“You’re a plain speaker sometimes, Miss Montague.” He helped her into the carriage, smiling at her as he tucked her trailing skirts out of the way of the door. “I keep forgetting that.”
“But we’re friends now. I feel comfortable speaking plainly to you.” She held herself primly as she clasped her hands together. “We both know where we stand with one another.”
He laughed again as he leapt up front and took the reins, and Faith thought she could detect a note of friendly relief in his tone as he said over his shoulder, “Indeed we are, Miss Montague. I’d go so far as to say that we understand one another. In which case, the week ahead should progress swimmingly.”
It was too late to begin painting that evening. Faith was tired after her long journey, and it was genuinely pleasant to relax on the terrace after dinner, enjoying the long daylight hours. The country certainly was a grand place to be compared with cramped and grimy Soho and, of course, the damp, leaky cottage she’d grown up in.
Both were a world away from where she was now. This lovely, yet extensive country house owned by Mr Westaway’s absent aunt and uncle exuded a simple, relaxed charm. French doors from the drawing room opened onto a wide terrace, and the comfortable wicker chairs in which they sat were surrounded by urns and tubs of orange trees and quince bushes.
Lady Vernon, bundled up in a blanket, looked like a small, dissatisfied rodent, Faith thought, amused, as she enjoyed some desultory conversation with Mr Westaway. In the lengthening shadows, his pleasant smile appeared more readily during this conversation than previously. Yes, they were getting to know one another without the tension that must result from any possibility of a long-term future between them.
He was soon to leave on official business, and it was acknowledged by both of them that Faith was not a candidate for the role of anything other than an artist’s muse.
But…
How was Faith to execute her duty if they were now to become simply friends? She was surprised to hear him laugh and realised she’d said something amusing. The anecdote about a lady in the street whose wig had been knocked off by a performing monkey had simply tripped off her tongue. As if she were enjoying playful banter with a trusted companion. When had she been relaxed enough to say words that weren’t carefully calculated?
A whisper of ice through her veins made her shiver. A foreshadowing of something truly frightful held her in its grip for one terrible moment when the words died in her throat, and she must have looked as shocked as she felt, for instantly Mr Westaway was on his feet.
“I thought you were about to faint clean away,” he told her after she’d regained her equilibrium and waved aside his offers of sending for a warm blanket, though he hovered by her side.
“I have a few years yet before I’ll have need of such cosseting in weather like this.” She tried to sound light as she indicated Lady Vernon, huddled into her blanket
and fast asleep. Indeed, Lady Vernon was smiling as if in the middle of a very pleasing dream and Faith wished she could feel similar contentment for just a small part of her life. Then she remembered that soon, when she was her own mistress and living a life of blissful seclusion in her own little cottage in the country, she would always feel as contented as Lady Vernon looked.
But that relied on making Mr Westaway fall in love with her.
Mr Westaway had just begun to return to his chair. Perhaps he felt the evening was becoming too intimate.
Faith was about to announce her intention to retire to bed too, remembering from her lessons that it was important to foster a sense of loss if one was to keep a gentleman longing for more, when footsteps sounded upon the stone steps at the end of the terrace.
Sampson, Mr Westaway’s faithful wolfhound, rose warily, tensed, then bounded forward, and Faith heard the bluff, welcoming tones of the elegant, white-haired gentleman emerging from the dusk and coming towards them with outstretched hand.
“You’re back again, Crispin! I thought I saw evidence it was you and not your aunt and uncle. Sorry I missed you last week but good to see you now, my boy. And how did things go with your painting?”
It was as Lady Vernon stirred that Mr Westaway’s friend and, apparently, neighbour, realised Crispin was not alone, for instantly he was all apologies as he rectified his omission and introductions were made.
“And tell me something of the composition of this painting?” asked their new arrival, Lord Delmore, relaxing into another wicker chair that was brought into the cosy grouping on the terrace while the fading light was supplemented by a bracket of candles. “I saw the first one Crispin painted, and I’m not surprised it garnered such acclaim. Though, of course, Crispin’s talent is not alone responsible.”
He smiled at Faith, but when she merely nodded her head, returned his attention to Crispin while Faith looked on. She was tired and wished she’d seized her opportunity to leave earlier. Still, it was pleasant to fade out of the conversation and observe the way Mr Westaway conducted himself when in the company of someone with whom he could obviously relax.
It was clear the two men had known each other a long time. Perhaps a little short of ten years, for she’d heard that was when Lord Delmore had bought the house next door. Yes, Lord Delmore knew Crispin’s father from his London club and now made some comment about the man’s ambitions for his only son.
“My week of painting here is perhaps a little more clandestine that I’d have liked, and I’m in two minds as to whether I want to win,” Faith’s host admitted.
Faith could tell he’d considered her to have dropped out of the conversation. She pretended to be as sleepy as Lady Vernon whose head had lolled to one side and who was gently snoring.
“Clandestine? To slip away and paint? You’re in the wrong profession, Crispin. Foreign diplomacy is all cloak and dagger, and I know you hate subterfuge. Your father should have taken your character into consideration before he pushed you into following his footsteps.”
“And yet, I can’t think what else I would prefer. I have the necessary contacts, the enthusiastic backing of a father who’s spent his life in the thick of it, and I won’t deny there are aspects of what lies ahead that I relish.” Crispin sighed. “Ah, to be of independent means but who am I to complain?” He grinned self-deprecatingly as he swept his surroundings with a languid arm.
After a few more minutes when Faith really was beginning to nod off and had decided there was nothing further to learn, she made a move to rise.
The two men stood and Lord Delmore, after acknowledging Lady Vernon, said indulgently, “I’m sure you’ll be all the inspiration Mr Westaway needs under the circumstances. I admired the first picture he did last week, and as our esteemed painter says, the composition of the painting won’t be known until ten o’ clock tomorrow morning when the props are delivered, my curiosity is aroused. You’ll not mind if I put my head in at some stage to see the work in progress? I know nothing of how art is made, but I’m a great admirer of it when it’s good. What about you, Miss Montague?”
“All I know is that I must remain still and quiet, which is really my most important function, Lord Delmore.”
He laughed. “How beautifully mannered you are. A credit to your parents with such sentiments tripping off your tongue, though I confess that I’m not averse to a lady speaking what is really on her mind. But you are young. That will come in time.”