T he excitement of the visit to Cavendish Square, rendered so much more interesting than usual thanks to Jem’s recent turn of fate, kept Amelia in an eager, agitated mood all the way back to Upper Wimpole Street.
Noble lineage or not, Amelia rarely ever had anything noteworthy happening in her life, and she found herself almost swept away by the promise of something changing.
It was not until Thea, in all her usual elegance, had dropped Amelia off at her Papa’s doorstep that her heightened emotions finally eased to a more manageable calm.
Amelia smiled. Then she turned around to the door currently being held open by their younger-than-entirely-fashionable butler Mr. Perritt, and she sighed.
Mother never liked it whenever Amelia spent time with her cousins, and her late return could only mean more recriminations. She’d likely missed dinner altogether.
It was almost silly—how petty Mother could be.
It was not as if Amelia had her stepsisters’ height or their fashion.
As the niece rather than a daughter of an earl, she didn’t carry the titles her cousins did.
And it was not as if most people cared that she brought with her ties to a faraway kingdom, not when they could seek out more immediate links to the British aristocracy by marrying one of her relatives instead.
Amelia huffed as she climbed up the steps and marched into the house.
“You are awaited in the library,” said Perritt, as he assisted her with her coat.
Amelia groaned. She’d expected to be spared until tomorrow, at the least. But Mother seemed intent to begin her interrogation sooner.
“Thank you,” she said hollowly. Perritt nodded and returned to whatever kept him busy before Amelia had the gall to show up.
Mother had no reason whatsoever to spite Amelia—none, perhaps, except for the fact that, after all these years, Papa seemed unswayed from his devotion to Amelia’s late mother, with that love easily spilling over to Amelia herself.
As the third son of a respected peer, Papa’s natural talent for the brush and the pencil had seen him recruited as an illustrator and a representative of the Aldbury clan on the renowned Macartney Embassy twenty-two years ago.
The embassy to China had begun with much fanfare, laden with economic and political ambitions.
But while the visit might have proven mostly unfruitful in the end, as far as the Crown was concerned, there had still been plenty of eyes opened and lessons learned.
And while the other young men who’d ventured into the Orient returned home with silks and teas and porcelain, or even an earldom or two, Papa had returned with her.
Based on the way Papa looked at her most days, Amelia rather thought he didn’t regret it.
Drawing strength from the knowledge that she at least held the heart of one of her parents, Amelia marched to the library, expecting Mother’s ire—and smiled in relief at the sight of her Papa instead.
“Papa!” She rushed forward to embrace him. Papa’s smile crinkled under his spectacles before he heartily returned her hug.
“Did you enjoy your call?”
“It was fascinating.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” Amelia grinned. She longed to tell her Papa everything that she’d learned in Cavendish Square, particularly about the Princess’s flight.
But she stayed her tongue, uncertain if Jem would get in trouble if the news spread too fast. “But you have something else to tell me, I think? Perritt said you were waiting for me.”
“Ah, yes.” Papa smiled. He turned back to the large desk near the side of the room.
He reached over for a long, paper-backed canvas and unrolled it carefully, its weighted bottom easing effortlessly over the surface.
Amelia could tell its Chinese origins immediately.
“See—my latest treasure. A beautiful rendering of White Cloud Mountain, mere miles from Canton.”
Amelia’s smile grew beside her father’s. “That’s where I was born.”
“Yes. ”
She leaned forward, admiring the artwork. “Did you visit the mountain often with Mama?”
As usual, Papa’s eyes glistened at the mention of his first wife. “Without a safe place to stay near the mountains, it was not a common practice. But I do remember the view.”
“Is this a faithful rendering?”
“In the Chinese way of things, yes.”
Amelia ran her eyes over the stylistic, elongated brush strokes—sparse yet elegant.
The more popular items in people’s chinoiserie collections might be the ornately decorated ones, rather like the jewelry box she’d inherited, but there was something breathtaking in the softer, minimal restraint of these items Papa liked to acquire.
“Will you display it?” asked Amelia.
Papa took his time answering, his gaze far away. He’d always been the sentimental sort. “Perhaps. But I might have Sir George take a look first. He always had an eye for authenticity.”
Amelia bit her tongue over the fact that her Papa had, once again, purchased something before confirming its authenticity rather than after. Given the row he’d had with Mother just a few weeks ago, it certainly seemed that he had a much shorter memory than Amelia did.
At least Sir George would be a trustworthy source for evaluating something like this.
Papa might have all the passion when it came to the Far East, Amelia’s very existence a living piece of evidence to the fact, but Sir George Staunton had the passion and the knowledge.
At least, that’s what Amelia had been raised to think, given how often Papa conferred with the man.
She’d never actually spoken to the baronet, and most of English society might not care very much about someone whose title was a mere single generation from creation, but Papa treated the man like a hero.
“It certainly is a lovely painting, regardless of its origin.” Amelia drew from her optimism. She fumbled a bit with her sleeves. “One’s origins should never be the reason one is valued or not, after all.”
Papa met her eye, his gaze all compassion. “They may, in fact, be what makes something, or someone , extra precious.”
He closed a hand over hers, and Amelia smiled. “Do you miss her—my mother?”
“Dearly.”
A small pang of guilt tugged in her chest. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask you that when Mother might hear us anytime.”
Papa chuckled before he let go. He sighed. “I am content with my life—and your brothers are a comfort to me.”
Amelia shrugged. Her brothers were not all that terrible, but her stepsisters certainly weren’t a comfort to anyone, not even to the mother they so resembled.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” Papa said fondly. He made the statement often, but a warm, fuzzy feeling still pooled in Amelia’s chest whenever he did. Even if she had no memories of ever seeing her own mother, at least she carried some sort of legacy from her. “And her voice.”
“I thought Chinese women weren’t expected to speak very much.”
Papa laughed. “No, they were not. But that never stopped your mother.”
“Or me.”
“Or you.”
It was perhaps not the most flattering thing to be reminded of—that one shared one’s parents’ flaws. But Amelia clung to every detail as if they were the highest form of praise.
“Mr. Fitzwater,” Perritt’s voice called out behind them. Father and daughter both turned. “Dinner awaits.”
“Oh!” Amelia cried. She cast a look at the clock before glancing at her father. “Did you delay the meal on my account?”
“Did we?” There was a twinkle in Papa’s eyes. “I had thought it was on account of me being far too busy over a new delivery.”
Amelia smiled. He never explicitly said so, but she knew she was her father’s favorite.
They rolled up Papa’s latest purchase together and left the study arm-in-arm. The plan to stay with Thea and Jem would simply have to be discussed another time. For now, she would focus on surviving dinner unscathed.