Page 27 of The Work of Art

“No?”

“She’s overprotective of me, that’s all.”

Arthur was sure that she was. No doubt the sharp-eyed little maid had dreams of one day serving the Duchess of Moreland—dreams that would hardly come to fruition if the future duchess were seen trysting in the park with unmarried gentlemen.

After his last visit with Miss Satterthwaite, the maid had likely gone straight to Mrs. Vale. He’d seen the suspicious expression on her face when Miss Satterthwaite had suggested a certain bench and remarked that mornings in the park were far less crowded. The uneducated young servant had recognized instantly what her far more innocent mistress could not.

Their chance encounters in the park were well on their way to becoming assignations.

Contrary to her cousin’s predictions, Lord Edgeworth talked a great deal to Philly during dinner. He was seated between Philly and Mrs. Vale, and when forced to choose between them, settled on Philly as the beneficiary of his long-winded pontificating.

He spoke of the workings of his estate, the exile of Napoleon to Elba, and the strain of coach travel on a man afflicted with gout. He was a gentleman of considerable girth, and helped himself to each of the dishes on the table with enthusiasm. In so doing, he forgot his obligation to the ladies seated on either side of him. He never passed a dish or helped to carve off a slice of meat for either Philly or Mrs. Vale.

Fortunately, Captain Heywood sat on Philly’s right, and though he didn’t say much, he was unfailingly courteous, serving her from all the best dishes within his reach. As Lord Edgeworth expounded loudly on the questionable value of a horse too fine-boned to carry a man of his size, Captain Heywood carved a small piece of mutton and silently put it onto Philly’s plate. His manners at table only emphasized what Philly already knew about him. Arthur Heywood, whatever else his faults may be, was a kind and thoughtful gentleman.

“You’ve spent your life in the country, Miss Satterthwaite.” Lord Edgeworth swallowed a large draught of wine. “I daresay you’re a competent enough rider.”

“Yes, my lord.” Philly half listened to him as Captain Heywood served her a small portion of curried rabbit. The dining table was ablaze with flickering candlelight, and as he wielded the serving spoon over her plate, she noticed that the back of his left hand was covered with scars.

On every other occasion they met, he’d properly been wearing gloves, but having taken them off for dinner, she could now see quite clearly the remnants of what appeared to have been a particularly brutal injury. The scars were raised and ran in sharp intersecting lines all the way up to the back of his fingers.

It was an old injury, she could tell. Had it happened to him in Spain? She couldn’t imagine how. Would someone have cut the back of his hand during battle? Perhaps once, but not so many times, surely.

“Everything is too fine-boned,” Lord Edgeworth continued. “Can’t find a mount anymore that’s worth having. Strong legs, Miss Satterthwaite, and a strong back. No need for beauty, in my opinion.”

Philly raised her eyes from Captain Heywood’s hand and saw, to her chagrin, that his brooding gaze was upon her. There was no doubt he’d seen where her attention had been directed. A knot of anxiety formed in her stomach. She’d always been so careful never to draw any notice to his injuries, and was horrified to think she might have inadvertently done something to hurt or humiliate him.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Satterthwaite?” Lord Edgeworth asked. “Not particularly elegant, but by God, it’s practical.”

Philly had no idea what he was asking her. “Yes, my lord,” she said, still looking at Captain Heywood. She wanted to apologize to him but was sure it would only make the situation worse. Instead, she affected as normal a demeanor as she could. “Captain Heywood, would you mind very much passing the stewed mushrooms?”

Her request broke the uncomfortable tension between them. Indeed, it seemed that the captain was relieved to be given another task to occupy himself.

“Lady Edgeworth is of the opinion that gentlemen of a certain age and size should no longer ride,” Lord Edgeworth went on. “But I say when a man can no longer ride, he might as well give up on life altogether.”

Philly winced at the implication. “I can’t agree with that, my lord.”

Lord Edgeworth was impervious to subtlety. “Heywood, you had a fine piece of horseflesh if I remember.” He leaned across Philly to address Captain Heywood. “A Greek name, I think it had. A blood bay from the earl’s stable. You didn’t lose him out on the Peninsula, did you?”

“No.”

Lord Edgeworth waited in vain for Captain Heywood to elaborate. “Humph! Know quite a few lads who lost their horses down there. Shot right out from under them. A waste, I tell you. Some very fine horseflesh left to rot on the field—”

“I had a lovely mare in Devonshire,” Philly declared.

Lord Edgeworth stared at her. “What’s this?”

“Her name was Persephone.”

“Another Greek name? A dashed coincidence. What did you call your horse, Heywood? Can’t quite recall—”

“She wasn’t as fine-boned as some of the horses you’ve been describing, my lord,” Philly continued determinedly. “In fact, I believe she was the unfortunate offspring of a carthorse and a hunter. The combination produces a particularly sturdy mount.”

“Carthorse, you say? Now there’s an idea. What manner of carthorse? A Shire? A Suffolk? Why, I knew of a fellow…”

Having successfully diverted Lord Edgeworth from topics that might offend Captain Heywood, Philly was able to eat a little something while the older man droned on about various equine crosses which might produce a horse suitable to his purpose.

“What became of your horse, Miss Satterthwaite?”