Page 65 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

I am presently in Devon, at Greyfriar’s Abbey, not lacking for company. The Abbey’s owner, Captain Thornhill, and his wife, Lady Helena, are in residence, along with their little daughter, Honoria. So, too, is Tom Finchley, a capital attorney, and his wife, Jenny; and Neville Cross, a farmer; his wife, Clara; and their newborn baby, George. These men are something like brothers to my brother-in-law, all of them raised in an orphanage together many years ago. It’s a bleak history that has made for a strong bond between them, and puts me in the position of having a rather larger family about me than I can creditably tolerate.

I spend most of my time in the drawing room. It has an enormous window that looks out toward the sea. Seascapes are, as ever, my occupation in Devon. I can’t get enough of painting them. Jennings has been obliged to procure additional canvases for me from the village, when the cliff road isn’t washed out from the storms. And it does wash out with alarming regularity, leaving the abbey all but isolated.

The sea is a beguiling subject. Of course, if I had my way, I’d be painting quite another prospect, the inspiration of which still haunts me day and night.

Has my humble sketch at all managed to change your mind? I endeavor to hope that, on reflection, you may see some merit in my committing your likeness to canvas. I do believe it would be the making of me. And who knows but that it might not have a favorable effect on your life as well? There are worse ways to end one’s days than to be made immortal.

Write back to me if you’re so inclined. I seem to recall that you said you would. But perhaps I only dreamt it. There were stars at the time, and a brief moment in a sleigh that rather muddled my senses.

Your friend,

Teddy Hayes

Seventeen

Devonshire, England

February 1863

Teddy cast another distracted glance out the drawing room window at the rain-flooded cliff path below. During foul weather, the road to Greyfriar’s Abbey was impassible. No one from the village would dare risk it with horse or carriage, and only the bravest of men would hazard it on foot.

Fortunately, Alex and their host, Justin Thornhill, were two such men. As boys, they’d clambered over the North Devon cliffs indiscriminately, in company with fellow orphans Tom Finchley and Neville Cross. A walk down to the village didn’t intimidate them, not now the rain had stopped and the sun was shining.

They had left over an hour ago to fetch the post, the daily papers, and a few supplies from the market for the ladies. Teddy awaited their return with uncharacteristic restlessness.

Perhaps he’d been too bold in writing to Stella?

Then again, what had ever been achieved through faintheartedness?

“You’re n-not painting today?” Neville joined Teddy at the window. He was a large man, well over six feet in height, with short cropped blond hair and a noble countenance more suited to an Arthurian knight than a stammering Devonshire farmer.

Teddy closed his sketchbook. He’d spent most of the morning idly penciling ideas for his portrait of Stella. A frustrating exercise. He’d left Hampshire no closer to her agreeing to sit for him than when he’d first asked.

All he’d achieved during the house party was to form a strange sort of friendship with her.

And to kiss her.

The memory of that moment in the sleigh had lately been plaguing his dreams.

Good Lord, what had possessed him? He might have at least restricted the intimacy to a brief peck on the cheek or an even briefer one on the lips. Instead, he’d taken his time, making a thorough romantic business out of what might have otherwise been a perfectly ordinary holiday custom.

“Teddy is in a world of his own,” Laura said. She sat a distance away by the drawing room fire, in company with Lady Helena Thornhill, Clara Cross, and Jenny Finchley.

The four ladies laughed softly together at Laura’s remark. Garbed in warm wool dresses and swathed in fashionable cashmere shawls, they were of a similar age, and since marrying their respective husbands, had become as close as sisters.

Jenny held little Honoria Thornhill on her lap. The raven-locked child was two years old. Small and plump cheeked, she was generally possessed of her father’s air of quiet reserve. But not at this time of day. Now, she was red faced and on the verge of tears, desperately in need of one of her twice-daily naps.

“If you’d give me more than five seconds to formulate an answer,” Teddy said to his sister, “I may yet make one.”

Neville sank down in a chair next to him. “Take as long as you n-need.”

Teddy’s mouth quirked. If anyone understood lengthy pauses it was Neville Cross.

Neville had suffered a brain injury when he’d fallen from the cliffs as a boy. Though he’d recovered admirably over the years, he still found it difficult to formulate speech with any degree of ease. He paused often, sometimes appearing to drift off in his own head as though he’d fallen into a daydream.

Teddy didn’t mind it. On the contrary, he shared a strong sense of fellow feeling with Neville. Before his marriage to Clara, Neville had lived at the Abbey under Justin’s protection. Neville knew firsthand what it was like to have to fight for autonomy over his own life.

“I’m expecting something in the post,” Teddy told him. “A letter from someone who might be important to me. It’s made me too restless to settle to anything this morning.”