Page 36 of The Work of Art

“Yes, sir. Miss Satterthwaite, sir. She said I’m to stay with you while you read the letter and…” William hesitated. “Please, sir. I must return with an answer. She expects one.”

Arthur tore open the letter. It was short, written in an even and elegant hand. He read the contents quickly, and then, after he’d finished it, he read it again.

Dear Sir,

Please forgive me for writing to you. I would never presume to do so if it were not a matter of the utmost urgency. You are my only friend in London, and I hope with all my heart you will see fit to do me the service I must request of you. Will you meet me tomorrow at sunrise on the bench where we first talked together?

I await your answer.

Yours in friendship, P.

Arthur stared at the sheet of foolscap, awash in conflicting emotions. Phyllida Satterthwaite didn’t strike him as the type of woman who would ever write a letter to an unmarried gentleman, let alone arrange a clandestine meeting with one. That she’d just done both disturbed him greatly.

“There was something else, sir. She said to tell you…” William’s brow furrowed. “She said to tell you that no matter what you decide, her good opinion of you won’t be altered. She said to make sure you understood that, sir.”

“Do you know what all this is about?” Arthur asked. “Has something happened at Townsend’s?”

The young footman dropped his eyes down to the floor. “I shouldn’t say, sir. Mr. Townsend is… He can sometimes be… Well, no matter what he is, he’s my master, sir.”

“But something has gone wrong there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“William. Look at me.”

The young footman immediately lifted his gaze. “Yes, sir?”

“Is Miss Satterthwaite all right?”

“No, sir.” William shook his head. “She was very upset. Indeed, I’ve never seen her so poorly. I hope your answer might cheer her. If you’d but give it to me, I’ll return to Mr. Townsend’s directly. If I stay any longer, Mr. Evans will notice I’m gone, and I could be in ever so much trouble, sir. I might even lose my place.”

Arthur looked again at the letter, his stomach twisting with frustration. More than ever he felt his own limitations. He was utterly powerless. Whatever had happened at Townsend’s, he could very likely do nothing to help her. Why had she turned to him? What could she possibly expect? Could she not see that he was in no condition at all to be of service to anyone anymore?

“William,” he said abruptly.

“Yes, Captain Heywood?”

“Tell Miss Satterthwaite that my answer is yes.”

Arthur had his coachman drive him to the entrance of the park, and with no little difficulty, walked down the secluded path that led to the bench where he was to meet Phyllida Satterthwaite. The landscape was shrouded in a thick blanket of fog. It rolled over the ground and clung to the blossoming trees. A sliver of sunlight rested on the edge of the horizon, too faint yet to give any warmth.

He hadn’t been waiting long when a single dog barked in the distance. It wasn’t an uncommon thing to hear in the early morning hours, and at first, he paid it no mind. But when the dog barked again—the sound even closer—he rose from his seat on the bench in anticipation.

Seconds later, the giant, wiry-haired figure of Basil padded out of the fog. Miss Satterthwaite was right behind him, the mist swirling around the folds of her amber velvet cloak. As she approached, she raised her gloved hand to push back the hood of her cloak. At that very moment, the sun came up from behind the trees, illuminating her hair and face in a dazzling array of golden light.

“Captain Heywood,” she said with a sigh of relief.

Arthur stared at her, resplendent in the sunrise. “Miss Satterthwaite.”

She sank down on the bench, her cloak pooling around her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, sir.”

He came to sit beside her. With the sun no longer glittering on her face, he saw for the first time that her hair was down. It fell in a mass of dark, lustrous waves over the front of one shoulder, secured rather haphazardly with a satin ribbon. It took an effort for him not to look at it more than he ought. “The footman who delivered your note said something had happened at Townsend’s to upset you.”

“Did he?” She bent her head. “Yes, well, things haven’t been going particularly well since last we met.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I wouldn’t like you to think I wrote to you lightly, sir. If it hadn’t been absolutely necessary, I’d never have been so bold. The fact is, as I said in my letter, you’re my only friend here in London, and I’ve no one else to turn to. I hope you won’t think too ill of me for my presumption.”