Page 28 of The Work of Art

The sound of Captain Heywood’s low-pitched voice broke through Philly’s thoughts. She turned to him, offering a slight smile. “My uncle wouldn’t allow me to bring her to London,” she said, her voice just as quiet as his had been. “She remained behind at Satterthwaite Court.”

“Is she to be sold?”

Philly’s fork trembled in her hand. She set it down beside her plate.

“Forgive me for asking,” he said. “It’s none of my affair.”

“It’s perfectly all right. I’m sorry to be so silly over it, but I raised her from a foal, you see. The fact is, she may be sold; however, there’s a chance the new tenants at Satterthwaite Court might allow her to remain there. She’d make a perfect riding horse for a young lady or a little girl. I have every hope it will all come right.”

“I hope it shall, Miss Satterthwaite,” Captain Heywood said. “I very much hope it shall.”

It was an hour before Arthur and the other gentlemen joined the ladies. When they finally entered the drawing room, there wasn’t a man amongst them who didn’t have a dark, stormy expression on his face. Even Darly, normally as cheerful as anyone, looked as if he’d been forced to swallow a bitter tonic.

Townsend’s daughters descended on Darly and Goodrich, who had promised during dinner that they’d play a game of loo with them. The gentlemen looked little inclined to keep their word until Edgeworth said he’d join them, for Edgeworth was known as a man who wagered extravagantly and played poorly.

Arthur found Miss Satterthwaite seated in the window embrasure. She had a bit of embroidery on her lap and was plying her needle with elegant dexterity. He admired her for a moment before making his way to her side. “May I join you?”

“Oh, please do.” She put aside her needlework as he sat down beside her.

“Do you play, Miss Satterthwaite?” Darly asked as the table was arranged for their game.

“She does not,” Miss Townsend said. “And she has no money to wager, either.”

“We’ve been trying to teach her,” the younger Townsend girl chimed in. “She isn’t very good.”

Miss Satterthwaite made no attempt to answer the questions that were asked her, and she didn’t seem to mind that her cousins answered in her stead. Arthur wondered how she could show such forbearance. “Don’t you care for cards?”

“Not very much.”

“Nor do I,” he admitted. “Besides which, they all appear to be settling in to make a night of it, and I won’t be able to remain much longer.”

“Yes, of course. With so little diversion, the evening will drag on for you, I fear.”

“No, Miss Satterthwaite, not at all. I…” He struggled for the right words. “It’s not out of boredom, for I would be happy—I would be honored—to sit here with you all evening. But my business with your uncle has come to an end, and my presence here isn’t very welcome at the moment. In truth, I think your uncle would rather I’d left directly after port.”

Her eyes flew to his. “You’ve concluded your business with my uncle?”

“I find that I must.”

“Then…will you go back to Somersetshire early?”

“I hope to leave Friday morning.”

“As soon as that?” She stared at him. “Can you not stay awhile longer? Perhaps, if you were to meet again with my uncle…?”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done on that score. I’ve made up my mind on the matter, and I believe your uncle has done the same.”

“I see.” Her mouth was tugged down at the corner, and her mass of dark hair, so artfully arranged at the beginning of the evening, was beginning to come loose from the jeweled pins that held it.

Arthur had never seen her look so vulnerable, nor so very beautiful. “I would have left next week in any case. It’s only a few days difference—” He broke off as, right before his eyes, one of the little ruby-encrusted pins began to fall from her hair. Without considering the intimacy of the action, he reached out and gently removed it.

Her cheeks flushed pink. “What a nuisance. I expect I’ve lost several of them already.”

He turned the hairpin in his fingers so that it caught the light. In Miss Satterthwaite’s hair, it had looked like a precious gemstone, but in his hand it looked like nothing more than what it was: a gold-painted pin on which was fixed a cluster of the same glass beads that trimmed her gown. It struck him then, quite forcibly, that Phyllida Satterthwaite had the rare gift of transforming everything that came near her into something better than it actually was. If he were a more eloquent gentleman, in the manner of Lord Darly or Reggie Forsythe, he might have told her so.

“Phyllida!” Miss Townsend called out. “Play something on the pianoforte, won’t you? I must have some music.”

“Yes, Phyllida,” Abigail Townsend agreed. “Play ‘Robin Adair.’”