Chapter Seventeen

Seventeen

Devonshire, England

February 1863

Teddy cast another distracted glance out the drawing room window at the rain-flooded cliff path below. During foul weather, the road to Greyfriar’s Abbey was impassible. No one from the village would dare risk it with horse or carriage, and only the bravest of men would hazard it on foot.

Fortunately, Alex and their host, Justin Thornhill, were two such men. As boys, they’d clambered over the North Devon cliffs indiscriminately, in company with fellow orphans Tom Finchley and Neville Cross. A walk down to the village didn’t intimidate them, not now the rain had stopped and the sun was shining.

They had left over an hour ago to fetch the post, the daily papers, and a few supplies from the market for the ladies. Teddy awaited their return with uncharacteristic restlessness.

Perhaps he’d been too bold in writing to Stella?

Then again, what had ever been achieved through faintheartedness?

“You’re n-not painting today?” Neville joined Teddy at the window. He was a large man, well over six feet in height, with short cropped blond hair and a noble countenance more suited to an Arthurian knight than a stammering Devonshire farmer.

Teddy closed his sketchbook. He’d spent most of the morning idly penciling ideas for his portrait of Stella. A frustrating exercise. He’d left Hampshire no closer to her agreeing to sit for him than when he’d first asked.

All he’d achieved during the house party was to form a strange sort of friendship with her.

And to kiss her.

The memory of that moment in the sleigh had lately been plaguing his dreams.

Good Lord, what had possessed him? He might have at least restricted the intimacy to a brief peck on the cheek or an even briefer one on the lips. Instead, he’d taken his time, making a thorough romantic business out of what might have otherwise been a perfectly ordinary holiday custom.

“Teddy is in a world of his own,” Laura said. She sat a distance away by the drawing room fire, in company with Lady Helena Thornhill, Clara Cross, and Jenny Finchley.

The four ladies laughed softly together at Laura’s remark. Garbed in warm wool dresses and swathed in fashionable cashmere shawls, they were of a similar age, and since marrying their respective husbands, had become as close as sisters.

Jenny held little Honoria Thornhill on her lap. The raven-locked child was two years old. Small and plump cheeked, she was generally possessed of her father’s air of quiet reserve. But not at this time of day. Now, she was red faced and on the verge of tears, desperately in need of one of her twice-daily naps.

“If you’d give me more than five seconds to formulate an answer,” Teddy said to his sister, “I may yet make one.”

Neville sank down in a chair next to him. “Take as long as you n-need.”

Teddy’s mouth quirked. If anyone understood lengthy pauses it was Neville Cross.

Neville had suffered a brain injury when he’d fallen from the cliffs as a boy. Though he’d recovered admirably over the years, he still found it difficult to formulate speech with any degree of ease. He paused often, sometimes appearing to drift off in his own head as though he’d fallen into a daydream.

Teddy didn’t mind it. On the contrary, he shared a strong sense of fellow feeling with Neville. Before his marriage to Clara, Neville had lived at the Abbey under Justin’s protection. Neville knew firsthand what it was like to have to fight for autonomy over his own life.

“I’m expecting something in the post,” Teddy told him. “A letter from someone who might be important to me. It’s made me too restless to settle to anything this morning.”

“A young lady?” Jenny asked, smiling. “Do tell.”

“It’s forward of her to write to you directly, is it not?” Lady Helena wondered aloud. “When I was a girl, young ladies weren’t allowed to correspond with unmarried gentlemen.”

“She’s not corresponding with my brother,” Laura said. “She’s corresponding with me.”

“Ah.” Jenny nodded her approval at the subterfuge. “An excellent compromise.”

Teddy ignored them. Their teasing grated, but he had no right to privacy, not when he’d willingly invited his sister into his plan to contact Stella. Laura had agreed, albeit reluctantly.

“If Miss Hobhouse doesn’t want to hear from you, we’re both going to look like dreadful people,” she’d warned him. “You for imposing yourself, and me for participating in such a devious trick.”

“She wants to hear from me,” Teddy had assured his sister.

