manuscript of Genesis to look out upon the same cacophony of colors and wonder at God’s creation.
Isabel tested a dab of ochre on the green she’d used for most of the leaves.
Not right, it was too weighty to capture the ethereal glow.
Perhaps a brighter tone. She mixed again.
With so many cool, blustery, and wet days that summer, she had hardly any chance to paint en plein air.
Colors that she thought perfect in the attic studio, she had been relegated to, were too garish in full sunlight.
She dabbed the new color onto the stretched paper canvas.
Much better.
As often happened when Isabel found that perfect blend of inspiration and painter’s palette, she slipped into a world where only light and color existed as she hurried to capture the scene before the bright colors faded.
There was no guarantee she would have another cloudless day tomorrow or even this week.
And one could only paint a plate of fruit so many times.
Since her father died last November, she had painted little else than still lifes in her studio.
Partly because the limited view from the attic window didn’t match that of the nursery, with its view of the fields and gardens, and traipsing around the countryside dressed in mourning clothes was frowned upon.
Giving up her nursery studio to the most darling nephew in the county should have been easier.
Baby Oliver could not be blamed for her relocation.
Isabel moved her paints out shortly after David made Leadon Hill his permanent residence with his new wife, to help her feel welcome, since the next resident of the nursery would be Susanna’s child.
It was the choice of rooms that annoyed Isabel.
There were several rooms with much better lighting that were rarely in use.
Any of the guest bedrooms would have sufficed.
While Isabel maintained her childhood bedroom, her paints, easels, and canvases needed a room of their own.
Despite several other suggestions, the attic room was the only one Susanna approved, and since, as Mamma had pointed out, Susanna was the Lady of Leadon Hill, Isabel was forced to use the poorly lit room.
Even the attic space did not provide the seclusion Isabel craved as she worked, as Susanna was not given to allowing others’ privacy in her new home.
Often she walked in to watch Isabel paint––Isabel did not enjoy the audience—Susanna rarely left without a parting cut about the way Isabel captured the shine of an apple or, worse yet, a disapproving sniff.
Isabel looked from her watercolor to the horizon. She had captured the sun’s glow on the leaves as she wished. Now to add in the flowers that dotted the meadow. She mixed a purple with a dab of vermillion and dotted it on the painting.
Thus absorbed in her work, Isabel didn’t hear the approach of a galloping horse and rider until they were upon her. The horse bellowed a frightful whinny.
Isabel dropped her palette and knocked over her easel as she scrambled out of the way of the horse and rider.
She whirled to see who had invaded her space. No one should race a horse as large as that in the field behind the ruins. Young children often played here. Everyone knew that.
Or not.
Mr. Dalrymple patted the side of his stallion’s neck and spoke in hushed tones.
Such a humongous beast was too big for the short man.
His carelessness could have injured her or someone else.
The man had done little to embrace the village since moving to Pittsfield Manor the summer before last. He had not even held a dinner party.
Not that there were many recently, as each of the estates had their own reasons to limit activities.
Still he was a bachelor, not in mourning, and if rumors were true, rich as King Midas.
He should be hosting events and socializing with the neighborhood.
Of course, he had been such an oddity during last year’s season.
Perhaps it was up to her to explain the way of country life to him.
It was clear no one else had. The general consensus of the neighborhood was that Mr. Dalrymple had only purchased Pittsfield to improve it and sell it off.
Something he could not do in a year when crops were failing.
The biggest question was, why live here then?
Why not in Town or with his family, someplace, anyplace else?
“Miss Godderidge, my apologies for startling you. I did not expect to find anyone in the middle of my field.” Mr. Dalrymple dismounted and led his horse away several yards to walk the animal in a circle as it cooled down, before leaving the beast with a ground tether.
Why couldn’t he have stayed on his horse and continued on?
A simple apology without conversation. In the nearly two years since Mr. Dalrymple had taken possession of Pittsfield, they had not had a single pleasant interaction either here or in Town.
Not that she ever sought him out. The few dances they had shared, and a couple of awkward at-home visits were more than enough to prove they did not suit.
Hoping to stave off prolonged conversation, she flipped the fallen canvas onto its front with her toe.
Better to pick grass from the paint than have him give some supercilious comment about her artwork.
Besides, there was something more urgent to discuss. He had called this field his.
“Your field, Mr. Dalrymple? I thought this area was part of the old monastery lands. Children often play tag in this field. Families come for picnics, and some of us come to enjoy the sunshine. Either way you should not be racing through here.”
“If by here, you mean my property. I can ride on it and I was not racing.”
“Your winded horse says otherwise.”
“We had been galloping but slowed as we neared my ruins.”
Again with the my. “No one owns the monastery.”
“I assure you I do. And I was watching for children. As you see there are none.”
“Yet you and your beast of a horse failed to see a grown woman, who is taller than most, and her painting easel?”
“I assure you Miss Godderidge, I did not fail to see you which is why we stopped.”
“You practically ran me over. Your horse reared.”
