Page 28

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.

LORD BYRON

As I led Miss Littleton and Miss Perry to the gladiator mosaic, my spirits lifted.

Unaware of my attention, Miss Littleton knelt with a brass magnifying glass to study the artifact while Miss Perry wandered through the orchard.

Whenever I tried to engage Miss Perry, her gaze slid away, likely resenting that the border dispute remained unresolved despite our efforts.

Miss Littleton retrieved her sketchbook, briefly revealing several Roman-era drawings as she flipped through the pages. Finally, she turned it to show me a portrait—a haughty profile of a man that bore an uncanny resemblance to my uncle.

She pointed to the page smudged with charcoal. “This is how I imagine the owner of the villa might have appeared. Was he a government official, or a military general, or perhaps a wealthy farmer? Perhaps he was not so unlike you, my lord, wanting to take care of his people and the land.”

I sat beside her, studying her sketchbook in the dappled sunlight while Miss Perry wandered off, leaving me alone with Miss Littleton.

She leaned closer, just enough that I caught the faint scent of lilac water. I pointed to another picture of a Roman woman. A beautiful woman, but she didn’t compare to the sprite by my side, with her flaming hair glowing in the sunlight. Bridget. My pulse sped to a traitorous beat.

Miss Littleton, I corrected mentally.

Her expression changed to something wistful.

“Somehow, I can’t help but imagine that the owner of this villa built a magnificent home, a place of belonging, for his family, far away from Rome.

Oh, don’t look at me in that distracting manner.

I know you think I nurse my whims, but isn’t it lovelier to imagine that a happy family lived here among the hills? ”

A bluestocking enamored with a love story.

It wasn’t the curve of Miss Littleton’s cheek, nor the sparkle in those green eyes that made me study her. It was her outspoken passion for something most would dismiss.

She was altogether appealing. A dangerous situation.

I hadn’t given much thought to love. Not with a disappointing estate forcing me into trade. The ton would never consent to let their daughters marry someone such as me. Nor would many applaud a viscount courting his vicar’s daughter.

Despite my best efforts, I sounded more tender than I intended. “You dream of fairy tales, Miss Littleton. Charming enough but hardly evident in real life. However, when you speak in such a manner, I almost believe that they are possible. I find myself wanting to hope that happy stories exist.”

Her smile disappeared, and with it, the tiny dimple in her creamy skin. Something flashed within her eyes that I couldn’t discern. I hoped it wasn’t pity.

I studied the charcoal lines, so much so that the glass tile almost sparkled on the paper. I swallowed against the dryness in my mouth and changed the subject before I revealed too much, including my fascination with her.

“I’m far more interested in your skill, which goes beyond the average school miss. I’ve never seen such talent, except in museums.”

In fact, I wanted nothing more than to flip the pages and study what else might have poured forth from her soul and learn about the spirited woman beside me.

“The path to becoming a scholar with academic publications is not an easy one,” she said quietly.

“At least, not for a woman. Although I welcome such compliments, I have faced more rejections than I care to count. If I could publish a paper on the mosaics, along with illustrations, for the people who cannot afford to escape their small world, then I would count myself blessed.”

“You are ambitious, to say the least, but I admire you all the more for it. I hope you never lose such a free spirit.” I could have said more, reminding her that such a quest might prove heartbreaking in the end, yet I couldn’t form the words and add to further rejection. Had no one believed in her?

Further intrigued with her desire for such recognition, I turned the page, finding more sketches of the ruins and elegant tiled swirls of the mosaics.

Then the hillside just beyond the lane leading toward Bramnor, sprouting of wildflowers, the pastel colors from pencils, with sheep munching grass at sunset.

Portraits of the villagers came next, the lines bold as she captured the Dixon lads and Mrs. Eacher, portraying them within a noble light.

My admiration grew for the woman by my side.

She was much like her father, wanting the best for the valley and her friends the Perry family.

I looked up to see if Miss Perry had returned. She had not, her carelessness at leaving us alone in stark contrast to Miss Littleton’s care. I was about to recommend that Miss Littleton and I return to the abbey for propriety’s sake when the wind pushed another page into view.

