Chapter 16
Sixteen
Jane would see the truth of it soon; she was a lucky woman indeed.
What man would go to such great lengths, if not to catch a woman’s eye?
Isabel almost envied her friend. Mr. Dalrymple was willing to go to extremes on Jane’s behalf.
A casket and burial for Sir Galahad. Ivory for the miniatures.
Personal delivery of the painting Isabel worked on.
All of these things were beyond neighborly.
Under normal circumstances, a gift of a miniature would be tantamount to a proposal.
It was ridiculous to be jealous of Jane. Jane deserved goodness in her life. Whatever she felt as he helped her from the back of Mamma’s mare did not signify in the least.
With two full seasons in London, more than one man had touched her hand and waist. Several, including Lord Barlow, looked deeply into her eyes.
But never had a feeling of warmth and comfort filled her as when Mr. Dalrymple lifted her from the horse’s back.
It was not the heart-pounding excitement of a gothic novel.
Nor was it the twittering of a girl describing a kiss in the women’s retirement room at a dance.
It was comfortable, like being wrapped in a blanket before a warm fire.
Definitely not romantic.
Drawing on the ivory took longer than she expected.
Isabel took advantage of the sunny morning.
Mamma skipped Sabbath services as she felt Isabel needed another day off her foot.
David had declined to go as well, despite Susanna having a second quiet night and her brother looking more rested than he had in days.
With Susanna confined to her rooms, David approved the idea of Isabel painting in the library, where the windows provided the most light.
After this, the attic room with its small window and poor light would be even more difficult to paint in.
Perhaps she could convince her brother to allow her to use a corner of the ballroom.
Surprisingly, she had never thought of it before.
The ten or so days a year the room was in use…
Of course, it was terribly difficult to heat in the winter and would be miserably hot in the summer.
Perhaps that is why Mamma never suggested it.
Isabel wrinkled her nose as she added a drop of ox gall to her water before she mixed the lightest of blues for the sky.
The solution was necessary for the watercolor to adhere to the ivory.
She sighed and dabbed the paint onto the ivory with a stippling motion.
She much preferred making broad bold strokes on canvas.
She owned a brush wider than the ivory she painted on.
Mamma entered the room, followed by a maid. “You have been working for hours.”
Isabel looked up from her work. She’d noticed the change in the lighting but failed to take in that she had sat painting for so long. Although she spent much of the time waiting for the thin layers of color to dry. “I had not realized. I thought it still morning.”
“Your time has been well spent.” Mamma picked up the magnifying glass to look at the work. “I love that spot by the river.”
“You can tell where it is then?”
“Yes, Lady Lightwood and I would often meet at the bench on summer afternoons to talk.”
Isabel stood and stretched. “I feel as if my entire being has been condensed into a small space working on this.”
“How much longer do you need?”
“Another day at least. Fortunately, I am doing the back of Sir Galahad and not his face. His head is turned so you can see the nose and the one ear that flopped over more than it pointed. But I do not have to deal with the eyes.” Isabel shuddered.
“I cannot imagine being one of those artists who paints miniatures for a living. A full-size portrait takes only slightly longer, and oil is more forgiving of my errors.”
“I didn’t see any.” Mamma sat on the sofa near the fireplace.
Isabel picked up a sheet of vellum. At the center was a near duplicate of the miniature, while around it were various swatches of color and brush lines. “That is because I am painting these studies as I wait for the last wash to dry.”
Mamma poured the tea. “Come eat. You can do more later.”
“I must quit soon, anyway. I am losing the light.”
A footman came in with a letter on a silver tray. Mamma took the paper and handed it to Isabel. Only her name was penned across the front in an unfamiliar hand.
Miss Godderidge—
I would like to invite you to dine with my son and me on Monday evening at seven.
Mrs. Dalrymple.
Your mother is invited as well, of course.
Isabel handed the paper to her mother, who read it quickly. “Well, that was to the point. You had best respond for both of us. Make sure your replay is longer than one line.”
“I wonder if her note is so short because she does not enjoy writing or if she is under some sort of duress to invite me.”
“Either way, you should treat her politely.”
After eating, Isabel penned a reply in the affirmative and asked the footman to deliver it.
Mamma sat with a book. “Would you like me to read aloud while you work for a while longer?”
A better alternative than trying to sort out Mrs. Dalrymple’s motivations for such an unfriendly note. One should inquire about another’s health, especially when they knew one party to be injured. Well, almost healed. She could see a man writing a one-line invitation, but a woman?
Her mother waited.
“Yes, please read, I long for something other than my own thoughts to fill the silence.”
To Isabel’s delight, by the time the sun no longer lit the room, the miniature was much closer to being completed than she had anticipated. She might well finish it by noon tomorrow.
David entered the library. “Susanna wishes to dine with us this evening.”
Isabel rinsed out her brush in a jar of water.
