“Yes. Quite so. Oh, yes! It slipped my mind to mention it to you,” Caroline replied, turning to Sarah with a slight frown on her brow. “We are expecting a house-party of guests the day after tomorrow. Some of them will be arriving in Bath thisevening, and we will be hosting them for tea. I trust that is not inconvenient?” she asked, smiling apologetically.
Sarah looked at the table, shock slamming into her like a fist in her chest. A house party of guests! After years of quiet and solitude, the thought of having the manor invaded by people was terrifying.
“How many guests?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, a dozen. Maybe a few more?” Caroline glanced over at Edward. “Of course, there will be more when we host a ball or two, as we will have to—we need to entertain the dozen guests, now, do we not?” She smiled at Sarah in what Sarah guessed was meant to be a placatory way.
“A dozen?” Sarah gaped. She felt lightheaded suddenly. Her stomach twisted with nerves, and she felt abruptly weak, as though she might pass out. After six days of travel, the shock of hearing that she would not be spending the month alone with Caroline and Edward was quite overwhelming.
“Sarah, dear. Are you feeling quite well?” Caroline asked gently. Sarah shook her head.
“No. Excuse me, cousin. But I think I have to lie down.”
“Of course. Of course, my dear. It’s from travelling. It wears one out. Exhausting. Not so, Edward?” Caroline asked, standing and coming over to Sarah’s chair. “Let me help you to your room.”
“Thank you,” Sarah murmured distantly. She took Caroline’s hand, her anger at her cousin fading as she led her back down the hallway to her chamber. If she had known, she would never have accepted the invitation. But it was not Caroline’s fault that it slipped her mind to tell her.
“Now, you rest,” Caroline said gently. “I’ll fetch you when the guests arrive.”
Sarah’s fear sawed through the misty haze in her brain. “No, I would prefer to remain here. I feel too ill,” she added quickly.
“Oh. I am sorry, my dear,” Caroline murmured gently. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to ring the bell. And if you feel better, you may wish to accompany us.”
“Yes, thank you,” Sarah said a little tightly.
She tried to rest on the bed, but she felt too tense and agitated. After two minutes of trying to lie still, she sat up and went to the door. Her art supplies—her sketchbook and pencils—had been in her art satchel. She itched with the need to draw. It was the only thing that calmed her when she was scared or unhappy. She searched briefly and then hurried downstairs to the coach. Her art satchel had been tucked under her seat, where it must have stayed. Abigail must have forgotten it there.
Nobody was in the hallway when she reached the front door, and she hurried out. It came to her as she walked briskly around the corner that she did not know where the coach-house was, but she guessed it had to be around the back of the house. She walked briskly down the gravel path, ornamental borders of white flowers on her right, the air thick with the scent of flowers and damp lawns.
The clean, straw-like scent of horses guided her towards the stables. Men were cleaning out the stalls, and they looked at her confusedly as she rushed past. She blushed, realizing she had to look a little odd. It was cold outside, despite the sunshine that occasionally broke through to shine on the wet landscape, and she had rushed out without so much as a jacket.
“Miss!” Mr. Harwell, the coachman, sounded shocked to see her as she rushed to the coach-house.
“I forgot my art satchel,” she replied. She retrieved it, clutching the white ribbons in her hand and then shutting the door of the coach. She hurried back the way she had come.
“Oh!” she gasped in shock as a small child, around the height of her waist, ran straight into her. She looked down at him, regaining her balance. Her satchel had flown from her fingers inthe collision, and it landed on the lawn. She forgot her shock for a moment in studying the child.
He was wearing a small blue velvet tailcoat and breeches, his blond, curly hair tousled by the wind. His blue eyes were wide with shock as he looked at the satchel, which had flown open, her sketches bursting out of it to flutter down like feathers onto the gravel path. The child had a small, neat face with pointy features, and he gaped in surprise.
“Sorry, Miss!” he exclaimed in a small, cultured voice. “I am so sorry.”
Sarah shook herself, her daze rapidly evaporating in the face of the child’s fear. She crouched down before him on the path.
“It’s all well,” she said gently. “Are you hurt?”
“No. No,” he stammered. “I am not. Your pictures...” he trailed off, his expression horrified as the sketches settled on the wet grass, the pages quickly becoming damp.
“It’s all well,” Sarah said gently, reaching out to take his hand without even thinking about it. “We can gather them up and then we’ll take them inside and put them by the fire to dry. Then they’ll all be well. See?” She picked up one of the sketches that had landed near her. It was one of the coaches that she had done when looking out of the inn window on the second day of their journey.
“I can help,” the little boy said. Sarah guessed he was seven or eight, though he was tall, but slight of build. He bent down on the path, heedless of his white stock, and started to collect the drawings.
Sarah hurried to collect most of them from the lawn, frowning as she tried to deduce where the child had come from. Her cousin had made no mention of a boy at the manor, and he was too richly dressed to be a servant’s child.
“Here! We have them all, now,” Sarah said confidently, taking some of the sketches from the little boy, but not all. “No harmdone. See?” she added with a smile. She stuffed the wet sketches into her satchel, bending to collect her pencil from the path near her feet. As she did so, a woman rounded the corner.
Sarah barely had time to take in her appearance or hear her incoherent shouts of anger, because another person had also run around the corner towards the boy. He was a man—tall, with dark blonde hair and an athletic build. He was wearing a brown tailcoat, a high-collared shirt and cravat and brown breeches. Sarah barely noticed; his slim, strong-jawed face capturing attention, and, beyond even that, his sapphire eyes, that were widened in surprise. Staring at her.
Chapter 4
