Page 7 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

It was her first night in Evermere, and no matter how hard Eliza tried, sleep did not come. She lay still and counted her breaths, even backward, yet her eyes still would not close.

The silence pressed around her, and for some reason, it felt new and sharp. She had wanted to be away from Marcus. She had wished for it. Now the stillness felt like a hollow room.

She sat up and pushed the bedsheets aside. Then she reached for the candle by the bed and lit it. After casting the room in a golden glow, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and opened the door. Exhaling as much as she could, she stepped into the hallway.

The path ahead of her was long and straight, and the wall panels shone in the light.

The rugs were deep and comforting under her feet.

She moved slowly and let her fingers touch and graze the wood.

Then she paused by a portrait. A woman in emerald silk sat with her hands folded.

The eyes in the painting looked almost warm, and Eliza tried to smile.

She walked on instead, drawing a breath and letting it out. She raised the candle a little and looked up at the plasterwork. She traced the shape of a leaf with her gaze.

She thought of pigment and light.

She thought of her brush.

“There is so much to paint here,” she whispered. “If I am allowed.”

“My lady.”

The voice came from behind her, and she turned at once, causing the candle in her hand to shake. She winced as she felt wax slide toward her knuckles.

A woman stood a few paces back, wearing a dark dress with a plain collar. Her hair was gray and neat, and her hands were tucked tight behind her. Eliza narrowed her eyes and studied the woman even more. She looked to be in her late fifties, and her stance was quiet and firm.

“I knew I heard someone upstairs,” the woman said.

Eliza steadied the candle and found her voice. “Forgive me. I could not sleep. I thought a walk would calm me.”

“The first night can be a trial. Thoughts crowd where rest should be,” the woman said.

Eliza lowered her gaze and nodded. “That is true. I feel I must look and learn. I want to prepare for what this house will ask of me.”

“There is much to learn, my lady. But not in one night,” the woman said, then she looked at Eliza for a moment. “Will you follow me?” she said.

Eliza adjusted her shawl and lifted the candle a little. “Yes.”

They walked together, their steps soft on the rugs. The hallway opened to a landing, and a clock ticked somewhere below. The woman turned into another hallway and pushed open a door.

It was a drawing room, perhaps larger than the ones Eliza was used to. The air still held a trace of smoke even though the fire had sunk low. The chairs along the walls stood in neat groups, and the curtains looked heavy and pale.

“Sit here,” the woman said, drawing one of the chairs near the dim fireplace. “Wait a short while, and I will make you some tea.”

Eliza set her candle on a small table and sat with her shawl pulled close. Her eyes went to the walls at once. Again, the architecture in this part of the room was greatly mesmerizing.

Landscapes in gold frames lined the room, and her eyes steadied on the designs. There was one showing a storm over hills. Another reflected a river with a stone bridge.

She took her eyes off the walls and looked up at the mantel. A stag’s head hung above it, its antlers rising and spreading like bare winter branches. The glass eyes seemed to catch the dim light.

“You are a proud one, are you not?” she whispered. “I bet he caught you, too.”

The door opened again at that moment, and the woman came back with a small tray. A pot and a single cup sat upon it, and Eliza watched the steam rise.

“Here,” the woman said. She set the tray down and poured. “It will help you sleep.”

Eliza took the cup in both hands. The heat soaked into her skin, and the scent was gentle and clean. She sipped and felt warmth move through her.

“Thank you. You are very kind,” she said.

“It is no trouble. It is my place,” the woman said.

Eliza took another sip and let out a breath she had been holding. She looked up and felt color rise to her cheeks. “I never even asked your name.”

The woman’s mouth softened at the corners. “Mrs. Yarrow. I am the housekeeper.”

Eliza straightened a little. “Oh,” she said. “Then we were to meet in the morning.”

“That was the plan,” Mrs. Yarrow said, folding her hands again with quiet care. “We were officially supposed to meet properly tomorrow, but I might as well welcome you to Evermere now.”

Eliza nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Yarrow.”

A brief moment of silence descended until the housekeeper decided to break it, much to Eliza’s relief.

“Pardon me, my lady,” Mrs. Yarrow said, her voice low and even. “But in my experience, there are quite a few reasons why new brides do not get their rest on their wedding night. The biggest reason is often restlessness.”

