Chapter 18
Eighteen
Victor’s two-day errand to The Willows had put him behind a day.
Despite his efforts to catch up with all his correspondence and business yesterday, there was still much to do before Miss Isabel and her mother came this afternoon.
After two hours in his study, the list in his agenda had shrunk to a reasonable Friday’s work.
In need of sustenance, Victor took this week’s delivery of newspapers to the breakfast room with him.
Barlow sat at the table, his plate full of eggs and two of cook’s best buns.
“You are up early.”
“I know. This quiet country life is ruining me. I shall be quite the bore next season. Leaving every ball by midnight.”
Victor filled his plate. “You could keep Town hours.”
Barlow laughed. “And miss the fun? Never. Since your return from The Willows, you have not gone two hours together without referring to Miss Godderidge.”
The German paper forgotten, Victor cut into his egg.
Isabel, Miss Godderidge, was on his mind almost constantly.
He’d heard her Christian name so often from Miss Jane and Miss Rose, that it had wound itself around his heart and mind.
Isabel. If he were not careful, that too would slip out when he least expected it to.
“What, no defense?” Barlow reached for the pot of cream.
“If I defend myself, you will say it is proof that I have developed a tendre for Miss Godderidge. If I do not defend myself, you will accuse me of harboring feelings toward her. So I see no reason to comment either way.”
Barlow’s laugh was much deeper and longer than was necessary.
Victor did his best to ignore him and eat.
“Where do you intend to hold today’s meeting?” asked Barlow.
“So you can watch?”
“No, I am afraid you will call it business and meet in your study.”
Victor set down the Paris newspaper. “Actually, I was thinking in here. A table will be helpful, and it is not overwhelmingly large like the one in the dining room. The light is good. I know it will be warm in the afternoon as it faces west, however, I don’t believe that is an issue this year.”
“Exploring the grounds today?” asked Barlow.
“I see no need. I’ve shown Miss Godderidge the estate, and she remembers it from her childhood.”
“I shall endeavor to stay out of the way, then.” Barlow saluted with his teacup. “Oh, may I use your study during your meeting? It seems father has finally tracked me down and sent a box of correspondence and whatnot I should deal with.”
Victor nodded his approval before returning to his papers.
The Godderidge carriage arrived precisely at two.
How did it always arrive exactly on time?
The coachman must have some sort of secret he must learn.
While for parties in Town it was not uncommon to be deliberately late, if the crush of carriages didn’t cause tardiness, for meetings of a business nature, punctuality was a sign of respect.
He, however, almost always arrived early, creating an awkward moment where he either must stay in his carriage or possibly interrupt a prior engagement.
Victor’s mother entered the breakfast room ahead of the guests. She sighed and took her seat at the table, having already given her thoughts on the impropriety of entertaining in the breakfast room.
Lady Katherine and Isabel entered. Both looked well, especially Isabel. The blue of her dress suited her. Once around the table, Isabel produced the folio she had brought to the meeting with Miss Jane.
“Does anyone wish for paper?” Victor gestured to the sideboard where a stack of paper stood with an assortment of quills and ink.
“How thoughtful,” said Lady Katherine when the footman brought over a pen for her and Isabel.
Only his mother declined.
Isabel produced several pages of notes he had not seen at their previous meeting. “I have made notes on how we might hold various activities in the event that it rains. Shall I go over my ideas?”
Over the next hour, until tea was served, they exchanged ideas, found problems, and changed plans.
“I did not know the scope of this undertaking,” said Mother as she poured the tea.
“It is an ambitious affair. But it has long been one of my favorite parts of the year,” said Lady Katherine. “I must commend Mr. Dalrymple for helping the tradition to continue when we thought it might have to be canceled.”
“I met the young Lord Ryland earlier this year. Sadly, he was not at The Willows during my visit. However, Lord Whitstone said the young lord intends to come down from Oxford to attend this year, if his schedule allows. I will not be surprised if Lord Ryland takes a more active part next year. His knowledge of agriculture surpasses most men of the peerage.” Victor’s impression of the young man was extremely favorable.
