Page 9 of The Work of Art

It wasn’t a very bright day—indeed there was scarcely a patch of blue in the cloudy sky—but somehow what little light there was seemed to shimmer in the red highlights of her hair and illuminate her skin in a soft, golden glow. It wasn’t only her expression that exuded warmth but the entirety of her person.

Arthur tried not to stare.

He failed miserably.

“Were you always in your grandparents’ care?” he asked.

“My whole life.”

“And your parents…?”

“My father was my grandparents’ only child, and my mother was the daughter of a widowed vicar in Fox Cross. My grandparents arranged the match between them. They hoped my mother would settle my father. He was rather wild, you see.” A slight frown marred her brow. It was quickly dispelled. “My mother was said to have been one of the loveliest ladies in Devonshire, and the closest thing in the West Country to a living saint. She was steady and kind. A paragon, really.”

“You didn’t know her?”

“No. I didn’t know either of my parents. My mother died bringing me into the world, and my father died in a carriage accident one week later.”

“So, your grandparents brought you up as their own.”

“Yes. Well…not quite as their own, for they vowed they would never raise another child as they had my father. They’d spoiled and indulged him, which must have been quite natural since he was their only child, but in time they grew to believe it was the root of all his wildness. So, though they loved me, they dealt with me very strictly. There were no balls or assemblies. No visits to town. We lived an exceedingly isolated life.”

“It sounds a grim existence.”

“Oh no. I had my pets about me for company. And there were villagers and tenants to visit. Decent, hardworking people. Friends I’ve had my entire life. I wasn’t ever lonely.”

“Did you never yearn to venture farther? To see something of the world?”

“I never thought of it. It seemed such an impossibility—and not suited to my temperament at all. And yet....when my uncle came to Satterthwaite Court and told me I must return to London with him, I climbed into his coach and left Fox Cross without a word of protest.” She tugged absently at her glove. “Do you think I did right, Captain Heywood?”

He had an overwhelming impulse to cover her anxious hands with his own. He didn’t act on it. “I beg your pardon, did you not want to come to London, Miss Satterthwaite?”

“No, but I very much wanted to do what was right. What was expected of me.”

“Have you no other family that you could go to?”

“I have no one.” She looked out at her dogs for several seconds. “What a maudlin thing to say. Pray forgive me. I don’t mean to sound as if I’m blue-deviled. I really have a great deal to be…to be…”

“Grateful for?” he suggested.

A hint of a smile edged her soft mouth. “Yes. Exactly.”

Philly wondered how so much of the conversation had gotten away from her. Captain Heywood didn’t look like a man one could confide in. In fact, he appeared as if he were the sort of man who would rebuff even the slightest attempt at personal conversation. Yet here she was telling him the story of her life—and asking for his advice, no less. He must think her some sort of hoydenish madcap, or at the very least, a country oddity.

“Do you remember much about your visit to Fox Cross, Captain Heywood?” she asked. “Did you have a chance to see a bit of the countryside?”

“Unfortunately, no. We stayed only one night at an inn near the main road. I think it may have been called the Hart and Hare.”

Philly brightened. “I know it well. It’s run by a woman named Mrs. Carter. You may have met her. She’s rather thin and quite tall for a woman. She may even be as tall as you are. It’s through her that I came by Fox. She named him after the village.” She lifted the little terrier onto her lap. “Can you believe he was thrown from a carriage on the main road? Mrs. Carter said he likely bit someone and was tossed out in a fit of anger, but I don’t think that’s any justification.”

Captain Heywood stroked Fox’s head. “Is that how he hurt his leg?”

“Yes, I believe so. When first Mrs. Carter brought him to me, he was in a dreadful state. He’s much better now.”

Captain Heywood’s large hand moved gently over Fox.

“You know,” she said, “it’s rather remarkable. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of you at all.”

“Is he usually frightened of people?”