Eliza’s hands circled her teacup as she sat in the chair and let out a breath. “That is true. I feel restless. I am aware that I should be glad. It is just …” Her voice trailed off, and her words drifted into the darkness.

Mrs. Yarrow folded her hands in front of her. “Let us start from the very beginning, shall we? What troubles you the most?”

Eliza stared at the firelight. “My brother,” she said at last, her voice cracking. “He was a cruel man. One of the cruelest on earth. I could not be happier to be away from him, and yet—” she hesitated, clutching the cup tighter“—and yet I miss him.”

Mrs. Yarrow tilted her head, studying her. “Miss him?”

“I know it sounds odd,” Eliza whispered. “But not having him near … not hearing his voice storming through the walls, not hearing his plans to use me for his schemes. It digs a hole in me. A wrong sort of silence.”

Mrs. Yarrow’s eyes softened. She leaned forward slightly. “You do not miss him, my lady. What you miss is the noise. The body grows used to its cage, and when the door is opened, it mistakes freedom for loss. Your mind is only trying to tell you that your old life was safer. But was it safer?”

Eliza looked at her, and the housekeeper’s tone rose just a notch.

“Tell me this. If you could return to your old house this very night, with no consequence waiting for you, would you go?”

Eliza lowered her gaze, and her thoughts twisted in her chest. She thought of Marcus’s sharp words, the weight of his demands, the constant fear of what foolishness he would try next. She thought of the cold rooms of that house. She thought of her paints hidden away, her every choice bound by him.

“No,” she eventually whispered. “I would not go back.”

Mrs. Yarrow smiled faintly. “And there you have it.”

Eliza’s lips pressed together. A little of the weight lifted, but another soon took its place.

“All well and good, but what life is there for me here? My husband has barely spoken to me. He says nothing except what sounds like orders and has barely looked at me with any warmth. It is as though I were not even here. Is he always like that?”

Mrs. Yarrow gave a small laugh. “Yes. The earl has a kind heart, though you will not see it at first. He hides it under walls stronger than stone. No one has yet managed to bring them down. Do not take it to heart.”

“He hardly even looked at me,” Eliza said. “I am his wife. Should he not try to get to know me?”

“He may not know how,” Mrs. Yarrow replied simply. “War changes a man. You must not let his distance make you think you are unwanted here.”

Eliza took another sip of the tea. “Then what should I do? Sit here every day, waiting for him to speak to me?”

Mrs. Yarrow shook her head. “No, my lady. If I were you, I would make myself busy. The manor has more to offer than silence. There is the library, filled with books. There are portraits, each with its story. You may find your own ways to make this place less lonely. However, if you continue to wait for the earl, the days will feel long indeed.”

Eliza managed a small smile. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Mrs. Yarrow said, rising to her feet. “You must not think of yourself as trapped. This house can be yours as much as his. But you must claim it.”

Eliza leaned back, her eyelids growing heavy. She tried to speak again, but only yawned.

Mrs. Yarrow nodded. “The tea is doing its work. Come, my lady, let me see you to your room.”

Eliza rose and followed her into the hallway. When they reached her chamber door, Eliza turned to her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Yarrow. I do not know what I would have done tonight without you.”

Mrs. Yarrow inclined her head. “Goodnight, my lady.”

Eliza slipped inside and leaned against the door once it closed, the warmth of the tea still in her. The bed drew her, and she sank into it with a long sigh.

The sleep wasted no time before it claimed her.

***

The next morning, after a quiet breakfast in her room, Eliza stood by the window for a long while, her eyes drawn to the gardens below. The sun touched the flowers in a way that made them glow, and the soft green of the hedges looked almost painted already.

She hesitated before reaching for her sketchbook. It had always been her one comfort. With the book pressed to her chest, she left her room, walked down the hallways, and stepped outside.

The garden air was fresh and sharp, and the breeze carried the smell of roses. She found a bench near a patch of lilies and sat down, pulling her charcoal from her reticule. For a moment, she only stared, then her hand began to move, tracing the curve of a stem.

She couldn’t believe she let herself forget just how much of a joy it was to paint things she appreciated. Perhaps Mrs. Yarrow was right after all.

She was lost in the work when sharp footsteps came from behind. She turned quickly, her lips parting, half hoping it was Tristan.