I lifted that page, pinched between my fingers, yet mesmerized by the peaceful countryside when I heard a horrified gasp. I looked up to see her wide-eyed gaze as she snatched the book out of my hands.

But not before I caught sight of longish black hair and a man’s face. The book snapped shut before I could discern more, and for once, Miss Littleton fidgeted with her lace fichu as if she couldn’t quite get enough air into her lungs while clinging to the book with her other arm.

She kept her voice light, though I thought I caught a touch of breathlessness. “That will be all for now, I believe. You will excuse me, my lord, but I must return to check on my father. I don’t think we need to burden you any longer. I’m sure your day must be filled with—”

“I may not see the rest of your work?” I interjected though good manners forbade me from doing so.

Her cheeks flushed and she held the sketchbook tighter to her chest. “I doubt you’d be interested in foolish sketches.”

I couldn’t resist poking a little, perhaps enjoying her blush more than I ought to. It appeared Miss Littleton could be flustered after all.

“Are not your drawings to be displayed? So many ladies desire to showcase their embroidery and piano skills to the world.”

“Some of us are more modest, and these sketches are of a personal nature,” she responded tartly despite the high color suffusing her. If possible, she turned a shade pinker.

I wondered what personal art would keep her so tight-lipped, and why she shut the book so quickly and seemed to guard it with her life. Mysterious dark-haired man included.

Raising a hand, I hid a smile. “Keep your secrets, Miss Littleton. I won’t pry any further. Not unless it involves my land. Then I shall demand complete transparency.”

She exhaled as she slid the sketchbook into her satchel, along with the magnifying glass. I found myself reluctant to let her go just yet.

“Would you be interested in sketching a Ming vase?” I asked her on a whim, secretly hoping she would agree.

She still had a pencil tucked behind one ear, and several damp curls clung to her neck and forehead. “I’d be delighted. I’ve long admired that vase in the library. Do you want a catalog of art items?”

“Yes. I plan to sell what I can,” I admitted. Would she think less of me because of my financial straits? I could think of no better way to advertise the vases and tapestries. “I have an interested buyer whom I’d like to persuade to come to the abbey to see the antiques for himself.”

“I shall do my best,” she said after a pause. Then she fixed me with a firm look. “After I finish working with the Perrys.”

I couldn’t resist smiling again. If she illustrated the vase, a spectacular piece of white porcelain laced with deep blue, I was certain I could sell it. And I would see her again.

“You won’t sell the books, will you?” Her eyes turned pleading. Darker in hue.

My throat tightened. “No. I will not.” For you, I’ll keep every single tome.

Relief warmed those mesmerizing eyes. She rose, brushing the dirt from her gown. I rose too, albeit far less gracefully.

“You have my gratitude, Lord Hawthorn. A library is a treasure beyond compare.” Her voice wavered just as Miss Perry returned from her walk among the trees. A careless friend, to my thinking, and one who should not have abandoned another young woman so readily.

I walked with them to the courtyard, not unaware of the curious look Miss Perry shot me as she slipped her hand through her friend’s arm.

“Come when you are able. I will have Mrs. Whittle show you the vases to sketch in your free moments,” I offered both of them.

A startled sound echoed from the stables—a yelp from Mr. Whittle and a subsequent whinny. Had one of the horses nipped him? They seemed on edge as of late, including Chaucer.

“Tarnation!” Mr. Whittle cried from the stable. “Who left the stalls open? The horses have escaped!”

“Good day, ladies,” I said over my shoulder as I darted toward the stables.

I glanced back to see Miss Perry poke her friend in the ribs. Her voice carried across the courtyard.

“Perhaps you’ll find a dance for yourself during May Day.”

The idea of spinning on a dance floor with Miss Littleton proved to be far more appealing than I would have first assumed. But she refused to answer her friend, leaving me to wonder what exactly Miss Littleton thought of me.

As April wore on, it brought more rain clouds.

The tangy scent of rain filled the air, perfect for the newly planted crops and rows of apple saplings along the rock fence.

The orchard would nearly double in size this year, with a harvest ripening in four years.

The longer I spent outdoors, the more my thoughts of returning to London faded.