Page 24 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Lord Graham’s voice carried easily above the swell of music and chatter, and a part of Tristan began to wonder just how much longer he would have to stay before leaving became less impolite.

“So, Lord Vale, how do you find the management of Evermere? If I know anything about your grandfather, it is that your estate has a reputation for discipline. Are you maintaining that as well?” Lord Graham asked, his voice just as clear.

Tristan adjusted his cuff, his tone steady. “Oh, well, I do what I must. The tenants know their duties, and I keep the ledgers clean. There is no use running a house if its books do not balance.”

The older man gave a slow nod. “Oh, I know exactly what you mean. And the people? Do they answer well to your commands?”

“They do. Some more readily than others,” Tristan responded, his mind briefly wandering toward Mr. Jones. “But that is the way of the world.”

A wave of amusement crossed Graham’s eyes. “It has been some time since the war, and you still speak like a soldier.”

“Oh well,” Tristan said, his voice clear. “Old habits die hard.”

The older lord sipped from his glass, studying him over the rim. “And tell me, will you be at the gathering tomorrow? The one where we speak further about this Berkeley Project?”

Tristan raised his head. “Yes. At first, I admit, I was doubtful. But Mr. Harwood has laid out the details with skill. He has a way of making a man feel that the thing is half built already.”

“Indeed,” Graham replied. “And do you trust it now?”

“I trust the numbers I have seen,” Tristan said carefully. “That is not the same as trusting the men behind them.”

Lord Graham chuckled. “Caution is wise.”

Tristan nodded. Could he leave now?

Before he could contemplate the answer, Lord Graham’s voice broke into his thoughts again.

“And married life? How has that settled upon your shoulders?”

Tristan let a pause sit between them before answering. “I cannot complain.”

“With a wife as lovely as yours, who could?”

The words pulled Tristan’s gaze to the far side of the room. Eliza was crouched among a group of children, her bright dress reflecting the candlelight around her as she passed small biscuits into their hands. The children laughed at something she said, their voices rising with each second.

“She is lovely,” Tristan said at last, his voice softer than before.

Graham’s expression shifted, something warmer in his eyes. “My second marriage was arranged, you know. Clara was her name. She was a gentle woman. Patient too. Perhaps too patient.”

Tristan swallowed and turned to him as he continued, “She loved me more than I deserved, though I was too blind to see it.”

“Oh,” Tristan responded, unsure of what else to say.

“You see, I had lost my first wife years before, in a carriage accident. She was my first love, and I buried myself in grief. I thought it noble to mourn, but what I did was selfish. I let it consume me until I could see nothing else. And Clara…well, she stood there beside me, waiting. Always waiting. By the time I turned and realized she wanted nothing more than to share that burden with me, it was too late.”

Tristan felt his chest tighten. “That must have been … harsh.”

“Harsh,” Graham agreed. “But more than that, it was a waste. A waste of her love, a waste of her years. She would ask to walk in the gardens with me, and I would refuse. She once painted me a small portrait, and I never even hung it on the wall. And then, one morning, she was gone. Illness took her in weeks. Do you know what I felt as I stood at her grave?”

“What?”

“Regret. That is what I carried. Regret is the cruelest companion, Lord Vale. Believe me when I tell you, do not let it be yours.”

Tristan’s throat worked, but no words came at once. His eyes drifted back to Eliza. She was laughing again, her hands outstretched as the children pulled at her gown for more sweets.

“My point,” Graham said, his voice just as steady, “do not be afraid to let someone in. It may seem like a burden, but a woman like that—” he gestured gently toward Eliza “—if you lose her, you will spend the rest of your life wishing you had not. And wishes are no cure for the years.”

Tristan breathed slowly, still watching her. At last, he turned back to Lord Graham and exhaled. “I thank you for your counsel.”

“See you tomorrow, then,” Graham said, straightening his coat.

“I look forward to it.”

The older man slipped back into the crowd, leaving Tristan alone with thoughts that pressed heavier than before.

He hadn’t registered what he was feeling when a brush of familiar silk came at his side. Evelyn appeared, her eyes sharp as ever. She looked across the room with the intensity of a hawk, then back at him.

“Aunt Evelyn,” Tristan greeted her.

Evelyn shuffled her legs. “It is turning out well, is it not? The people seem to like Eliza.”

“She is a good person,” Tristan said.

Evelyn smiled faintly. “This is a good thing you have done. A pity Howard is missing it. He would have enjoyed such an evening.”

