Page 8 of The Work of Art

Miss Satterthwaite anticipated him. “Please don’t get up. I was just about to sit down awhile myself. If you don’t mind my joining you?”

“By all means.” He gestured to the spot on the bench next to him. He had no doubt her actions were motivated solely by consideration for his infirmity. For a moment, he had to steel himself against the resentment that consistently rose within him at any perceived sign of pity.

“Miss?” Miss Satterthwaite’s maid eyed Arthur with suspicion. “Shall I stay with the dogs on the grass?”

“Yes, do,” Miss Satterthwaite said. “I’ll be right here. Oh, and Sara! Don’t chase them. They’ll only run faster. If you’re very still and quiet, they’ll come to you of their own accord.”

The maid didn’t look convinced. “Yes, miss.”

Miss Satterthwaite took a seat beside him, carefully situating her bedraggled dog next to her. Once she’d assured herself of the little beast’s comfort, she turned to face him. “I’m sorry I passed you. I wasn’t paying any attention.”

“It’s quite all right.” His gaze drifted over her clothes. “I hardly recognized you myself. You’ve changed a great deal since this morning.”

She cast a frowning glance downward. “Now I’m in London, I’m required to dress well even for a short walk with my dogs. It’s all rather a nuisance.”

“Is this your uncle’s directive?”

“In a manner of speaking. He’s put me under the care of his sister, Mrs. Vale. She’s chosen all my clothes while I’m here in town. If I don’t wear them, she falls into a state.”

“I see.”

She tugged at the braiding on her spencer. “I feel rather foolish.”

“You look very well, Miss Satterthwaite.”

“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, sir.”

“Of course not.” Arthur’s gloved hand tightened reflexively on his cane. He’d never been adept at casual conversation, but since he’d come back from the war, he found even the simplest of exchanges to be agonizingly difficult. He didn’t know why he was subjecting himself to it except that, for the past several days, he’d thought of little else but Phyllida Satterthwaite and her quiet act of kindness toward him.

“I know I shouldn’t complain,” she said. “They’re lovely clothes. Any other lady would be happy to have them. I’m really…very grateful…for my uncle’s generosity.”

“It is not the best position to be in,” Arthur said after a long pause. “Being grateful, that is.”

“No. It most definitely isn’t.” And with a heartfelt sigh, she looked out across the park.

Her three dogs were playing on the grass under the careful supervision of the much put-upon maid. Arthur wondered what Miss Satterthwaite was thinking about as she looked at them. It occurred to him, quite suddenly, that she might be homesick. “Is this your first visit to London?”

“I confess it is. Up until two weeks ago, I’d never left Devonshire except for twice accompanying my grandfather to Bath so he might take the cure.”

“My estate in Somersetshire is very near Bath.”

“Is it?” She looked at him with renewed interest. “I didn’t know you were from that part of the world, sir. Have you ever had occasion to go into Devonshire?”

“Many times. Whereabouts are you from?”

“A small village called Fox Cross. It’s near Dartmoor.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve been there.”

Her eyes brightened, and then she smiled. “Have you?”

Arthur was momentarily transfixed. Never in his life had he encountered a woman with so much genuine warmth in her expression. “In my younger days. My brother and I stopped off there once on the way to visit family friends in Cornwall.”

“I wonder if… Is it possible you might remember my grandfather? Sir Charles of Satterthwaite Court?”

“I fear I don’t. I was only a boy then. My father may well have known him. I’ll ask him in my next letter, if you like.”

She beamed. “I’d be so very much obliged to you.”