Stretching her arms above her head, Lucy wanted to stand, but she still had a sleeping cat in her lap.
“I am seriously thinking of starting a novel after I finish this story.”
“That is ambitious. Might you someday be published?” Isabell asked as she stood to put the used cups and plates on the tea tray.
“Who knows? But I do know I am not ready yet.”
Isabell paused with the tray in her hands and looked at the cat in Lucy’s lap.
“You can just shoo him away. He would stay there all afternoon if you let him.”
Lucy picked up the cat, which protested, but wandered away behind a bush at the front of the cottage.
* * *
George’s friend, Stephen Rutley, was courting a young lady at Shelby Hall, and he invited George and their mutual friend, Roger Sylvester, to come along with him to the Shelby’s Saturday morning open house. Stephen’s friends were somewhat reluctant to attend, but Stephen promised there would be a number of other great beauties present, so they agreed to accompany him.
It was nearly nine-thirty, and George was supposed to meet with his friends at the Chiseldon-Lambourn crossroads at ten o’clock. However, he was covered in paint and smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. He would need to wash up, as there was no time for a proper bath, but he did not want to leave his painting either. He was at a crucial point in one area of a landscape, and if he left it too long, the paint would dry and he would be unable to complete the area as he wanted and would have to start over.
“Damn,” he exclaimed as he put his brushes in a jar of turps and headed to the house to wash and change.
Of course, he was running way late by the time he rode up to the crossroads, but by then, his friends had abandoned him and gone on to the open house.
George patted his horse’s neck as he considered what to do next. Part of him wanted to follow after his friends and see the promisedgreat beauties. But he knew most of thegreat beautiesin the area already, and they were neither thatgreatnor thatbeautiful. There was not a single beauty who could hold a candle to his dear friend, Lucy—and he could not but smile in remembrance of her.
What a handsome young man George Grayson had become. He wore his blond hair long—almost to his shoulders. His blue eyes sparkled when he focused his attention on you. His broad shoulders and slim-waisted torso were sculpted for action, and his fine long hands were definitely an artist’s hands. He presented a model of masculine beauty and grace. But did he really want to attend the gathering? He would have had the young ladies all over him—turpentine aroma or not. But his standards were high, and he found most of the local ladies lacking in either beauty or character.
What was clearly calling him the loudest was his painting. He raised his sleeve to his nose and realized he still smelled like his studio, and that clinched his decision. He would be a fool to continue on to a house party smelling as he was—remember, he had standards—so he turned his horse, spurred her on, and headed back toward home.
* * *
Nanny Wilkes no longer taught any of the family’s children. The daughters, except for Betsy, had shown little interest in furthering their education once they reached a marriageable age. Certain standards in music, drawing, dancing, and elocution were considered desirable in eligible young ladies of higher social status, but those subjects were outside of Nanny Wilke’s purview, and other teachers had been brought in to tutor the young ladies. But Nanny Wilkes was kept on. She was young enough to be thought of as a nanny for the first daughter to marry and have children. In the meantime, she kept herself useful around the Manor.
Lucy, however, was another matter. No one quite knew what to do with her. She was far too smart and educated to be considered as a house servant. The natural option was for her to find a position as a nanny, but she had never taught any children and had no references for such a position. Therefore, she remained in a strange limbo helping in the kitchen, when needed, and constantly attending to the family when no servants were available to them.
By now the Duchess had her sights set on Oxford for George, and even though it was early summer, she was already seeing to the preparation of his clothing for his first year at Oxford in the autumn.
This morning, Judith was in George’s rooms overseeing Flossy as she went through Mr. George’s effects to see what might be sent up to college and what must remain behind. Judith had a notebook on a table beside her, and when they came across an unsuitable garment, she would make a note of what must be purchased.
The Duchess was still dressed in black—in mourning for her father who had passed away last winter. To console herself, she had obtained a small King Charles Spaniel, named Isabell, which was now her constant companion. This caused Lucy no end of consternation, as when the Duchess called for Isabell, Lucy thought her friend had just arrived.
Isabell—the dog—resided in her Grace’s lap most of the time, except when Lucy was called upon to take the dog outside to do her business. Judith’s other main chore for Lucy was to keep her laudanum bottle filled; ever since her father’s death, she suffered from the vapors and needed her little boost to quell her melancholy from time to time.
“Fold that jacket properly,” the Duchess demanded, pointing to Lucy who was assisting by placing each item in a trunk destined for Oxford. “You fold the jacket inside out. It helps prevent wrinkles.”
“But what is George to wear until Oxford? You are practically emptying his armoire,” Lucy questioned.
“He has all of those work clothes he wears in the dresser. He will not be taking any of those filthy rags with him.”
“He might still want to paint at the university,” Lucy suggested.
“I think not. He is there to study law not to fritter his time away with his hobby. And whoever heard of a government minister—or one might even hope—a prime minister dabbling with paints?”
Lucy held her tongue. She knew all too well that George’s intention was not the law but painting. But far be it from her to suggest such a possibility to her Grace. That was George’s battle to fight.
The trunk was almost completely packed. Flossy was shuffling through the last of the jackets and preparing to examine trousers when George came into his room and stopped, obviously not expecting to find anyone in his rooms.
“What is going on here?” he asked with some degree of irritation.