David came near to inspect her work. He sniffed. “What is that smell? It reminds me of baby Oliver’s spit-ups.”
“Ox gall.” Isabel smiled at her brother. “So close to the same thing.”
“Clean it up before my wife comes down.” He frowned. “It is best that you hide all evidence of your painting. She isn’t fond of it you know.”
With Mamma’s help, she moved her paints to an empty shelf in a lower book cupboard. As she was closing the door, Isabel paused. Would the little painting on ivory be safe? The thought was almost too ludicrous to comprehend. She closed the door and hurried to dress for dinner.
From his study, Victor heard a knock on the door. He was curious about who would call so late on a Sunday evening. He poked his head out to see who had arrived.
A footman wearing the livery of Leadon Hill handed a note to his butler. More interesting was when the butler took the note and proceeded past the study to the parlor. Victor followed and arrived in time to see the note passed to his mother.
She unfolded the paper and grinned widely. “We shall have company for dinner tomorrow.”
“Company? Who did you invite?” Victor inquired.
“Lady Katherine and Miss Godderidge.”
“You invited them to dinner without consulting me?” While he needed to speak with Miss Godderidge about the progress on the miniature, a plan he still hadn’t solidified, hosting a dinner party was not on his list of options.
“You told me to make myself at home. It has been five days since we’ve seen them. I would have spoken to them at services this morning, but as you know, they were absent.” Mother set the note aside.
“I saw Miss Godderidge only yesterday.”
“You did not tell me that. When was that?”
Victor sighed and took a seat. “Miss Godderidge accompanied me on a ride to find a suitable place to bury a dog.”
“A dog?” Mother’s face paled as her eyes widened in horror. “What purpose would you have in consulting anyone, let alone a lady of rank, on where to bury a dog? You simply throw the carcass in a pit.”
Victor scratched Maximillion’s ear, glad his four-legged friend did not understand English. “The dog did not belong to me. It was a favorite pet of Miss Jane Lightwood under the care of my master of the hounds.”
“Who is Miss Jane? You have not told me about her.”
Victor filled his mother in on the origin of Sir Galahad and his Lightwood neighbors. Who were blessedly absent, or they too would have been asked to attend the dinner.
By the time he finished, his mother was tapping her fan in her hand. “So, you had a coffin made for a dog?”
“I wouldn’t call it a coffin, but it was a burial box.”
Mother scoffed. “Of all the ridiculous things… Do the Godderidges know?”
“Yes.”
“Still, Lady Katherine accepted the invitation. So your lack of decency must have been forgiven.” Mother pointed to the paper.
Curious about what the invitation entailed, Victor picked up the paper and read. “This is more of a demand than an invitation. You didn’t even inquire after their health.”
Mother looked at Barlow, who had been sitting so silent in the corner that Victor had not realized he was in the room.
Barlow shrugged. “I only suggested she invite them to dinner. I didn’t tell her what to write.”
Victor had been ten-years-old before his father had made enough of a fortune to elevate them somewhat in society, enough for Victor to go to school.
Though Mother had studied the women around her occasionally, she still missed the social pleasantries demanded by the members of the peerage.
Victor handed the note back. “I assume you have already met with the cook about dinner?”
“Of course.”
“You will pardon my interference, but I will approve the menu.”
“I didn’t serve anything ostentatious. I have already learned your frugal ways.”
Victor sighed again. He didn’t need a lecture from his mother, nor did he wish to lecture her.
“Mother, it has nothing to do with being frugal. It is making sure everyone under my care—tenant and servant alike—has enough food come winter. We simply cannot make food that ends up going into the slop bucket.”
“But the pigs must be fed.”
“The pigs are still getting fed. But often, grand dinners result in more food than the staff can eat.”
Mother harrumphed. Barlow let out a noise that sounded distinctly like a snicker.
Victor turned on his friend. “As for your meddling, I’m not sure I appreciate your input.”
Barlow set aside the book he’d been reading and pulled out his snuffbox. “Oh, come now, Dalrymple. It has been plenty dull here. Even I can see that the small dinner party your mother has made has terribly uneven numbers. With only five of us, do you know who else might be invited?”
“I don’t want to invite anybody of marriageable age. It would interfere with my plans for you and Miss Godderidge,” said Mother, proving Victor’s worst fears.
“There will be no plans for Miss Godderidge and me.” He continued, hoping to avoid talking of Miss Godderidge. “You could invite the vicar and his wife and the magistrate.”
Mother’s eyes sparkled with interest. “He is a widower, correct?”
“Yes.” A good man whom Victor may have just thrown into the proverbial fire.
Mother and Barlow made quick work of their invitations, and by the time supper was over, acceptances to dinner had been received.
Eight people were a small dinner party, but still the largest he had hosted since moving to the neighborhood.
He preferred smaller parties and no one with daughters of marriageable age in attendance.
His mother had only been here a week, and already she was turning his life upside down.