Page 28 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

A while later, as the children managed to settle into a blissful rhythm, Tristan decided to break it.

“Children, might I borrow Lady Vale for a moment?” He asked, his tone calm but leaving little room for protest.

The group dispersed reluctantly, scattering back to their games. Eliza rose and dusted off her gown before walking to Tristan’s side.

“You left early this morning,” she said lightly. “I thought perhaps the heat or the room had suffocated you.”

“Oh, trust it was neither,” Tristan replied, his eyes steady on hers. “I needed to clear my head. Mr. Kale here was of help. He showed me what is truly at stake should we proceed with this project.”

Eliza turned her gaze to Mr. Kale, who stood nearby with arms folded loosely. He gave a small smile.

“Yes, my lady,” Kale said. “We spoke at length. There is much to lose.”

Tristan nodded. “We cannot move forward with this project. Not until we are certain these people will not suffer.”

Eliza folded her hands, trying to suppress the smile of pride that crept across her face. Of course, Tristan wasn’t one of those people. This just confirmed it for her.

He continued, oblivious to her thoughts. “I intend to write to your brother at once, but before that, I must visit the other village. There are lords there who ought to be consulted. I should be back by evening.”

“I see,” Eliza murmured.

“Then tomorrow morning,” Tristan continued, “we can return to the estate.”

“That is fine by me,” Eliza said, though her heart felt oddly unsettled. “It will give me time to explore a little.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Explore where?”

Mr. Kale cleared his throat gently. “If I may, my lord, there is a parish half an hour from here. It is worth the walk. The stonework is very old, and the grounds are peaceful.”

Eliza turned to Tristan with a spark in her eyes. “Then it is settled. I shall visit the parish.”

Tristan gave the faintest grunt of disapproval, though his gaze softened. “Very well. But do not wander too far.”

Behind them, shrieks of laughter rose again. Jane had returned, waving the pencil in triumph.

“Now, if you will excuse me,” Eliza said brightly, “I have an artist to attend to.”

She turned back toward the children, feeling Tristan’s eyes follow her. The weight of his gaze lingered even as she bent low to greet Jane, her smile returning with ease.

***

By the late afternoon, the only sign that it had rained the previous day was the damp earth and the wet huts around the inn.

The sun was shining so bright that it was hard to imagine there had been a storm just the day before.

Eliza stepped out of the inn and drew her shawl closer.

Mr. Kale, who was busy scrawling on his ledgers, looked up from behind the desk as she passed.

“My lady,” he greeted warmly.

“Mr. Kale,” she responded, her voice quiet. “I thought I might take a trip to the parish now.”

“Do you need someone to guide you around? The paths outside can twist if you do not know them well.”

Eliza smiled. “I will manage. You need not trouble yourself.”

“You are certain?” Mr. Kale pressed.

“I am. Do not worry for me,” she said, and with that, she gave him a small nod and walked out.

The village was alive again. Market stalls still stood in rows, though fewer than the previous day at the festival. She paused here and there to ask gentle questions of the people who passed by.

Most of what she asked had to do with directions, and the people were quite eager to help. Soon enough, she was pointed down a narrower track that wound between hedges until the parish came into view.

The building was modest, its stonework worn but sturdy. She stopped by a tree to examine the parish more closely. A few strings of ivy crept along the sides, and a shiny wooden cross crowned the roof. She exhaled and eventually moved closer, not stopping until she got to the door.

A woman stepped forward from the doorway as Eliza approached. She had dark hair neatly bound and a smile that was more polite, rather than warm.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I am Isabella, the vicar’s wife. May I ask who comes calling?”

Eliza raised her head. “Good morning. I am Lady Vale.”

The woman’s eyes flickered. “Oh. Lord Vale’s wife.”

Eliza narrowed her gaze. “You have heard of me?”

Isabella gave a small shrug. “News of a marriage to one of the most influential men on the nearby estate does not take long to pass around. Word travels fast here.”

Eliza nodded. “I see.”