“He did not. He whinnied when I stopped.”
“Abruptly.” Oh, this man. Why did he think he was right? The horse had reared when it startled her. She had felt it.
How dare the pompous man claim the ruins as his own?
She’d first explored them when she was no more than four, running after Edward and David.
Everyone, simply everyone, had picnicked at them at one time or another.
They were a matter of community pride. No one ever claimed to own the ruins or the surrounding field, which was unfenced and left to nature.
It was the community’s. Everyone knew that.
How dare a newcomer, wealthy as he was, dare lay claim to this area?
She must ask Pappa—no, David—if he knew anything of the ownership.
She glanced at the upside-down canvas. The longer it stayed there, the more ruined it would become.
She smoothed her—oh and mercy no, she had her painting smock on over one of her oldest dresses.
She should have anticipated being seen by someone other than the local children today.
She assumed everyone would be working the fields or at least overseeing them as her brother David was.
The sooner she was away from this man the better.
“I was not aware this was private land. I shall remove myself and no longer trespass.” Anything to be done with this conversation. She crouched to gather her scattered paintbrushes.
Mr. Dalrymple followed suit and gathered scattered paint cakes, which had fallen out of her box. Isabel moved to keep between him and the unfinished painting. She stood, hoping he would as well.
Instead, he grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward him. “Take care, you’ll step on it.”
As quick as he had grabbed her, he let her go and swooped up the painting.
Before she could react, he was holding her painting by the paper canvas frame at arm’s length, scrutinizing her work.
Judgment at this stage was completely unfair, as bits of grass and chaff clung to the surface of the incomplete painting.
The perfect gold she’d achieved smeared about the edges.
“Despite the obvious damage, your painting is marvelous. I’ve rarely seen such skill.”
“No, it is quite ruined. The gold—” she stopped as he turned to face her.
“Miss Godderidge, I do not compliment you vainly. I consider myself a connoisseur of the arts. And have an extensive collection. I am not one to believe the fairer sex to be any less skilled in painting. Indeed, a Mary Moser hangs in my parlor—”
“You own a work painted by Mary Moser? The same who is one of the founders of the Royal Academy?” She could not hide her shock or excitement.
She had once wished to meet the painter until Mamma pointed out that such a meeting would be called scandalous by the ton, as she did not live a lifestyle most mothers wished for their daughters.
“The very same.”
The intense urge to invite herself into his parlor and have a good long look overwhelmed her.
To see a painting of such caliber outside of a museum without others to crowd her would be such a joy.
Yet how could she when it was in his possession?
However, she’d sworn not to have anything to do with a man who would send flowers to a woman and then ignore her for more than a year.
After the duchess’s ball two seasons ago, he had sent a lovely bouquet.
Yet only called once and talked mostly to Mamma.
The next day she had seen an identical set of flowers he had sent to Jane Lightwood.
Neither had received more attention from the man, which perplexed them both.
They spent far too many hours wondering at the singular offering.
He had not even attended last year’s Harvest Ball, though he had been in attendance for the fair.
Mr. Dalrymple seemed to go out of his way to snub her.
As a landowner he was to have danced with either her or her mother at last year’s ball and he left instead. She had little reason to be gracious.
“Thank you for your help. I apologize for trespassing.” Standing as tall as she could, a trick she had learned to keep smaller men at a distance, Isabel reached for her canvas, and he relinquished it.
“I apologize for startling you. You may trespass whenever you wish on my land for your painting. Except the pasture north of my barns. I own a fractious bull. If you must paint him, I ask that you keep your distance.”
“I prefer to paint landscapes without animal life.” Isabel placed her paints into her case and folded up her easel.
Not entirely true, she had spent many hours painting horses the summer of her first lessons.
Occasionally she’d painted a fox or a hare, but it was difficult as neither was prone to stand still as a horse might.
A couple of times she had sketched Jane’s dog, but the silly hound always wanted to inspect her work before she finished.
“May I help you home with all of that?”
She attempted to look down on him, which was difficult when they stood practically eye to eye. The last thing she wanted was to be in his presence a moment longer. Mary Moser paintings included. “I carted it out here. I assure you I can carry it home.”
“You came out here in daylight, and the sun is setting. Returning in the dark will not be as easy.”
She looked at the sun. The increase of darkness was more to the clouds gathering once again than to the setting sun, which had more than an hour yet before making its final descent into the western horizon.
Taking a solid hold of her artist box, easel, and ruined canvas, Isabel straightened to her full height, which exceeded Mr. Dalrymple’s by a half inch, even in his riding boots, thanks to a slight rise in the land.
“I assure you, I shall have no trouble finding my home. I was raised here, and spent many hours with my brothers and friends picnicking and exploring at this very spot. I need no assistance.”
Giving his horse a wide berth, she walked to the road.
She felt him watching her but refused to look back.
The infuriating man. Claiming to own the whole of the countryside.
David would know the truth of the ownership of the ruins.
Then the next time she met Mr. Dalrymple, she could put him in his place.