But as the weeks wore on, he was no longer certain.

What if Stella had taken offense at his letter? Or what if—

Good God. What if she’d never received it at all?

Teddy hadn’t known the name of her village. He’d had to enlist Tom Finchley to discover it for him. Another violation of Teddy’s privacy. It went against the grain, asking his friends and family for help. He hadn’t liked to do it, but faced with the prospect of never hearing from Stella again, he’d been obliged to swallow his pride.

Tom was currently ensconced in the library reviewing some legal documents for Justin. Teddy briefly considered going to him to ask if he was perfectly sure he’d given Teddy the right address.

Honoria fretted loudly on Jenny’s lap, giving every indication she was about to cry.

“She’s due her nap,” Lady Helena said. “Shall I take her?”

“Oh, let me,” Jenny said.

“I wouldn’t mind singing her to sleep,” Clara offered. “She’s such a sweet little thing.”

Clara and Neville’s own baby, George, was already napping in the nursery. He had his parents’ placid disposition, and unlike Honoria, slept easily and often. Teddy had seen the golden-locked little chap only twice since he’d arrived.

“What about you, Laura?” Lady Helena asked. “You’re not going to argue for a chance to put my darling girl to bed?”

Laura stroked Honoria’s plump little cheek with the back of one finger. A strange, soft look came over her face. There was something almost wistful about it.

Catching sight of his sister’s expression, Teddy frowned.

“You go,” Laura said to the others. “It will give me a moment to speak with my brother.”

“Join us when you’re done,” Lady Helena said as the ladies stood. “Honoria is a stubborn soul, just like her father. It sometimes takes a long while to convince her that sleeping is a good idea.”

“Not her.” Clara smoothed a hand over the baby’s curly head as they departed the room. “I won’t believe she has a difficult bone in her body.”

“What’s wrong with being difficult?” Jenny asked.

The ladies laughed in reply, Jenny along with them. The sound trailed away as they departed, punctuated by the wails of the baby, leaving Laura behind.

Neville rose. “I’ve the horses to see to d-down at the stables.”

Laura walked to the window, wrapping her shawl more firmly about her. “Don’t let me drive you off.”

“I want to go. I’ll meet Alex and Justin on…on the path. They’ll be b-back soon.”

“Very well,” Laura said. “But do be careful, Neville.”

Teddy exchanged a commiserating glance with Neville before he left. Neville liked to be fussed over no more than Teddy did.

Laura took the chair that Neville had just vacated. “I’m sure you’ll hear from her today.”

“I’m not concerned,” Teddy lied. The subject of Stella wasn’t open for discussion. He’d already shared too much of her with his family. He didn’t plan on sharing anything more. “What is it you’d like to talk to me about?”

Laura smiled. “Nothing to worry you, I promise. Indeed, it’s happy news.”

Teddy tucked his sketchbook beside him in his wheeled chair. “You’re expecting a baby, I suppose.”

Laura appeared startled for an instant. But only for an instant. She exhaled an exasperated breath. “Must you spoil every surprise?”

“It’s no surprise to me. I’ve suspected it ever since that day you were ill at the house party.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because,” he replied frankly, “I’d hoped I was wrong.”

Laura’s face fell.

Teddy hastened to reassure her. “It isn’t that I don’t wish you and Alex every happiness,” he said. “And it isn’t that I wouldn’t like a little niece or nephew.”

“Then what?” she prompted softly.

“It’s because…I’m selfish.”

“In what way selfish?”

“If you’re expecting a baby, I shall have to do my utmost not to upset you.”

She half smiled. “You were anticipating upsetting me?”

“I was,” he said, with the same brutal candor. “Imminently.”

Laura’s brief smile faded. A sad understanding entered her gaze. “You don’t want to return to France.”

“Alex told you.” Teddy wasn’t entirely surprised.

“He’s been laying breadcrumbs,” she said. “I gathered you were considering the possibility of not coming home.”

“It’s not my home, Laura.”

“It is. It’s all our home now. You, me, and Alex. And don’t forget Magpie.”

