Page 7 of The Work of Art

Philly came to an abrupt and rather awkward halt. She hadn’t expected he’d address her, and now felt rather foolish that she’d attempted to avoid him. “Captain Heywood. Good morning.”

He was leaning on his cane, his solemn face as hard as granite. “I see you’re off on another walk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a fine day for it.”

“Yes. The weather is very pleasant.”

He was silent a moment. “Do you often walk in the park? I suppose you must with so many dogs to care for.”

“I go to the park at least twice a day.”

“Morning and afternoon, I presume.”

“Yes, sir. I would take them out more often if I could, but I’m afraid my time is not my own.”

Captain Heywood nodded. “Well, Miss Satterthwaite, I won’t keep you.”

Philly thanked him, and then—heart thumping—headed off down the street with her dogs.

When she returned to the townhouse an hour later, Mrs. Vale was waiting for her in the entry hall, her arms folded across the bosom of her gray bombazine dress, and her jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle worked rhythmically in her cheek.

Prudence Vale was as tall and thin as her brother, with the same sharp eyes and shrewd expression. Her lips were perpetually pressed into a thin line, and she wore her hair scraped back from her forehead in a tight knot at her nape.

Her personality was no less severe than her coiffure.

She hadn’t invited Philly to call her Aunt. Indeed, since Philly’s arrival, Mrs. Vale had offered Philly precious little kindness at all, save for the benefit of her instruction.

“How many times must I tell you?” she scolded. “If you insist upon going into the park with your dogs, put on one of your new walking dresses. This isn’t Fox Cross. You can’t scamper about unremarked. The finest ladies and gentlemen in society are bound to see you, and what will they think of you dressed like this? I’ll tell you what they’ll think. They’ll think you’re some ramshackle hoyden up from the country without anything to recommend her. Once that impression is made, it will be fixed. Fixed, I tell you.”

Philly started up the stairs to her room without a word.

Mrs. Vale followed. “Is something wrong with your new gowns, pray? Or is it merely your own obstinacy that drives you to defy me?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Vale. I promise I’ll remember next time.”

“You had better. When you go walking this afternoon, you’ll wear a proper walking dress. And if I discover that you’ve ventured out of the house again in one of these gowns that aren’t even fit for the rag bag, why, the rag bag is just where they’ll go!”

Later that afternoon, when Philly went to the park with her dogs, she wore an ensemble chosen for her by Mrs. Vale. The elegant cambric dress came down to her ankles, and the sarsnet spencer jacket she wore over it was Sardinian blue with decorative cuffs, braiding, and epaulettes. The maid had arranged her hair so that the bulk of it was elaborately pinned in three low, intertwining rolled sections behind her head, and over it all she wore a village hat made of chip with deep blue ribbons to match her spencer.

She shifted Fox under her arm, inwardly fuming at having to dress up just to take her dogs out for a run. In the country she’d been allowed to dress practically, but here in London, she was expected to display herself in the park like some manner of peacock.

Having been born with dark auburn hair and mismatched eyes was quite conspicuous enough. The last thing she wanted to do was to draw further attention to herself with her clothing. She’d attempted to explain this to Mrs. Vale during their first shopping excursion, but Mrs. Vale wouldn’t hear of it. For a woman so unerringly conservative in her own dress, she seemed to have no compunction about outfitting Philly in daring styles, bright colors, and some of the lowest necklines in England.

As Philly walked farther into the park, she let the dogs off their leads. They ran out onto the grass to race each other.

Sara attempted to corral them, but the more she chased after them, the more the dogs attempted to evade her, believing it to be some sort of game.

Philly wasn’t worried. Her dogs wouldn’t stray far, and she didn’t begrudge them their exercise. It was bad enough that she must be constrained and stifled. She wouldn’t allow it to happen to her pets.

She continued down the path, and Sara and the dogs made some progress along behind her. From his place in her arms, Fox took in the sights around him, intermittently looking up at her for reassurance. In response, she pressed a kiss to his scraggly forehead, so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t even notice the gentleman sitting on a bench they passed until he said her name.

“Miss Satterthwaite.”

She started, turning back to see who had addressed her, even as a shiver of awareness informed her about whom the deep, low-pitched voice belonged. “Captain Heywood!”

Arthur moved to rise and greet her properly.