A Duke’s Overlooked Spinster (The Courting Season #1)

Chapter 8

“...and those tables will all need to be moved that way. We need to put the big trestle there.”

Caroline’s voice was clear as crystal in the large space of the ballroom, her neat, clipped words audible even over the hustle and bustle that disturbed the usual calm of the house. Servants in black livery moved tables, maids dusted, and the housekeeper was instructing some more maids how to lay out crockery on the long trestle table. Sarah, standing in the doorway, blinked at the noise and frenetic movement.

The big chandeliers hung high overhead, the crystals winking dully in the morning light that flooded in though the high windows. Caroline stood in the center of the room, her small form marked out in the sea of black and white uniforms by the orange dress she wore. Her hair was arranged in curls, a ribbon in rich yellow ocher showing near the front. She was instructing the footmen who were carrying the tables. The whole house was filled with brisk activity and Sarah could not help feeling a twist of anticipation in her belly about the ball.

“Over here. We need the space there for the musicians. If we put the musicians in the front, it’s too far from the dance floor...oh!” She stopped, spotting Sarah by the door. “Cousin! Come in, dear Sarah, please do.”

Sarah tensed. She could see, despite her cousin’s friendly and welcoming smile, that she was busy. She had been looking for her, hoping for a word or two after the dinner party they had. Caroline’s words about the duke had played through her mind again and again throughout the night, stopping her from finding rest. His face haunted her. She could not stop thinking about him and if anyone could tell her more about him, it would be her cousin.

“Caroline,” she stammered. “I did not wish to disturb you. I...” she paused as Caroline shook her head.

“Not at all, dear. No trouble. What did you wish to say? Is someone looking for me?” she asked, seeming to mistake Sarah’s hesitance for concern.

“No. No, cousin. I did not wish to disturb,” Sarah repeated shyly. “I was just uncertain of where you were. Can I be of assistance?” she added, as two footmen dragged a vast table across the floor, the sound of wood squeaking on stone drowning out any further attempt to converse.

Caroline winced, her hazel eyes flaring angrily. Sarah tensed. Her cousin was clearly busy, and she did not wish to bother her more.

“Quiet, please!” Caroline called out. The room fell into silence for a moment and Sarah reddened. She could certainly not ask Caroline about the duke with a dozen pairs of eyes watching them.

“I...I will walk in the garden,” Sarah stammered. Caroline smiled and inclined her head.

“Of course, my dear. That is very polite of you—I must apologise that I cannot talk with you now.” She gestured to two men who were lifting and carrying some other small tables. “Over there. Yes. That’s just right.”

Sarah smiled at her cousin, unable to say anything over the din as work began afresh. Caroline grinned back and Sarah turned and hurried out of the room.

The rest of the house was quiet, all of the furious activity focused for the moment on the ballroom. Sarah walked swiftly through the silent manor and up to her bedchamber, her mind drifting distractedly to the topic of where all the other guests might be. Many of them had taken the chance to go and explore Bath, but Sarah had elected not to, despite Lord and Lady Egerton politely inviting her to go with them. The thought of being in the company of so many strangers was disturbing, almost frightening, after the silence of Wakeford Hall. Even though part of her longed to see the duke, she could not bear the hours of noise and bustle. She hurried to her room, taking the satchel where her sketchbook was stored, and then hurrying to the garden.

The tranquility of the grounds was a strong contrast to the bustle and rush indoors. Sarah walked across the lawn, marveling at the silence. The only sound was coming from the stables, where men worked raking the hay and occasionally, a horse made a snuffling, neighing sound. The lawns stretched out silently under the sunshine. Sarah walked along a path, breathing deeply. The smell of fresh, damp earth was sweet and loamy in her nostrils, refreshing and calm. The silence was a balm after the days of chatter and bustle. She walked along the path under her feet, unsure of where it went. The grounds at Averhill Manor were vast and rambling, and she had not had a chance to explore them.

She followed the path along a low wall, the space above the wall filled with shrubs and flowering bushes, the fragrance of so many blossoms sweetening the air. She had no idea where the path led, but she found herself at a bricked square with a wooden bench on it, the area screened with boxwood bushes trimmed into a hedge. When she stood before the bench, she could see a beautiful view over rolling fields and hillsides, heading towards a blue horizon. Breathing out appreciatively, she sighed and sat down on the bench.

She opened the satchel and began to sketch.