Tristan lifted a brow. “I am sure they have balls in America, Aunt Evelyn.”

She gave a short laugh. “No doubt they do, though I wonder if they have chandeliers half so fine.”

Tristan laughed.

“So, is this a sign that the marriage might work after all?”

He shook his head. “I only meant to introduce Eliza to the local society with this, that’s all. Do not read into it.”

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed, edged with amusement. “Of course you did.” She tapped his arm lightly. “Whatever you tell yourself, Tristan.”

Before he could answer, she slipped back into the crowd, leaving the words lodged in his chest.

Whatever you tell yourself.

His gaze pulled back to Eliza. She was still surrounded by children, smiling as she offered the last of the biscuits. One little boy tugged at her sleeve, and she bent down again.

For a reason he could not name, Tristan found himself holding his breath.

***

The morning after the ball was quieter, much to the relief of every person in the house. Breakfast had barely ended when one of the footmen entered the hall. He bowed low, his hands folded behind his back.

“My lord, the carriage is ready.”

Tristan pushed back his chair and stood. “Very well.”

Eliza rose as well, adjusting the lower parts of her gown. Evelyn, who sat across the table, looked up with sharp eyes. “She is coming with you?”

“Yes,” Tristan replied evenly.

“What a pity,” Evelyn said with a sigh. “I was rather hoping the two of us might take a walk in the gardens later this afternoon.”

The duke, seated at the head of the table, folded his paper and looked toward her. “Do you not have that meeting this same afternoon with Lady Fitz?”

Evelyn groaned so dramatically that Eliza covered her mouth to hide a laugh.

“You had to remind me, did you not, Father? Lady Fitz is a bloodsucker. She will keep me in her rooms for hours and force me to sample her dreadful perfumes.”

“Is there anyone you actually like, Aunt Evelyn?” Eliza asked, her voice crisp.

Evelyn shut her eyes, almost like she was trying to think about the answer. “I will have to give you a response when you return from your journey, dear.”

Eliza could not help but laugh then. “Clara is still in her chambers. I could send her to keep you company if you prefer.”

Evelyn froze, her fork hanging midair. “Clara, you say?”

Eliza nodded.

Evelyn shook her head at once. “On second thought, I shall take my chances with the bloodsucker. Even misery has limits.”

Tristan allowed himself a laugh, rare though it was. “Then the matter is settled. We must be off.”

The duke wished them well, and the pair left the hall together.

The carriage rolled down the long and bumpy road, the wheels crunching against gravel. Through the open window, the air was sharp and bright, and the scent of leaves could be perceived, although just faintly so. Eliza leaned forward, her eyes filled with curiosity.

“What is that tower over there?” she asked, pointing toward a grey tower in the distance.

“That is the old mill,” Tristan responded. “It has been idle for years, though they say the water there still runs the clearest in the county.”

“And that field?”

“Tenant land. Barley, most likely. They send half the yield to market and keep the rest for themselves.”

Eliza nodded, but her gaze never seemed still.

Tristan noticed how she was always turning toward some detail, some new corner of the land she had not yet noticed.

After a while, she shifted her eyes back to Tristan and pushed her back against the cushion.

“This meeting with Marcus…What is it truly about?”

Tristan rested one arm on the window frame. “It is to finalize the arrangements for the Berkeley Project. Just a bunch of formalities and numbers. The kind of dull necessities that no one enjoys but everyone must endure.”

“And you want me there?” she asked.

He lifted one shoulder. “I have found that meetings are more bearable when you are present.”

Eliza’s laugh surprised him, bright and unguarded. “I cannot imagine how. I hardly ever say anything of use.”

“Your presence is enough,” Tristan replied simply.

She studied him for a moment before shaking her head. “I hope you know you cannot take me to every meeting.”

“No,” he said. “But I can take you to the ones I choose.”

She smiled faintly and turned back toward the window. The smile lingered on her lips, and he found himself watching it until the road curved and the view ahead drew her attention again.

“What are those people doing?” she asked.

He followed her gaze. A line of carts and people with baskets filled the road in the distance.

“Today is the local harvest day,” Tristan explained. “They carry their crops to the market. Prices will be low, since everyone sells at once.”

Her expression grew warm. “Do you mind if we stop at the market on our way back?”

He glanced at her. “What is it you wish to buy? The maids can fetch whatever you require.”

“I know,” she said. “But it is not the same. I just…miss it.”