“I’m delighted to welcome you to Throgmorton Hall, sir.” She was more than capable of behaving in as charming a manner as he; her year in London had taught her how to be pleasantly civil while keeping gentlemen at a safe distance. Smoothly retrieving her hand, she waved toward the front door. “As I mentioned earlier, I suggest we stroll around the house before taking tea with my aunt. The light about the house is at its best at the moment. Even though it’s summer, the trees in the woodland are so tall, they cast long shadows over the lawns from afternoon onward.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mayhew clasped his hands behind his back and kept pace beside her as she walked to the front door, propped wide to let the sunshine stream in.
Felicia noted that the door giving onto the workshop stairs was firmly shut. Rand’s doing, without a doubt; William John rarely remembered.
She walked onto the porch and halted, then glanced at Mayhew. “As you can see, the shadows are already encroaching on the lawn.” She looked to left and right. “Keeping to the lawns, we can stroll all the way around the house. Which way would you prefer to go?”
Mayhew favored her with another charming smile; he seemed to have a ready supply that stopped just short of ingratiating. “I’m happy to be led by your experience, Miss Throgmorton.”
“In that case”—she waved toward the shrubbery—“let’s circle to the right.”
She picked up her skirts and descended the steps. Mayhew kept pace; she watched as he looked around—exactly as one might imagine an artist would.
He was as tall as Rand, but had narrower shoulders and was one of those men with a tendency to stoop, as if trying to disguise his height.
He scanned the woodland and the shrubbery as they approached. When they reached the arched entrance to the shrubbery, he paused to look back at the house. After several moments of studying it, he shook his head. He turned to follow her onward, saw her watching, and smiled wryly. “My apologies. I’m always looking for the right view. Sadly, that isn’t it.”
She smiled spontaneously. “No need to apologize. That is why you’re here, after all.”
He inclined his head. “You’re more understanding than many a young lady. Most imagine that they are the most...well, fascinating aspect of any view. And while that’s so in a way, I’m generally focused on landscapes and buildings. People are...more difficult to accurately capture.”
Felicia looked at him with burgeoning interest. “That’s an insightful comment.”
He was looking down as he walked. He snorted softly. “It’s simply the direction in which my talent runs.”
They circled through the shrubbery, then walked past the stables and into the rose garden. Again, he halted within the rose garden and looked back at the house.
“Now, this is a very pretty composition, but, sadly, I would have to capture it soon after dawn.” He glanced at her and gave a rueful grimace. “I am definitely not at my best before noon.”
She laughed. She was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine Clive Mayhew as a saboteur. But as they strolled on, between the beds of roses, it occurred to her that while he might be a saboteur, he might also genuinely be an artist; the one did not preclude the other. “Did you bring some of your sketches? You said you would this morning.”
“Indeed.” He patted his pocket, and a faint rustling reached her ears. “I thought perhaps I could show you—and is it your aunt?—over afternoon tea.”
“Mrs. Flora Makepeace is my father’s widowed cousin. She’ll be joining us for tea, and I’m sure she’ll be as delighted as I to view your work.”
“Now you’re just being kind, but I hope my poor efforts will be at least of passing interest.”
Felicia smiled. “I’m sure they will be. You cannot be too modest when your sketches are published by the London News.”
Was his story of being a sketch artist for the popular pictorial news sheet an invention? She glanced at his face, but his expression remained untroubled—innocent of guile.
They reached the end of the rose garden, and she led the way on, along the swath of lawn that ran behind the kitchen garden. For just a few yards—before the walls of the kitchen garden intervened—the doors to the workshop were visible to their right. She was on Mayhew’s left; she needed to keep his gaze on her. Airily, she asked, “Have yo
u had a chance to exhibit your work in the capital?”
He flicked a glance her way and sighed. “Sadly, no—although I must confess that’s one of my most cherished ambitions.” His lips twisted cynically. “Along with every artist in the land, of course.”
“It must be quite...cutthroat.” She caught his eye. “Having to find a patron.”
His gaze on her face, he nodded, and they passed the point beyond which the garden walls hid the workshop doors.
Felicia led Mayhew onto and down the south lawn, then they followed the tree line and circled past the old fountain, now no longer in use.
Just past the fountain, Mayhew, who had been constantly glancing toward the house, halted. He stared at the front of the house, from that perspective seen at an angle. “This is the spot.” He made the pronouncement with absolute certainty. After a moment, he looked at Felicia. “Miss Throgmorton, I would very much like yours and your family’s permission to sketch your home from this angle for inclusion in a series I’m doing for the News, featuring England’s country homes in the Home Counties.”
Not once had Mayhew even obliquely referred to inventions or workshops; he hadn’t even asked about the house itself, seemingly only interested in its visible exterior—precisely as an artist with his declared interest would be. Felicia smiled and inclined her head. “There’s only my brother I need to consult, and I know he’ll see no reason to deny you.”
“Excellent.” Mayhew looked at the house. His expression eager, he went on, “That’s the west face, so I’ll need the afternoon light, as now.” He glanced at Felicia. “Perhaps I could come and sketch tomorrow afternoon—from about two o’clock, if that would be convenient?”