Chapter Twelve
By three that afternoon, Charlotte felt exhausted.
She had no idea that entertaining could be so draining.
Her father frequently entertained company at Clayton House, of course, but for the most part, guests were there to speak to her father, and so her presence and polite talk were rarely required, unless they stayed to dinner.
Even then, her sister-in-law Lavinia tended to dominate the conversation on behalf of the women.
Later, of course, Lavinia would subtly berate Charlotte for “not keeping up her end of the conversation.”
Even so, Charlotte had felt up to the task of conversing with the gentlemen callers, especially knowing Dorothea was nearby.
So, it surprised her that she felt so very weary after Mr. Bellington finally departed.
Each caller had stayed slightly over what was considered good manners—fifteen minutes, although Mr. Cartwright hung on for more than half an hour.
As soon as the door closed on the last gentleman, Dorothea turned a beaming face to her sister.
“Well done, my dear. You handled yourself extremely well, and I must say you were a credit to the family. Even when that dolt Mr. Wincock asked whether you were fond of potatoes, of all things, you showed grace and charm. We can give him another chance, I suppose, but I believe we shall likely soon cross him off the list. He simply has no conversation in him, and I should think Mr. Shelby or Mr. Cartwright would suit you better.” She looked up and down at Charlotte.
“Why do you not go upstairs to rest a while?”
“Thank you, I think I shall.” Charlotte nodded and left the sitting room.
When she reached her room, though, she realized she was not longing for a nap at all but for some fresh air and exercise after sitting for so long.
Grabbing her Spencer and bonnet she skipped down the back staircase and exited Haverstone for a vigorous walk.
*
After walking for some time, Charlotte decided to rest at the top of a rise with a faux Greek temple (a vanity project of her brother-in-law’s that she found pretty, but peculiar).
The location offered an expansive view of Haverstone’s fields and gardens below.
As she observed the beauty before her, she wished she had brought her watercolors.
A movement below caught her attention, and she watched a man approach from the grove of oak trees on the west side of a field.
He was wearing a woven peasant’s hat that concealed his face and was dressed simply—an estate worker perhaps?
Then, Charlotte noticed he was carrying a small wooden case, which appeared similar to her own travel painting kit.
She continued to observe the man as he turned and walked briskly toward the Greek temple where she sat, but he had not noticed her yet.
Realizing the impropriety of being alone with a strange man, she rose from the stone bench to depart.
At that moment, the man lifted his face, and she knew him to be Frederick Morton. He recognized her as well and smiled.
“Hello!” he called, waving. He hastened his steps and was soon standing before her, puffing with exertion. He bowed as she curtseyed. “What a surprise to find you here, Miss Kendall. Did you come to paint as well? I recall we spoke of your fondness for art during our dance.”
“No, I merely took a walk and ended up here. In fact, I was just wishing I had brought my painter’s kit with me. The prospect from here is so fine.”
“I have paper and paints enough to share if you like,” he said, opening his kit. Charlotte saw it was better supplied than her own.
“That would be lovely, but you only have the one easel.”
“You take it. I shall sketch using my case. I can always add the watercolors later.”
“Are you quite sure?”
In reply, he pulled out the lap easel and some paper and handed them to her. Then, he set out the pencils and tins of watercolor, along with a small, corked bottle of water. Then, he took a sheet of paper for himself, sat on a bench next to hers, and immediately began his sketch.
Charlotte knew to be alone with Frederick might expose her to gossip, which could damage her reputation.
But, the longing to paint overcame her; she had done no art at all since coming to Haverstone.
Besides, Frederick had given no hint of any intentions toward her.
And, as one who had just received his orders, he was certainly trustworthy.
His behavior toward her had always been gentlemanly.
And, who would see her way out here on the estate, anyway?
Placing the lap easel on her knees and picking up a pencil to rough in the landscape, she happily set to work.
For more than an hour, the two worked intently, side by side, without speaking.
The only sounds were of pencil against paper and the birdcalls in the nearby trees.
Charlotte occasionally glanced over to observe his work, but he single-mindedly sketched, focused on his own project.
She reached for the watercolors and a brush, a feeling of complete contentment she had not experienced since coming to Haverstone.
It was not until Charlotte had nearly completed her painting that Frederick spoke.
“You have captured the light falling on the oak grove quite well, Miss Kendall.”
Charlotte held it up, considering. “I thank you, sir. I read once that painting is naught but rendering light and shadows and once you have that down, you can paint anything.” She giggled.
“I confess, though, that I prefer landscapes, as my one attempt to paint a face resulted in something more akin to a baboon than a person.”
“I am sure you exaggerate. I, myself, enjoy painting people and I flatter myself I am moderately competent at it. May I…that is, would you pose for me, Miss Kendall?”
“What—now?” She felt herself blush.
“You have an elegant profile, and I should like to see whether I am able to capture it.” He waited a moment before dropping his eyes and continuing, “Oh, but I should not presume—pray, forgive my impertinence, Miss Kendall.”
