Robert stared at the young woman who stood on the path. Her hair was uncovered by a bonnet, despite the cold breeze, and rich chestnut locks escaped the neat chignon and tumbled to frame her slim, oval face. She was around average height and slim-built, but his gaze barely lingered on her figure—willowy and pretty though it certainly was in the long white-and-green dress. It was her eyes that held his attention. They were a pale grayish sky-blue, in sharp contrast with her hair, and they held his stare levelly.
She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty that struck him. It was her immense confidence and calm as she bent down to Henry, taking what looked like a handful of damp paper from his grip.
“It’s all well,” she said softly to the little boy. He was smiling up at her, his gaze something between entranced and trusting.
Robert stared at the woman, his heart aching. He had not seen someone speak so confidently and so sweetly to Henry for years. He had not, if he thought about it, seen someone with such easy, unruffled confidence for years. His mother was shouting, and her harsh words broke the spell that held him staring.
“Henry! Leave that alone. Let the servant do her job. You should not help her.”
Robert saw the young woman’s gaze frost over, her expression unchanging but a mask of reserve descending over her serene features. He tensed, turning angrily to his mother. He was not sure what made him more annoyed—the harsh way she spoke to Henry or the fact that she had clearly insulted the woman. The young woman might be a servant—unlikely, given her clothing—but it was still rude to speak as though she was not even there and the pain on her face still hurt him.
“Mama,” he began, his voice tight, but before he could say anything more, another woman rounded the corner. This woman, he recognized at once. She was tall, with curly hair with reddish highlights and gentle face. Their hostess, the countess of Averhill. He bowed.
“My lady,” he began, trying to think of whose behavior he ought to apologize for first—his wayward son’s, or his mother’s. Before he could speak, she began.
“Your Grace! Do excuse me. May I have the honour of introducing to you my cousin, the honourable Miss Sarah Brooke?” He gestured to the young woman with the chestnut hair. “Sarah, may I have the honour of introducing His Grace, the Duke of Clairwood? I see you have already met his son, Lord Henry.” She smiled fondly at Henry, who was staring up at Lady Averhill with wide, fearful eyes.
Sarah. That is a pretty name,Robert thought distantly. His eyes moved to Miss Sarah Brooke, meeting her pale blue ones. She dropped a formal curtsey, and he bowed. His heart thudded rapidly as though he had run far, though he could not think why.
“Miss Brooke,” he murmured. “It is an honour to meet you.”
“As it is for me to meet you, Your Grace” she said softly. Her voice was barely audible. Robert shot a sharp glance at his mother. The poor woman must be mortally offended! She was no servant at all, but the cousin of their hostess.
“Your Grace?” Lady Averhill was addressing his mother. “I would be honoured to introduce you to my cousin, the honourable Miss Sarah Brooke.” Her voice was just a little hard, and Robert guessed that she had heard his mother also. He winced, but at that moment Henry came over to him, the damp papers still in his hand.
“What is it, son?” he asked gently. “What have you been doing?”
“Sorry, Papa,” the little boy murmured, sounding genuinely regretful. “I ran off. I wanted to see the horses.”
“I know,” Robert said gently, ruffling the little boy’s hair. His son was clearly upset, and Robert could not blame him. He had been trying to please everybody since the coach-journey began, and tension between adults always upset him. Robert bent to lift the little boy up, but his gaze strayed to the pile of papers in his hand. “What are those?”
“Pictures!” Henry told him excitedly. “She had them in that bag,” he added, indicating Miss Brooke with a tilt of his head. He had learned already that it was rude to point at people.
“Pictures?” Robert was curious despite himself. Lady Averhill and his mother were still talking, and Miss Brooke was standing gazing silently over the garden, seeming not to see everyone around her. He reached for the pile in Henry’s hand. On the top was a very realistic sketch of a coach with horses in the traces. He smiled at the rendering of the horses. It was delicate and beautiful, not as accurate as the coach was, but it was plain in every line of the drawing that the person who had drawn it loved animals and understood them well. The lines were expressive and flowing, the attitude of the weary horses captured beautifully.
He lifted the first sketch, wincing as the damp paper stuck to the one below. The next sketch was of a building surrounded by forest. The crumbling stonework was expertly drawn, the picture capturing a desolate, haunted atmosphere. Robert drew in a deep breath, moved beyond words by what he was seeing. Before he could look at the next one, though, the young woman who they belonged to came over to him.
“Your Grace?” she said softly, avoiding his gaze. “May I?”
“Of course,” Robert said swiftly, handing her the sketches. “I am sorry. Allow me to apologise for my son. He was rather overly excited after sitting still for hours in the coach.”
Miss Brooke had been gazing at the lawn under their feet while he spoke, but at the mention of Henry, she lifted her gaze and smiled.
“No harm was done. He is a charming child.”
Robert grinned. “He is a little rascal sometimes,” he said lovingly. “But yes, he is charming. Thank you,” he added warmly. He passed her the damp pile of sketches, drawing a breath as her fingers briefly brushed against his.
Miss Brooke looked down again, suddenly shy. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured and turned around, going back towards the house.
Robert felt his heart ache. She had seemed so confident when he saw her, so centered. But his mother’s cruel, callous words had silenced her. Despite the insult, she walked with her head held high, her sketches back in the white satchel she carried. Robert felt a sullen anger at his mother burning in his stomach, but Henry’s bright smile distracted him.
“Can I see the horses, Papa?”
Robert nodded. “Yes. But do not run. And come back in five minutes,” he added, tapping his pocket-watch as though he was going to be counting the minutes down.
“Yes, Papa! Thank you, Papa!” Henry cheered, and hurried off before anyone could stop him. Lady Averhill turned to Robert.
“Your Grace, it is an honour to have you here with us. If I may escort you inside...? Edward is already within, greeting the other guests.”