The lines of the hills flowed across the paper, worked in with a soft pencil. Then she started to draw the leaves of the tree that framed the scene, working with a darker pencil to make it appear closer. The bushes and shrubs nearby were next, the dark and light patches captured with strategic scribbles.

Sarah narrowed her eyes, gazing up at the landscape, measuring distant objects against the length of her pencil to make the proportions correct. She sketched them in carefully and quickly, adding detail with effective pencil lines. It was a process she had learned years ago from her governess’ cousin—a woman who loved to draw and whose friendly, open personality had been welcome in the silent, oppressive house. Sarah worked automatically, the procedure of sketching landscapes and objects something that was second nature to her. She scribbled in some dark patches on the hedge, absorbed in her work. The intense focus let her forget about the duke, the dinner party and the conversation.

She was sketching in some cloud cover over the landscape when a small voice startled her.

“Madam? What is that?”

Sarah whirled around, shrieking in fright. She found herself staring into a pair of pale blue eyes in a small, worried face.

“Sorry.” Henry, the duke’s son, was standing at her elbow. He looked at her worriedly.

“Hush. It is all well,” Sarah said automatically, smiling at the boy who was evidently fearful. Her scream must have frightened him. “I just was not expecting anyone to be there.” She gestured to the bench, patting it. “Come and sit down, if you like.”

The little boy did nothing, just stared at her with round eyes. Sarah smiled again and when he said nothing, she resumed sketching.

“What are you drawing?” the little boy asked after a moment. Sarah looked up, amused by his insistence on remaining despite his fear.

“The view. The hills in the distance, here,” she used the pencil to point to things on her sketch. “Here are the bushes. And this is the lawn.”

“Mm.” The little boy nodded. He frowned. “You left that rock out,” he said after a long moment.

Sarah chuckled. “Yes, I did. Artists sometimes have to choose what to leave out of their sketches. It is as important as what you choose to add in.”

The little boy tilted his head, thinking about the comment. “But then, it isn’t really a picture of what you can see, is it?” A crease was showing on his brow between his pale eyebrows. Sarah grinned.

“It is not always meant to be,” Sarah explained as the little boy came and sat down beside her, staring at the picture in the book on her knee.

“What is it then?” he asked, frowning.

“It is not so much about drawing what you can see, as about trying to draw how it makes you feel ,” Sarah told him. “When I am unhappy, the scene looks different. I might notice the sad way the grass is drooping, or those dead leaves. But when I’m happy, I see the happy things. That fountain there, or the flowers in the lawn. See?” She tried to explain.

“If I’m sad, I do not go outside,” the little boy said sorrowfully. “I stay inside and read. Reading is good.”

Sarah grinned. The fact that he could read did not surprise her. She had been taught to read by her governess when she was four years old, and by the time she was seven she was reading simple stories by herself.

“Reading is good,” she agreed softly. “When I am sad, I draw.”

“Then you just draw the sad things,” the little boy stated with a frown.

Sarah chuckled. “I suppose that is true,” she agreed.

They sat quietly looking across the lawn at the distant hills. Sarah frowned. His pale blue eyes were calm, but she could see sadness in them; a wistful quality she would not have guessed at when she met him. His brow creased; nose crinkled as if something discontented him.

“Sometimes I draw horses,” Sarah told him. She recalled something his father had said about him running off to see the horses. His eyes kindled, the pale blue seeming brighter as he grinned warmly.

“Horses! I like horses.” He clapped his hands. “Have you seen these horses? In this stable?”

“I have,” Sarah replied, remembering her brief trip to the stables on her first day.

“They’re nice. I like them.” He frowned, gazing up at her wistfully. “Could you draw me one?”

“A horse?” Sarah asked, a frown creasing her own brows. “I can try,” she added with a smile. Landscapes and objects were more of her chosen subjects, but she had learned to draw living beings too. She turned to a fresh page. “Would you like a big horse? A coach-horse?”

“I want a horse like Papa’s,” the boy informed her instantly. “His horse is a bay thoroughbred, seventeen hands tall!” His eyes shone as he related the exact details. Sarah grinned.

“That’s a big horse,” she breathed. It was an extremely tall horse. She blinked as an imagined scene of the duke seated on the magnificent horse sneaked into her thoughts. He was wearing a black riding jacket and riding breeches that clung to his long, muscular legs. The thought made her cheeks burn with a delicious, slightly wicked, feeling she had never experienced before.