“Not at all. I have no objection to your attempting a drawing of me. But, you must promise not to show it to my sister or Lord Gillingham. They would both think it quite inappropriate, I am certain.”
He cocked his head at her. “But, you do not?” he asked gently.
Charlotte’s face burned even more. “Well…it is just a sketch, after all. What could be the harm?”
“Should anyone ask, I shall say I drew it from memory.” He grinned at her, and she returned his smile, then positioned her face in profile to him.
“Like so?”
“Exactly.” He took a new sheet of paper and began.
“Finished,” Frederick exclaimed after twenty minutes, setting down his pencil. He held the paper close to his chest. “Do you wish to see it?”
“I am nearly afraid to, but I shall screw up my courage and take a peek.”
He held out the paper, and she gave a small gasp. He had perfectly rendered her in profile, and yet—had he made her prettier than she actually was? It appeared so to her mind. Is that how he saw her?
“I believe you have done what every talented artist does, Mr. Morton, and flattered your subject’s appearance beyond reality,” she said softly.
“Not at all,” he vehemently responded. “I do not wish to brag, but I believe I have captured you quite accurately.” He hesitated a moment before asking, “Would you care to keep it, Miss Kendall?”
She shook her head. “I should have to hide it from my sister, as I said, so I must refuse. But, thank you for the opportunity to witness your artistic skill. You are quite accomplished. Far more so than I.”
“Thank you. I always loved to draw and scribble on paper as a child, and so our father hired a drawing master for a period of about two years when I was twelve.”
“He taught you well.” Charlotte studied her own watercolor landscape.
“My own father was not as attentive to my childish inclinations as yours, sadly. Of course, he made sure I could read and write and do sums, and his library is always open to me. He did hire a music instructor to teach me pianoforte, but otherwise, there was no thought of furthering what meager gifts I possess in drawing. Still, I believe I am improving on my own—if slowly. I just wish I could have a few lessons that might help me comprehend some techniques of shading, perspective, and so on.”
“I would be happy to teach you, if you do not think it too bold of me to offer. I could come to visit Haverstone’s library, and we could work there or we could meet somewhere on the estate…” He cleared his throat and looked away.
After a moment, Charlotte nodded. “You are very kind, Mr. Morton. My sister keeps me so busy it may be difficult, but I should like to try.” She tilted her head, considering.
“I am an early riser and usually walk before breakfast. I could secret my own painting kit out of the house easily enough. What do you say to a lesson next Tuesday at eight o’clock?
We could meet here?” She saw relief wash over his face.
“Capital. Tuesday it is.”
*
Realizing it was getting late, the two walked down the hill, parted company, and Charlotte hurried back to Haverstone.
As she entered, Dawson informed her that Lady Gillingham had been looking for her and was presently in the drawing room.
As Charlotte moved in that direction, she realized she was still holding her watercolor.
How would she explain it to Dorothea? Quickly, she rolled it up and tucked it out of sight into a large floor vase to retrieve later.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and walked over to Dorothea, who was sitting on the small sofa with a serious expression on her face.
Charlotte’s heart sank. Was she to be reprimanded?
“Good afternoon, Dorothea. Dawson says you were looking for me?”
“Yes, I went to your room, but you weren’t there. I thought you were resting.”
Charlotte tried to appear nonchalant. “Oh, yes—I had intended to, but I decided I would be better off having a vigorous walk after so much sitting. I went up to the temple.”
“So far? Gracious, my dear, do be careful. Men do not like women to be too athletic.” She rose and pulled the bell cord. When a servant arrived, she ordered tea to be brought in.
She returned to her place on the sofa, motioning Charlotte to be seated as well.
“Now,” she said, “your absence meant that you missed a very important caller. It is not your fault, of course, because we did not expect him—he sent no note alerting us to his intentions, but here he came, and you were nowhere to be found.” She pressed her lips firmly together.
“Who called?” Charlotte asked after a moment.
“Mr. Morton,” she replied with a pleased tone.
Confused, Charlotte almost blurted out that such a thing was impossible as she had just been with Mr. Morton. Then, she realized her sister meant Mr. Robert Morton.
“He came here? To call upon me?”
“Yes, and he waited a full twenty minutes. This is very good news, my dear, excellent news, in fact. First, he attempts to ask you for a second dance at the assembly, and then he calls upon you. I think his intentions are clear—he finds you a desirable partner. Of course, I did let it drop that he was the fourth caller for you today. It will do no harm for him to realize how highly sought after you are following the assembly.”
“Dorothea, tell me you did not tell him that.” Charlotte felt her face burn.
“I most certainly did. Why should he not know that should he wish to court you he will have some competition? We do not want him to take you for granted.”
Charlotte was about to reply when the door opened and two servants brought in tea. The aroma of freshly baked scones floated over to her, and she realized suddenly how ravenously hungry she was. She decided not to press the issue with Dorothea. At least until she had tamed her appetite.