Chapter 3
Three
Why were all beautiful women such shrews?
Victor watched Miss Godderidge march down the hill, her painting tucked under one arm and her portable easel and paint box under the other.
Odd she did not have a groom or maid accompany her.
Then again, the country women were not so strict about some of society’s rules.
If she painted often, as she must to cultivate such talent, perhaps the Godderidges decided there was no need to spare a servant all afternoon.
Still she need not be so rude when he was trying to be neighborly.
He walked over to the ruins looking for any new damage.
Worries about a child being crushed under a falling stone plagued him.
Not that anything of the sort had happened here.
In fact not once in the two years he had been inspecting the ruins had any new stones tumbled from the walls.
Occasionally, those on the ground were rearranged in piles or towers.
He reminded himself again that the monastery ruins were not like the poorly constructed buildings in London’s East End.
Properties that he did not invest in because of the dangers.
Pittsfield was slightly run down, but not potentially dangerous, other than the ruins.
Odd that Miss Godderidge thought no one owned them as every piece of England was owned by someone or the Crown. Ownership should not raise her ire.
He knew he was not titled, and only the wealth his father amassed and Victor had further grown allowed him to mingle on the fringes of the ton.
They were neighbors, could he not expect Miss Godderidge to be cordial?
Even if this was about her friends, the Lightwoods, nearly two years had passed since Sir Lightwood tried to force Miss Georgiana to chase after him.
And with a sister of his own, he understood the need women had to defend their friends, but Miss Georgiana was Mrs. Someone-or-other now and living in America.
And he was not at fault in the matter at all.
He had not even been aware of it at the time.
The only other reason Miss Godderidge could have been put out with him was the joke his friends had played on him after last year’s Duke’s Ball.
When he had sent the same flowers to every woman he danced with the night before, including Miss Jane and Miss Godderidge.
A faux pas he had not repeated since or in the last season.
More than enough time for her to pardon his blunder.
The late Lord Godderidge had accepted Victor into the neighborhood and his heir seemed of the same vein.
It was in part their welcome that had him thinking of making Pittsfield a permanent residence.
With neighbors like Miss Godderidge—of course she should marry and move on.
However if she treated all men the way she treated him…
No wonder Miss Godderidge had had so many seasons.
Three? No two, she had missed the last one because of mourning.
Did women count a missed one in the total seasons?
It had been three years, even if she did not go to Town for one.
Victor checked his horse again before mounting him.
Something glistened in the grass. A yellow paint cake.
The impending rain would needlessly ruin it if he ignored it.
Likely, Miss Godderidge would not discover the absence of this color until tomorrow or for several days.
She was not the sort of society lady who painted only to prove she was accomplished or she would have made a show of him seeing her work.
In painting, he must agree, she was far more accomplished than most people he’d met. Even some who claimed to be painters.
Interestingly enough, she had known who Mary Moser was.
He’d found most accomplished ladies of the ton had been sheltered from the painter as her lifestyle was not one that marriage-minded mamas wished for their daughters.
Miss Godderidge had either had a very thorough tutor, or she was truly interested in painting.
Which meant the cake of paint at his feet was likely of high quality and not easily replaced, unless one was in Town, as peddlers rarely carried paints of quality.
With a sigh, Victor pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped the paint cake in it. Immediately, yellow colored the cloth. It must have retained some moisture from her painting. Just enough to ruin the handkerchief, for no man of substance would want to present a yellow-stained cloth in public.
Victor swung up onto his horse. If he rode immediately to the Godderidge estate, he risked another encounter on the road with Miss Godderidge.
However, taking a longer route through the village meant he could avoid her and simply leave the paint with the butler.
Only then the entire household would know of their meeting.
And with Lady Lightwood still in mourning… Why was there never a simple solution?
He had better track down Miss Godderidge before she reached Leadon Hill.
He circled the ruin until he reached the highest point on the hill.
Likely, she hadn’t taken the road with her paint box and easel as cutting across fields would be much faster.
The southern corner of the Godderidge land was not far, he would start there first as there must be a footpath.
She was nearly at the mansion when he finally spotted her. Notwithstanding the two wrong paths he’d started down, she was a fast walker with all her painting paraphernalia in tow. “Miss Godderidge!”
She whirled to face him, her face hard. “Mr. Dalrymple.”
He removed the yellowed cloth from his pocket. “You dropped this.”
She set down her box and easel and drew nearer, but not close enough for him to hand it to her without dismounting. He obliged as he had no intention of staying or being seen by the rest of the household and wanted to make the return as quickly as possible.
“That is not my handkerchief.”
“No, the yellow paint cake.” Victor opened the cloth.
She gasped and came close enough to take the handkerchief. She stepped back before unwrapping it. “Turner’s yellow.”
“Pardon?”
“It is my only cake of Turner’s yellow. A very useful color. I would miss it terribly.” She let the once-white cloth dangle by the corner. “Oh! It stained your handkerchief.”
“I have others. You may dispose of it as you wish. I doubt it is good for anything other than drying brushes now.”
“Thank you for returning my paint. I would invite you in for tea, but my mother is still not receiving.”
“Grief is a difficult thing to navigate.” Occasionally, the pain and guilt of his father’s loss came flooding back. Victor understood mourning all too well.
“It can be. I was hoping the harvest fair would bolster all our spirits, but with such a wet and cold year, I doubt it will be held. Jane Lightwood cannot host it herself even if her sisters were to return to help her. And with Mamma still in mourning… And my new nephew… I am not sure if I can do much myself.”
“I have wondered about the harvest fair. I never meet with my steward but to hear more bad news. All of my servants, and tenants talk of the event as if the celebration will solve everyone’s woes.
” He could have continued on. However, the weather was no longer the safe conversational subject it used to be.
Unseasonable cold and frosts throughout the summer had made the subject fraught with difficulties.
Much of the wheat crop was close to failing.
Tenant farmers’ homes suffered from storms and downed trees. Winter would be bleak for many.
“For over thirty years we have hosted the fair with the Lightwoods. It will not be the same this year, I am afraid.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have judged so harshly.
The young lady had had a difficult year with the passing of her father, and any woman of her rank who had missed a season would likely find seclusion in the country a burden.
In the distance, a laborer walked by, leading a plow horse.
He turned his head in their direction. The last thing Victor needed was for tales to circulate about him and Miss Godderidge.
Although she was a fine artist, his interest must stop there.
“I am sure you will make the best of the fair. I should take my leave.”
“Good day.” Her tone was that dismissive one used to release their servants after a task was completed. She picked up her art supplies and walked on without even a nod.
He touched the brim of his hat, not that she saw, but it would be rude not to and turned his horse to leave the way he had come.
He calculated her age best he could. One or two and twenty he guessed.
Not on the shelf yet. However, if she did not drop her prickly ways it would be inevitable.
Perhaps she only showed her contempt for him.
Her numerous attempts to stand taller than him were almost comical.
Many times he wished to be taller or thinner or even have the most minor of titles. Still her dismissal of him rankled.
One would think that a woman who would soon be on the shelf would not be so brusque in her treatment of men.
Though he had never heard of Miss Godderidge in derogatory terms at the club, particularly shrewish women were noted and warned about.
If his father could hear his thoughts from his place in heaven, he would be sorely disappointed.
For the same moment he had thought to give Miss Godderidge some leeway for her discourteousness, he was in fact finding fault.
It shouldn’t matter; she was one of many.
But from their first dance at the harvest fair almost two years ago, there had been this desire to give her a proper set down. She and her tall boots.