Focus, she told herself, blushing red. The child wants a picture from you.

She lifted her pencil and, hastily, sketched a horse.

“Like that!” The little boy said raptly. “That’s my horse!”

Sarah beamed as she completed the outline and set to work on the details. She herself had not spent much time with horses —Caroline rode, but Sarah had never learned, not beyond the rudiments. It was difficult to recall exactly what a horse looked like. She sketched in the hoofs and started to work on the shading. The mane she sketched in feathery lines down the neck, adding a thick, lustrous tail. The little boy made a delighted squeal.

“That looks just like him. Just like Firesmoke.”

Sarah smiled at the imaginative name. Again, an image of the duke rose unbidden in her thoughts. He was atop the horse, lifting his hat. A wry smile played across his lips. Her heart thudded at the thought of him.

“This is your horse,” she told the boy as he reached for the paper. “One day, you’ll have a real one,” she added, smiling down at him.

“It’s mine!” the little boy was delighted. “Just like Firesmoke. But I think he’s even bigger!” He grinned up at her, laughing at the thought.

“Mayhap so,” Sarah replied, wondering if she should add a fence or some detail to show how tall the imaginary horse might be. The little boy was holding the picture, studying it with a rapt grin. She did not think she could ask to have it back and she let him study it, watching him with wistful joy.

How grand it would be, she thought sadly, to have a child like this one.

You can be pleased to have a child to play with, she reminded herself. It was wonderful to have a little boy with whom she could talk and for whom she could invent games and pictures. She watched as he held the picture up and she was sure he was imagining the horse in the sketch, imagining what it would be like to own him.

“I can add to it, if you want?”

“No!” Henry said, grinning. “I like it.”

Sarah chuckled. Her heart soared at the smile on his face. She had never created a sketch that had brought someone so much joy before.

She sat quietly, unsure of what to say as the child chattered about his father’s stable at home.

“...and we have a gray thoroughbred, and two hunting horses—a bay and a black. I want to ride a hunting stallion too, when I am big. But I don’t want to jump over fences. Not yet,” he added, looking up at her with big round eyes.

“I am sure your instructor will not compel you to,” she replied gently.

“He makes me ride round and round the paddock!” Henry told her, his eyes wide. “I ride a roan mare. She is fifteen hands. And a half!”

“She is very big,” Sarah told him. He grinned proudly.

“I want to ride the biggest horse in the stable one day. Papa says that maybe when I am eight,” he began. A voice behind them spoke.

“Papa said that you could ride him when you’re big enough. Mayhap when you are eight,” the duke said from behind them. Sarah spun round, his resonant voice striking sparks deep within her.

“Your Grace!” she said, hurrying to her feet. The duke smiled, gesturing with his hand that she should sit.

“I apologise,” he said softly. “I did not mean to disturb.” He was grinning at them. “Sit, Henry,” he added gently to his son, who was gazing up at him, gaping. “I was looking for my son,” he added. “The gardeners said that he had come in this direction. Sorry,” he added as she stared up at him, flustered, her cheeks burning. “I did not mean to disturb. Stay and sketch,” he added, gesturing to the scene. “It is a beautiful subject for an artwork.”

“It is,” Sarah added. Her cheeks burned as she studied him. He was clad in a dark brown tailcoat, and the breeches that fitted closely to his legs were a trifle too akin to her fanciful vision for her ease. The thin buckskin clung to his muscular thighs, defining them in a way that made her heart throb. He was a disconcertingly handsome man. Her cheeks flared as she looked down at her sketchbook.

“I am sorry if Henry was troubling you,” he added softly. “We can leave if it disturbs your peace.”

“No,” Sarah replied instantly, her cheeks flushing again. “Pray, stay...if it pleases you, Your Grace.”

“Thank you. I would like to,” he said and Sarah almost stopped breathing as he leaned against the tree behind her. “It is good to have some fresh air.”

“Yes,” Sarah whispered. “It is.”

She looked down at her sketchbook and tried to focus. Her heart was racing, her skin aflame with awareness. He was just a few paces away and every part of her seemed to be aware of him, as though his presence crackled through the air.

“It is good to find a tranquil place to sit,” he murmured. “The house is...crowded of late.”

Sarah grinned. “Indeed, Your Grace, it is,” she replied.

She focused on her drawing, smiling to herself and wondering what was on his mind.