He had taken his new title and rank in life without forgetting his family or roots.
“That story is such an interesting one. Imagine finding out you are a Lord after working on a farm all your life.” Mother set the last cup of tea in front of him.
“He was the son of a gentleman farmer who was being educated through a scholarship. It is not as if he were completely destitute,” said Isabel.
“That fact only renders the story less interesting, Miss Godderidge,” said Mother.
“Not in the least. I imagine he grew up with rumors and stories that his grandfather was the son of a prominent member of the peerage. Such tales belong in books,” said Lady Katherine. “It will be a treat to have the Earl here again as well.”
“I only wish we could do more than open up the selling tables to home crafts to benefit the tenants and farmers,” said Isabel.
“The entire country—no—the entire world, is facing the same issue.” Victor set his cup aside.
“No more of your doom and gloom, Victor,” chided his mother. “You would not believe the story he told me about an earthquake in Scotland.”
“I read about it in the paper. Wouldn’t that be absolutely horrifying to be shaken out of your bed?” asked Isabel. “I am so glad no deaths were reported.”
Mother looked at Lady Katherine. “Your daughter reads the newspapers?”
“We both do.” Lady Katherine’s answer left his mother momentarily speechless. Not noticing, the dowager continued, “You promised to show me the orangery. I find I am in need of a stretch.”
“Victor? Miss Godderidge, do you care to join us?” asked his mother.
Isabel looked up from the paper she was drawing something on. “I would like to finish this first.”
“I’ll wait for—” Victor cleared his throat to hide the fact he nearly said Isabel, “—Miss Godderidge.”
At last a moment alone, he could give Isabel the letter from Miss Jane.
Isabel dipped her pen again. “If we arrange the tables like this, we could have them all covered between the awning and the ballroom. It is only an estimate, as I counted the number of booths and tables from the last two years.”
Mr. Dalrymple moved aside his cup and saucer and leaned closer. “I see better what you were describing.”
Finishing the last table, Isabel sat back, not expecting Mr. Dalrymple to be so near. He didn’t move back.
Instead, he tapped the drawing. “I think there is a door here that leads to the servants’ passage. We cannot block it.”
Isabel put an X on the wall where he indicated. “I only estimated the measurements from pacing out the room last week. It isn’t exact.”
“There are architects I have worked with who could not have drawn that without a penciled grid.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Isabel kept her head down, hoping they would cool. Mr. Dalrymple leaned back and took a folded paper from his pocket and held it out. “I have a letter from Miss Jane. I should have sent it over with the other one, but she said she had a favor to ask both of us.”
Isabel’s ungloved fingers brushed his as she took the letter.
An awareness akin to the shocks her brothers tried to give each other by rubbing their stocking feet over the carpet flitted up her arms. She wasn’t stupid, she’d heard others talk about that sensation.
Almost all who experienced it ended up in courtship.
Trying to act unaffected, she broke the seal on the letter.
Dear Isabel (and Mr. Dalrymple),
Thank you for the miniature of Sir Galahad and for your care of him. Isabel, your work on this rivals any I have seen. It is most precious.
Mr. Dalrymple, I apologize for my reaction last night. I am afraid I will still not be able to talk without tears, but I would like to ask one final boon.
Sir Galahad’s favorite ball is in the hollow behind the urn next to the garden pavilion.
Would you mind burying it near his grave?
I am afraid that I don’t have the strength of character to do it myself, and fear if I see it again I will become quite the watering pot.
I would not ask this of you since Phil and her husband are supposed to come to Kellmore when I return, and you know they would help me, but my father is also to be there.
The implication of the line hurt. Jane would not even act under the protection of a viscount. Isabel stopped reading. “Of course we will, Jane. I mean, I will. I wouldn’t mean to presume.”
