Page 22 of The Work of Art

When they arrived at the townhouse, the footman leapt down from his seat beside the coachman and came to assist the duke. Once Moreland had alighted, he handed Philly down himself.

Uncle Edgar and Mrs. Vale were waiting in the entry hall as the duke escorted Philly into the house. He exchanged a few brief words with them, and then, after giving Philly a curt bow, took his leave.

A flurry of questions from Mrs. Vale followed, but Uncle Edgar only looked on for a moment with the same appraising expression he always wore before disappearing back into the library.

“I have a dreadful headache,” Philly said when she could take no more. “I beg you would excuse me.”

Once out of Mrs. Vale’s presence, Philly headed to the back garden to retrieve her dogs. William, the young footman, caught sight of her and followed after to assist her.

“I looked in on them three times while you were gone, miss.” William opened the shed and attached leads to the larger dogs. “They’ve been no trouble at all.”

“Thank you, William.” Philly ignored the tremor in her voice. She gathered Fox up in her arms, and took the leads of her other dogs from William. “You’re such a help to me.”

“Happy to do it, miss.”

She thanked him again for his assistance and made her way back into the house. As soon as she was in the relative safety of her attic room, she took off her carriage gown and curled up on her bed wearing only her shift. Fox came to lie in her arms and Basil stretched himself out by her feet. Jasper and Dash couldn’t fit on the narrow bed. They took up positions on either side of it as if standing guard.

Surrounded by her pets, Philly indulged in a rare bout of tears. Her sobs were muffled by her pillow, but once started, seemed to have no end. She wept over the loss of her grandfather and the loss of her beloved home in Fox Cross. She wept over how unhappy and alone she was in London with these strangers who now stood in place of her family. And she wept over her future; a future which she now understood was to be very bleak indeed.

After seeing Phyllida Satterthwaite in the park on Monday morning, Arthur went back to his father’s townhouse in Mayfair. He had no desire to visit his club again, no wish to hear any gossip or be reminded of people from his past. Nor was he inclined to receive any callers, though a few stopped by and left their cards.

Instead he spent his time alone, ensconced in the library, attempting to write a letter to his father and making some effort to read a book. He could focus on neither task. His thoughts kept drifting, meditating on the loveliness of Miss Satterthwaite’s countenance, and worrying about the Duke of Moreland.

Reggie Forsythe’s melodramatic tale about the untimely demise of Moreland’s last wife had made Arthur uneasy, but he couldn’t entirely believe it. Forsythe had always been inclined to adopt a sneering attitude toward his betters, and Arthur was willing to wager he’d despised the Duke of Moreland well before the man had married Molly Cartwright.

If Miss Cartwright had rejected Forsythe in favor of marrying the much wealthier, more prestigious duke, it had likely only added fuel to the fire of Forsythe’s resentment. No doubt the betting book entry referencing the late Duchess of Moreland’s death was fueled by similar ill feeling.

It wouldn’t be the first such rumor to plague Moreland.

Arthur remembered years before, when he was just a boy, hearing a story about the duke’s pursuit of a rare painting. It was a priceless item, done by a Flemish master, and had been in the possession of a rather temperamental member of the country gentry down in Hampshire, who desired to keep the painting in his family. The duke had attempted to acquire the masterpiece to no avail.

A fortnight after refusing the duke’s offer, the capricious country squire had given the painting to his only daughter’s betrothed, an impoverished baronet who accepted the work of art in lieu of a dowry. The baronet had been conveying his prize back to his smallish estate in the neighboring county when he encountered a highwayman on the road.

The robbery had been a strange event. The baronet was unharmed, and no money or jewelry had been taken from him or the companions with whom he travelled. But in the course of the altercation, the Flemish painting had been completely destroyed.

There were similar tales: a rare piece of porcelain ground into dust, a famous racehorse dead in a stable fire, and a sapphire brooch—said to have been commissioned by Peter the Great—which had simply vanished into thin air.

The duke had never been implicated in anything, but it was enough to give him his rather sinister reputation. If the Collector wanted something, people had said, he must have it. And if he could not have it, then no one could.

Arthur had spent all of Monday afternoon and evening brooding on these fairytales, which he’d once considered to be ridiculous. When he found himself tempted to go to the park in the afternoon in order to assure himself that Miss Satterthwaite wasn’t in any danger while on her outing with the duke, he realized that his preoccupation with the matter had finally exceeded the limits of casual interest and passed over into idiocy.

What was she to him, anyway? Absolutely nothing. He didn’t know her and she certainly didn’t know him. She was kind and gentle, to be sure, and he felt safe and easy in her presence, but though she was a woman of warmth, she was no beacon. And while she might be calm and steady, she was no ballast. He wouldn’t allow himself to succumb to the temptation of mistaking her for either.

In a week, he’d return home, and very soon she’d marry the duke. There was no point in seeking her out anymore. All it served to do was make him feel like some desperate, pathetic fool. And Arthur Heywood wasn’t willing to sacrifice any more of his dignity.

Not even for a few moments of peace in the presence of Phyllida Satterthwaite.

On Tuesday morning, Philly had breakfast in her room. She had no interest in being subjected to more of Mrs. Vale’s questions, and was anxious to change and go out for her walk. She was looking forward to seeing Captain Heywood, and hoped he’d taken her advice and only walked as far as the bench near the entrance to the park. She’d seen that his leg was causing him more pain of late and didn’t want him to push himself beyond his endurance.

After putting on a white jaconet muslin dress and a blue sarsnet spencer ornamented à la militaire, she ran down the stairs with Fox under one arm, her bonnet in her hand, and her three large dogs at her heels, only to find both her cousins dressed and waiting in the entry hall. It was enough to bring her to an abrupt and very dispirited halt.

“Thank goodness you’re ready, Phyllida,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve been waiting ten minutes at least.”

“You’re coming with me?” Philly asked in disbelief.

Abigail, who was wearing a jonquil robe and holding a quilted silk parasol, smiled broadly. “Aunt Vale has said we must from now on.”

Elizabeth straightened her stylish bonnet so the trimmings showed to best advantage. “Where are your gloves, Phyllida? And what of your hat? Aren’t you going to put it on?”