Page 47 of The Work of Art

Arthur had been reminding himself of that ever since they left London. And yet, as he looked at his new bride sitting so contentedly next to him in the coach, her slender fingers idly turning the pages of the book she was reading, the stories about Moreland’s vengeance—stories of robbery, arson, and murder—no longer seemed so unbelievable. Arthur was possessed with an almost primitive urge to protect her and to keep her safe from harm.

Philly glanced up at him, appearing to notice for the first time how intently he was watching her. When she met his eyes, her expression softened and her mouth lifted into a smile.

Warmth crept up Arthur’s neck. He felt a resurgence of the same painful ache of longing that had been his near constant companion since the beginning of their journey.

If I were sitting next to you, I would take your hand just as you took mine this morning.

Did she have any idea how much those words had affected him? How much they’d encouraged him to hope? And then, when she’d removed her glove! How the devil had he managed to keep his countenance? He had wanted to embrace her. To kiss her full, soft mouth and tangle his fingers into her hair.

Instead, they’d held hands for over an hour. Periods of companionable silence broken only by the occasional exchange about Heycombe or Heywood House. Had Fox not woken and proceeded to scrabble about on the opposite seat, they might be holding hands still.

“He must be frightened,” she’d said, gathering the little terrier up into her arms. “No doubt he’s remembering those terrible people who threw him from that carriage in Fox Cross.”

But as she’d hugged Fox close, even going so far as to place a much-coveted kiss on his scraggly head, Arthur could have sworn that the smug little beast met his eyes rather shrewdly. As if to convey to him the superior position he held in the hierarchy of his mistress’s affections.

Arthur couldn’t recall when he’d ever been more irritated with an animal.

“Would you like to see the etching?” Philly angled the book for him. “It’s Odysseus imprisoned in Calypso’s cave.”

The flickering flames from the carriage lamps cast the pages in shadow. “How can you manage to read anything in this dim light?”

“It helps that I’m so familiar with the story. I used to read it aloud to my grandfather—though his copy of The Odyssey wasn’t so grand as this. Did your father have the etchings commissioned?”

“He may have done. You can ask him yourself when you meet him.”

She turned another page. “Do you expect I shall meet him anytime soon?”

“Within a month, if I’m not mistaken.”

“A month!” She looked up at him with a start.

“Yesterday, when I was at my solicitor’s, I sent an express to my father informing him of our intention to marry.” Arthur paused, adding, “It wouldn’t have done for him to hear it first from someone else.”

“Who do you imagine might have told him? So few people know of it.”

“Within a week, all of England will know of it. I instructed my solicitor to put a notice of our marriage in the papers.” Arthur winced at the look of alarm that came over her face. For a half second, he wondered if he’d been too high-handed in his arrangements. “The gossip would have spread like wildfire in any case. I hoped we could forestall some of it by seeing that everything was done properly. Unfortunately, there was no time to take you to meet my father, but he’ll have received my express by now, and if I know anything about him, he’ll already be arranging his affairs so he might leave Hampshire in as early as a fortnight.”

“Yes, I see. You did quite right to tell your father, of course, but...whyever would he want to come so hastily? Do you think… Will he be very angry that you’ve married?”

“Angry?” Arthur was surprised by her conclusion. “Not in the least. He’ll be elated.” The countryside was glowing softly in the moonlight. He could just make out the high steeple of the village church in the distance. “Look out your window, Philly.”

She did as he bid her. Her face instantly brightened. “Is that Heycombe?”

“It is. Heywood House is just beyond those hills. We should arrive in less than half an hour. And when we do, I suggest you go straight to bed. William can take charge of the dogs.”

“I’m not at all tired.”

Arthur gave her an appraising look. For all he admired her beauty, he couldn’t deceive himself that Philly was anything less than thoroughly worn down. Her gown was creased and rumpled, most of the pins had worked free from her hair, and despite having briefly availed herself of his shoulder, she hadn’t closed her eyes even once during the more than fifteen-hour journey.

“You’re plainly exhausted,” he said.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling with sudden humor. “I daresay I am,” she admitted. “I’m just far too excited to notice it yet.”

Heywood House appeared in a swathe of moonlight as they crested the final hill in their path. The classical Palladian structure was built of granite, which had weathered over the years, and under the full moon, made the house look as if it were composed of silvery shadows rather than gray stone. It was a building of perfect proportions, set back amid untamed parkland, and completely unmarred by any of the hotchpotch of sprawling architectural additions that had characterized Satterthwaite Court.

“Do you like it?” Arthur asked.

“Very much,” Philly said. “Very much indeed.”