“It is a fair afternoon. We could go today if you are up for a ride.”
“I had promised to visit a tenant, who recently gave birth, with Mamma. In David’s absence, these things fall to us.”
“Your brother is not in residence?”
“He left on Tuesday to take Susanna and Oliver to visit her parents. They plan to be back for the fair.” The explanation was true enough. David would be back alone if necessary.
“Does that mean you’ll be receiving visitors?”
Was he asking if he could call on her? Unsure where this question was going, Isabel answered in terms of her mother. “Mamma is still in mourning, however, she may have a few close friends to tea, as she is ready for company.”
“So I may come to the door when I call for our ride in the morning?”
“Yes. You may.”
Mr. Dalrymple furrowed a brow. Before he could ask anything more, Isabel turned her attention back to the letter.
The ball is a blue billiard ball. It should be easy enough to find. Our gardener knew to leave it there. Isabel, you know who to speak with if necessary. I assume father is not at Kellmore, but be cautious. You can always say that I asked you to look in on the roses if…
Grandfather and I will take Rose back to school, and then I will return to help you.
I am so glad Mr. Dalrymple can host the fair.
I was worried about how I might, although grandfather will support the endeavor anyway he can.
He is donating the flour for the baker’s entries.
He says it will be there no later than mid-September.
Always
Miss Jane Lightwood
“How generous. That is one more thing off of our list.” Isabel made a note. “I believe that by offering a five-pound flour reward for each entry, people will not see it as charity.”
“Is it ungentlemanly of me that the more I learn of Sir Lightwood the less I think of him?” Mr. Dalrymple’s question caught Isabel off guard.
“Quite the contrary. If you liked him at all, it would be the end of our friendship.”
“I will admit, when I first met him I was taken in. However, the rumors and what Miss Jane says, or tries not to say, make me want to have little to do with him.”
“Then you, Mr. Dalrymple, are a wise man.”
“We should go join our mothers.” Mr. Dalrymple stood and offered his arm.
Isabel put on the gloves she had removed to draw before touching him. The gloves were of little use as his warmth seeped into her. Radiating the same feelings of warmth and wonder as when she touched him before. They passed through a corridor she had not been in before.
“I came the long way as to show you my Mary Moser. If you sold your paintings, I would put one just there.” Mr. Dalrymple pointed to a space on the wall.
“Mine? All you have seen is a miniature—which is only possible because of a great deal of prayer on my behalf—and a watercolor smeared by grass.”
“No, I’ve seen several others hanging on the walls of your home. I just didn’t know they were yours. I have pestered at least two London galleries to find out who signed their paintings as IZZ.”
She turned to read his face. He couldn’t be serious.
He looked directly into her eyes. “The landscape in your father’s study is particularly enjoyable. It shows your love of the area. Your father was fond of it.”
“I would say you jest, but—” she had to swallow and lower her eyes to process the admiration that she saw there.
He turned to face her and lifted her chin with a single finger. “I was honest in my assessment of your talent out at the ruins. When your brother called you Izz, I realized the paintings were yours. You have a rare talent, and I am blessed to have seen your work, Isabel.”
He uttered her name so reverently and softly she almost missed it. His thumb caressed her chin before lowering his hand and stepped back.
“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have taken such liberties. You must know how amazing your talent is. It is a shame to hide it away.”
Isabel blinked to clear her mind. “I am not offended.”
“Even though I said your name?” He led the way down the corridor.
How could she be offended by the way he said her name? Would that he said it again and again. Not that she could say that. “You said it so kindly.”
“My name is Victor.” He opened the door to the orangery.
“I know, your mother uses it often.”
They rounded the corner to find both mothers coming from the opposite direction.
Mrs. Dalrymple wrung her hands. “Victor! There you are. We have been worried since it has taken you so long…”
Isabel couldn’t help but giggle. Victor joined her with his hearty laugh.