A fleeting smile edged Teddy’s lips at the mention of his family’s temperamental piebald cat. Magpie had lived with Teddy and Laura in Surrey for years before Laura had married Alex and they’d all removed to France. Magpie was now settled contentedly at their farmhouse in Grasse, where he spent his days patrolling the lavender fields and dozing beneath the bitter orange trees.

“You and Alex have made a home there,” Teddy said. “Magpie, too. Now you’re having a baby, your family will be complete. You don’t need me anymore.”

She took his hand, pressing it hard. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I don’t mean it in a self-pitying way,” he said. “I want to stay in England. I have my own life to make. I want it to be in London. That’s where Turner began his career.”

“Not Turner again.”

“If I had a small studio of my own, and if I’m able to complete the painting I envision, I know I shall make a success of it there.”

“I’ve no doubt of your talent. It’s everyone else that gives me pause. London isn’t a welcoming place to someone in a wheeled chair.”

“No place is. What’s that to do with it?”

“You might be robbed or taken advantage of. Not to mention the accidents that could befall you. What if Jennings were to forget his duty and leave you to—”

“That’s a risk anywhere.” Teddy pressed her hand with a reassuring grip before releasing it. “I survived in Paris, didn’t I? And yes, I realize you stayed there for a time. You needn’t have, you know.”

“There was every need. I’ve seen what people are like to those they deem vulnerable. I feared you would be entirely at the mercy of those around you.”

“When have I ever been at the mercy of anyone?” Teddy asked. “I’m not a child anymore, Laura. I’m a grown man, perfectly capable of looking after myself.” He paused, adding, “So long as I have enough coin to engage the right people.”

“But what if—”

“What if, what if,” Teddy echoed impatiently. “Had you and the others half as much concern when Neville left Greyfriar’s Abbey to strike out on his own? And look how he’s thrived on his farm.”

“Neville isn’t my brother. And he isn’t in a wheeled chair. Besides, he wasn’t alone with only hired servants to depend upon. He is married to Clara.”

“Is that what it would take to set your mind at ease? Me marrying some selfless young lady?”

“I daresay it would do,” she said. “If I knew she would look after you and protect you as fiercely as Clara does Neville. But Clara does that because she loves him. And love matches aren’t easy to come by at the best of times.”

An image of Stella came, unbidden, into Teddy’s mind.

It was that kiss again. That warm, tender, soul-quaking kiss. He’d thought, in the moment, that it was some manner of goodbye. His last chance to touch her—to taste her—before she slipped from his grasp forever. It was that which had prompted him to take such a liberty.

But he’d been wrong.

The kiss they’d shared that night under the Hampshire stars hadn’t been a goodbye. It had been the start of something, not the ending of it.

I can’t stop thinking about you, he’d almost written to her in his letter. It isn’t only because I want to paint you. It’s because—

But he didn’t know the why of it. All he knew was that he must see her again.

“I’m not interested in love matches,” he said brusquely. “Only in art. A canvas, pencils, and paints—that’s all I need.”

Laura shook her head. “Teddy…”

Before she could offer another objection, their conversation was blessedly interrupted by Alex’s return. He entered the drawing room still in his overcoat, a stack of letters in his gloved hand.

Laura was instantly on her feet. “Thank goodness,” she said, crossing the room to meet him. “I feared you might have done yourself an injury.”

Alex circled her waist with his arm as she embraced him. “I’m only muddy, love.” He kissed her. “Now you are, too.”

Drawing back, Laura flicked a rueful glance at her bodice. “What a nuisance. We shall both have to have a bath.”

“A splendid idea,” he murmured.

She rubbed a smudge of dirt from his cheek. “Where’s Justin? You didn’t lose him along the way, I hope.”

“He went straight up to change. He’s muddier than I am.”

Teddy rolled toward them in his chair. “Is that the post?” he interrupted.

“It is,” Alex said. “There’s nothing for you specifically. It’s all perfumery business from France. That, and”—he withdrew a small envelope from the stack—“a letter for Laura from Derbyshire.”

