Page 3 of The Work of Art

It had been six months since her grandfather’s death, and only a month since she’d first met Edgar Townsend. Uncle Edgar, as he’d encouraged her to call him, was the last living male heir to her grandfather’s estate. At the end of her period of mourning, he’d arrived in Fox Cross and proceeded to make a thorough inventory of Satterthwaite Court—and of Philly herself.

He’d quickly come to the decision that Satterthwaite Court was to be let and those things of value within it sold at auction. Philly’s own future was decided with no less efficiency. She was to return to London with her uncle. He’d finance a season for her so that she might find herself a suitable husband.

“It’s the least I can do in memory of your grandfather,” he’d said. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to be forced into servitude upon his death.”

Philly was decidedly unenthusiastic about this scheme, but she’d said very little in argument against it. Any influence she had remaining at Satterthwaite Court was exerted solely on behalf of the servants, with particular care for the nearly blind housekeeper and the butler who was so infirm he walked with two sticks.

Once all was settled, Philly and her four dogs had been whisked away to London.

There was nothing of the country ramble to her walks now—certainly not when accompanied by her two cousins. Elizabeth and Abigail Townsend were town creatures. They preferred a leisurely promenade. All the better to display the elegant fashions afforded them by their father’s legendary business acumen.

“Lord Darly is a viscount,” Elizabeth said as she walked at Philly’s side. “An unmarried viscount.” At four-and-twenty, Elizabeth was still unmarried herself.

Abigail trailed along behind the two older girls. She was a mere eighteen, her romantic future bright before her. “He’s very handsome.”

Elizabeth ignored her younger sister. “Then there’s Captain Heywood. Heaven knows what he was doing there. He hasn’t been out in society in ages. I suppose Papa has tempted him with some lucrative scheme bound to make them all heaps of money.”

Philly’s dogs tangled about the skirts of her plain muslin gown. With its faded blue pelisse, it was nowhere near as fashionable as the walking dresses worn by her cousins. Certainly not as fashionable as the dresses that had been purchased for her since arriving in London. Beautiful dresses of every variety. Far too beautiful to wear for a simple stroll in the park, or so Philly thought.

Uncle Edgar’s widowed sister, Mrs. Vale, would be apoplectic to see her clothed as she was now.

Not that it mattered. Whenever Philly was left to her own devices, she always reverted back to the simple gowns she’d worn while living with her grandfather. It was one of her only acts of defiance.

She bent to let the dogs off their leads. They ran a short distance ahead, leaping and jumping in circles. Fox remained firmly in her arms. “Which one was Captain Heywood?”

“The dark-haired gentleman on the sofa. How could you not see him? He was holding your little brute just as surely as you’re holding him now.”

Philly hugged Fox closer to her chest. “I didn’t pay him any particular attention.”

Abigail caught up with them to walk at Philly’s right. “Arthur Heywood is the second son of the Earl of Gordon. He was horribly hurt in the war.”

“Was he?”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said. “I heard that, after he was injured, he lay on the battlefield for days, left for dead. And that when the other soldiers finally found him, he was half mad.”

Philly reflected on this information a moment. “If he’s half mad, why is he doing business with your father?”

“Well, he must not be mad now,” Elizabeth replied with some irritation, “but everyone knows he’s never been quite right since he returned from fighting in Spain.”

“The story is rather romantic,” Abigail said. “Before he left to fight, he was engaged to Lady Eliot. Her name was Caroline Battersby then, and—”

“It’s not romantic at all,” Elizabeth interrupted. “It’s true that they were engaged, but by the time Captain Heywood came back to England, Caroline Battersby had already married Baron Eliot. She didn’t even write to tell Captain Heywood she was ending their engagement.”

“But he’s never stopped loving her,” Abigail said. “And he’s vowed never to marry—”

“Who would have him? He’s a thoroughly unpleasant man, and now he’s come back from the war, he can hardly walk.”

Philly remembered what she’d said when she’d retrieved Fox from Captain Heywood’s grasp. She stifled a groan. Good heavens. What must he have thought of her? That she would make such a thoughtless remark about someone’s infirmity!

“Lady Eliot has been widowed for over a twelvemonth,” Abigail said. “I wonder, now Captain Heywood has come to town on business, he might not go and see her? Or perhaps he hasn’t come to London on business at all? Perhaps he’s heard that Lord Eliot died, and has come to reunite with Lady Eliot now she’s out of her widow’s weeds? Oh, he must love her desperately!”

“I saw him the year I came out,” Elizabeth said. “He was a cold, unfeeling gentleman, even then. Too impressed with himself by half.”

“He didn’t ask her to dance,” Abigail whispered. “He was frightfully rude.”

Elizabeth’s chin lifted a notch. “Rubbish. I never thought him handsome. And now he has altered so much I would hardly know him.”

They hadn’t gone much farther when Philly heard her uncle calling out to them. She stopped, along with her cousins, and turned to look.