“May I ask what brings you?” Isabella said politely.

“I wanted only to see how the parish is doing. I have always had an admiration for places like this, you know, their quiet and their design. I thought since I was in the village, I might as well look in and see. If you will allow me, of course.”

Isabella considered her for a moment, then smiled. “Very well. If you like, I can give you the tour. My husband would not look kindly upon me if he heard the lady of Evermere came to the parish and was not received properly.”

“I would not wish to impose,” Eliza replied.

“You are not,” Isabella said firmly. “Please.”

Eliza softened. “Then I thank you.”

They walked together through the nave, where light filtered through tall, plain windows. Isabella’s voice carried a rhythm, like she had done this before several times. She spoke with calmness and confidence, and it made Eliza grow fond of the walls.

“These walls date back nearly two hundred years,” she explained. “Laid stone by stone by the villagers themselves after the last war. You see the uneven cut of the masonry? They had little more than picks and carts, yet they raised this place in less than five years.”

Eliza reached out to touch the cool stone. “Remarkable. But surely materials like this are rare. I cannot imagine the level of maintenance it takes.”

“Indeed,” Isabella said with a small laugh. “We patch as best we can. The rain often eats at the mortar, and during the cold seasons, the roof suffers for it. Yet somehow it all holds. Thanks to donations from kind folk, it is made just a little easier.”

“You receive donations?” Eliza asked, turning.

Isabella nodded. “It is the only way we manage to keep this parish alive. Villagers give what they can, but the larger sums come from those with means. It is the way of things.”

Eliza frowned thoughtfully. “And how do you keep track of them?”

“Everything is recorded in the big book,” Isabella replied.

Eliza frowned. “The big book?”

Isabella nodded. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

“I would very much,” Eliza said.

Isabella led her to a side chamber, where shelves leaned with age. From a low table, she pulled a heavy volume bound in cracked leather. A pile of dust rose as she lifted it, but she laid it open with care.

“Here,” she said, flipping through. “Every offering. Land rents, alms, relief for widows. We keep careful records.”

Eliza bent over the pages, her eyes moving slowly down the neat lines of script. Coins and goods noted. Dates stretching back years. She admired the precision.

But then a name leapt out. Perhaps it was because of the different handwriting, or the familiarity of the name itself, but her eyes froze on it.

“Lord Calthorne,” she murmured, reading it aloud.

Her brow furrowed. She had met someone with that name just a few days ago, at her ball. It was one of the men who had come specifically to meet with Marcus. Her eyes traced the line again. A large donation had been entered just weeks before, and it seemed to be earmarked for community improvement.

Something was wrong, and she could feel it in her bones.

Community Improvement.

The handwriting here was different. It wasn’t done by the same steady hand that had written the earlier records.

Eliza tapped the line. “This one. Who recorded it?”

Isabella peered closer. “Ah. That came through Mr. Greyson. A solicitor, I believe. He handled the money on behalf of several gentlemen, and my husband received it. However, he did not write the note himself.”

“Several gentlemen,” Eliza repeated quietly.

“Yes,” Isabella said. “It was presented as a collective gift. We were not told anything else. But it was generous, and we could not refuse. We cannot afford to look a gift horse in the mouth, my lady.”

Eliza stared at the ink, the same unease growing in her again. Her eyes settled on the date the donation came in. Marcus had been in London at that time.

She closed the book gently, though her hand lingered.

“Thank you,” she said. “You have shown me much.”

Isabella smiled, unaware of the storm behind her guest’s calm face. “It is my honor, Lady Vale. Would you like to see the grounds as well?”

“Another time,” Eliza replied, straightening. Her voice was even, but her thoughts were racing.

Why would men from outside Evermere pour money into this place? Why through borrowed names and hidden hands? The only answer, of course, was that it was not charity at all. It was something more sinister.

Something she could bet Marcus already knew of.

She forced a smile at Isabella, offered her hand in thanks, then stepped back into the open air. But the unease followed her, heavier than anything. The questions needed answers, and she had to find a way to get them.