Teddy sat up straight in his chair. He exchanged a sharp look with his sister.

Laura took the letter from her husband. “Don’t tease. You know it’s meant for him.” She passed the letter to Teddy. “Or rather, I assume it is. Unless Miss Hobhouse is writing to reprimand me for aiding and abetting your crime.”

Teddy took the small envelope. The direction was written in black ink, penned (he suspected) in Stella’s own delicate hand. He ran his thumb over the soft indentations left by the nib of her quill. “There’s no crime in wanting to paint her.”

“Is that all there is to it?” Alex asked. “A desire to commit her to canvas?”

“That’s all,” Teddy said.

“I don’t recall you engaging in correspondence with any other of your models.”

“I doubt that most of them could read or write.”

“A fair point,” Alex said. “One you’d do well to mark.”

Teddy glanced up sharply from examining the envelope. “Meaning?”

“Miss Hobhouse isn’t from the usual ranks. She’s a young lady, not a Parisienne prostitute.”

“As I’m aware.”

“Take care,” Alex said. “You may well be playing with fire.”

Teddy barely registered the warning. The instant his sister and brother-in-law left the room, he tore open Stella’s letter. She’d arranged it in a similar fashion to the one he’d sent her, with a small letter folded within the single sheet of an outer letter. The outer letter was addressed to Laura—a few brief and exceedingly polite lines. Teddy gave it the barest glance before turning his attention to the smaller letter within. Addressed to him, it was written in an entirely different tone.

24 January 1863

Dear Mr. Hayes,

Thank you for your letter. What a surprise it was to receive it. How did you discover the name of my village? I don’t recall having mentioned it to you.

Your stay at Greyfriar’s Abbey sounds to be a pleasant one with so many others in residence. I envy you the largeness of your extended family, even as I sympathize with your need for the solitude necessary to your work.

You mentioned Mr. Finchley. His name is not unknown to me. I met him, and his wife, briefly in London last year at the wedding of my dear friend Evelyn Maltravers to Mr. Ahmad Malik. Are you acquainted with Mr. Malik? Do you perchance know Evelyn? I scarcely imagined when we met that you and I would have London friends in common.

Here in Fostonbury, the vibrancy of town is a fond but distant memory. I have had no success in finding a suitable drawing master within fifteen miles, and my friends are too far away to easily visit. Locket is my only comfort. I have been galloping her every day, and fervently wish I might gallop away from this place. My brother has become engaged, you see. His intended joined us recently, along with her mother, and is staying indefinitely. I have had to give up my room for them. It is not a comfortable state of affairs.

It begins to seem impossible that I shall contrive to get away to London for Lady Anne’s wedding in the spring. I have threatened to travel there myself on the train, but my brother’s resolve is firm. He is rather unhappy with me at the moment, owing to a small scandal I have created with his betrothed, his future mother-in-law, and with one of my prospective suitors. I say “one of.” What I mean is, my only prospective suitor. You may draw your own conclusions as to the fellow’s desirability.

Suffice to say, I am in everyone’s black books at present. I have been on my best behavior, to no avail. My brother despairs of me, and his new family wishes me to perdition. Were convents still in use for burdensome female relatives, I have no doubt that I would be sent to one posthaste.

Aside from Locket, your sketch is the only thing that has lately given me any pleasure. I look at it a good deal more than I ought. My original impression of your abilities has only grown with time. I do believe that you will be famous one day. Selfishly, I hope that day will be sooner rather than later. I could then sell your sketch for a tidy sum and use the proceeds to secure my independence. Though, I confess, the idea of parting with it does not sit easily with me.

I wish I could see myself as you saw me those days in the small parlor, or that evening in the sleigh beneath the stars. It has vexed me greatly trying to remember what I said to you afterward. Something inane, I suspect. Your Parisienne muses are doubtless more articulate in such circumstances.

Enclosed is a letter for your sister. Please thank her for interceding so that you might write to me. It would be my honor to hear from her again.

In friendship,

Stella Hobhouse