It was Mr. Hale, his valet. He bowed his head slightly.

“My lady,” he said.

Eliza returned his greeting with a small smile. “Mr. Hale. I hope I am not in anyone’s way out here.”

“Not at all,” he said. His eyes dropped to the sketchbook on her lap. “I must admit, I did not expect to see you with charcoal in hand. When you were introduced to us this morning, you looked every bit the proper lady of the house. Not someone who could draw like this.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “I assure you, it is nothing grand. I do it only to steady myself. It is my way of grounding myself when everything else feels too heavy.”

“Then it serves its purpose well,” he said. “But it is more than grounding. You make the page come alive. That is not something everyone can do.”

Eliza looked down at her hands. “Oh well, to my brother and probably half of society, it is not something to be proud of. I only enjoy it because it is the one thing that keeps my mind from wandering too far.”

“You should be proud,” Mr. Hale answered, his tone steady. “You take what is plain and make it bright. A house can have walls and halls, but it is things like this that give it warmth. Do not ever think little of it.”

Her lips curved faintly. “If my friend Clara were here, she would say the exact same thing.”

“Then your friend has sense,” Mr. Hale said with a smile. “She sees what is true when others may not.”

“Yes,” Eliza said softly. “She does. She has always been that way.”

“I have known a few people like that in the past,” Mr. Hale responded.

For a moment, Eliza was quiet. Then she turned her eyes to the sketchbook while still speaking to the valet. “You would get along with her, I think. You both speak in the same way—about meaning and purpose and things most people ignore.”

“Then she sounds like a person worth knowing,” he said. “It is rare to find those who value such things.”

“She is worth knowing,” Eliza said. “I miss her terribly already.”

Mr. Hale shifted his stance, folding his arms lightly. “And yet, I think you will find companionship here as well. The earl, for one, may not show it, but he values more than duty and order. You and he may be alike in ways that surprise you.”

Eliza’s brows lifted at that. “I cannot say I know him well enough to see any likeness. He speaks little, and when he does, it sounds as though he is giving orders on a battlefield.”

Mr. Hale chuckled. “That is fair. The war left its mark on him, and he still speaks as a soldier. But beneath it, there is a steadiness. And steadiness, my lady, is not so far from the grounding you spoke of.”

She frowned a little, her hand pausing on the page. “Perhaps. Yet he has not spoken more than a few words to me. I cannot tell what he thinks at all.”

“In time, you will,” Mr. Hale said. “It may take patience, but you will.”

Eliza glanced back down at her sketch. “I am not sure I have patience left.”

“You do,” he said firmly. “You carry it, even if you doubt it. Look at what you do here. You sit, you watch, you draw line after line. That is enough patience.”

Her lips parted, then closed again. Finally, she said, “I know I keep saying this, but you sound very much like Clara.”

“Then perhaps Clara is right more often than you allow yourself to believe,” he replied with a kind smile.

Eliza gave a small laugh. “She will be unbearable if I ever tell her she was right about this.”

“Then do not tell her,” he said with a grin. “Keep it to yourself, and let her wonder.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself.

Mr. Hale straightened a little. “I should not take more of your time. I only wished to say that your work is worth more than you think. Do not put it aside.”

Eliza looked up at him. “Thank you. That is kind of you to say.”

He bowed his head once more. “It is only the truth.”

With that, he turned and began walking back toward the house.

Eliza sat for a long while after, her fingers moving more freely across the page. She finished the flowers, shaded the stems, and added the turn of leaves. Her chest felt lighter, and she grew more hopeful. Perhaps there may be a chance for her here after all. If Tristan would just talk to her.

Suddenly, a strange sense came over her and broke into her thoughts. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Her hand stilled on the canvas, and she turned around slowly, lifting her head. At a tall window above, she saw him.

Tristan.

His face was half-shadowed, but his eyes were clear and fixed on her. There was no disdain there. No sign of objection. Only curiosity, or what seemed to be curiosity anyway. It was hard to read his face.

Her eyes met his, and her breath caught. For the next few moments, neither of them moved. At last, when it seemed clear she would not look away, he gave a small nod and turned away from the window.

Just like that, he was gone.

Alone again, she set her charcoal down and felt her hands tremble faintly for no reason.