I couldn’t resist poking a little, perhaps enjoying her blush more than I ought to. It appeared Miss Littleton could be flustered after all.
“Are not your drawings to be displayed? So many ladies desire to showcase their embroidery and piano skills to the world.”
“Some of us are more modest, and these sketches are of a personal nature,” she responded tartly despite the high color suffusing her. If possible, she turned a shade pinker.
I wondered what personal art would keep her so tight-lipped, and why she shut the book so quickly and seemed to guard it with her life. Mysterious dark-haired man included.
Raising a hand, I hid a smile. “Keep your secrets, Miss Littleton. I won’t pry any further. Not unless it involves my land. Then I shall demand complete transparency.”
She exhaled as she slid the sketchbook into her satchel, along with the magnifying glass. I found myself reluctant to let her go just yet.
“Would you be interested in sketching a Ming vase?” I asked her on a whim, secretly hoping she would agree.
She still had a pencil tucked behind one ear, and several damp curls clung to her neck and forehead. “I’d be delighted. I’ve long admired that vase in the library. Do you want a catalog of art items?”
“Yes. I plan to sell what I can,” I admitted. Would she think less of me because of my financial straits? I could think of no better way to advertise the vases and tapestries. “I have an interested buyer whom I’d like to persuade to come to the abbey to see the antiques for himself.”
“I shall do my best,” she said after a pause. Then she fixed me with a firm look. “After I finish working with the Perrys.”
I couldn’t resist smiling again. If she illustrated the vase, a spectacular piece of white porcelain laced with deep blue, I was certain I could sell it. And I would see her again.
“You won’t sell the books, will you?” Her eyes turned pleading. Darker in hue.
My throat tightened. “No. I will not.”For you, I’ll keep every single tome.
Relief warmed those mesmerizing eyes. She rose, brushing the dirt from her gown. I rose too, albeit far less gracefully.
“You have my gratitude, Lord Hawthorn. A library is a treasurebeyond compare.” Her voice wavered just as Miss Perry returned from her walk among the trees. A careless friend, to my thinking, and one who should not have abandoned another young woman so readily.
I walked with them to the courtyard, not unaware of the curious look Miss Perry shot me as she slipped her hand through her friend’s arm.
“Come when you are able. I will have Mrs. Whittle show you the vases to sketch in your free moments,” I offered both of them.
A startled sound echoed from the stables—a yelp from Mr. Whittle and a subsequent whinny. Had one of the horses nipped him? They seemed on edge as of late, including Chaucer.
“Tarnation!” Mr. Whittle cried from the stable. “Who left the stalls open? The horses have escaped!”
“Good day, ladies,” I said over my shoulder as I darted toward the stables.
I glanced back to see Miss Perry poke her friend in the ribs. Her voice carried across the courtyard.
“Perhaps you’ll find a dance for yourself during May Day.”
The idea of spinning on a dance floor with Miss Littleton proved to be far more appealing than I would have first assumed. But she refused to answer her friend, leaving me to wonder what exactly Miss Littleton thought of me.
As April wore on, it brought more rain clouds. The tangy scent of rain filled the air, perfect for the newly planted crops and rows of apple saplings along the rock fence. The orchard would nearly double in size this year, with a harvest ripening in four years. The longer I spent outdoors, the more my thoughts of returning to London faded.
An unusual humidity hung in a sickly haze over the valley. Despite the beauty, the more I tried to fix the estate, the more events occurred to thwart me. Mr. Whittle had spent a good portion of the day rounding up the horses that got loose from the barn. Even stranger, after an inquiry on timing, Stewart’s Cider Press company sent a curt letter noting they had never received my order for a cider press. I replied to them, asking for a press as soon as possible.
Mr. Spencer and Mr. Whittle both decried any role in the barn or press.
Irritations, each situation.
Then, past midnight one night, I perked at a shuffling sound... like that of slippered feet sliding across the floor. I had already spent the evening tossing and turning as I calculated the expenses accrued from the purchase of the new saplings and the wages of the men hired to build the service road. Who knew when Mr. Talbot would return. I suspected he wanted to keep me on edge. Just as I decided I was on the cusp of doom, awaiting one small misstep to tumble, a whisper raised the hair on my arms.
Outside my bedroom door, the steps slowed. Stopped.
I threw off my coverlet and tiptoed across the floorboards to reach for my pistol. An ancient abbey, however, amplified sounds, including the click when I drew back the hammer. Skin prickling, I waited one moment and then flung open the door to peer into a pitch-black hall. Not even a glimmer of moonlight pierced the thick gloom.
