Page 41 of The Untamed Heart

The ringing of a bell reached their ears, and Neil’s eyes widened with pleasure.

“Yes, I can hear your stomach rumbling too,” Marcus said dryly. “Come on then, let’s clean ourselves up and see what feast your mother has cooked for us today.”

Eustacia glanced around her studio, checking that everything was ready for Marcus’s sitting. She had spent a few moments watching him working in the garden with Neil beside him, touched by the gentle way he had with the boy. Now her eyes returned once more to the impressive red uniform hanging up, ready for this afternoon.

He didn’t want to put it on. She knew he did not, and yet he must. Not only because the portrait demanded it, but because she wished for him to rediscover his pride in it. Perhaps if she did her job properly, he might look upon it, upon himself, with kinder eyes. Or perhaps that was hubris, she thought with a snort of derision. Well, only time would tell.

She smiled at the sound of the bell ringing. Marcus had bought the bell two days ago and fitted it outside the kitchen door, so Mrs Wainwright did not need to bellow for them to tell them to come and eat. Mrs Wainwright had been delighted, and the novelty had not yet worn off, judging by the enthusiastic ringing that now reached Eustacia’s ears.

She hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen. By silent agreement they had begun taking their main meal in the middle of the day, so they might tacitly feed Marcus up. He absolutely refused to stay to dinner of an evening, stating that they’d be sick of the sight of him as it was.

Eustacia realised she could not imagine that happening. He was becoming a part of Seagull Heights, a part of their lives, and though there was a deadline for the portrait, she could not think past that date. He just fitted in so well with Mrs Wainwright and Neil, and with Sebastian too, for his admiration of Seb’s work had done wonders for her brother’s self-esteem.

The front door opened and Sebastian appeared, his hair plastered to his head, clothes dripping. Eustacia gave a laugh at the sight of him and he glared at her.

“You won’t laugh if I catch pneumonia,” he said with a huff, taking off his sodden hat. A flood of water poured from the brim.

“Seb! Oh, look at the mess,” she said crossly. “Take those mucky boots off at once. Mrs Wainwright will pitch a fit if she sees.”

“Oh, don’t mind me, so long as the floor isn’t muddied,” Seb groused, bending and removing his boots.

“Where have you been, anyway?” Eustacia asked once he’d done, helping him peel off his wet coat.

“To the bookshop.”

He reached inside his waistcoat and drew out a paper-wrapped parcel he’d kept dry on his trudge back up the hill. His tone was such that Eustacia knew it was not just the dousing that had put him out of temper.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, folding her arms. “Wilbert Averythe’s new book has arrived?”

Sebastian sent her a dark glare. “It has.”

“Oh, Seb, this silly rivalry between you is pointless. You outsell the man by thousands of copies.”

“Oh, but you’ve not seen the newspaper article, Stacy.”

“Article? What article?”

Seb stared at her in frustration. “Lord, Stacy, we could be at war again, and you’d never know it until the French marched up to the front door. Don’t you have any interest in current affairs?”

She shrugged, reaching for the paper-wrapped parcel. “No, not really. It’s only ever tedious or depressing and there’s nothing I can do about any of it. I’d rather just live my life and be a good deal happier about it, rather than worrying about the economy, or some political coup.”

“Well, the last edition we received contained an article comparing Mrs Wildblood to Mr Averythe.”

Eustacia groaned, tugging at the string and setting it aside. “Good lord, Seb, why do you care? Everyone loves your books, so what if some literary critic doesn’t? Is his opinion less valuable than Marcus’s?”

Seb huffed impatiently. “Marcus is a fine man, a great man, and I admire him. You know I do, Stacy, but… but he’s no judge of literature.”

Eustacia gazed down at the handsome book. Bound in dark blue cloth, the title printed in small, solemn type, it looked like a serious piece of work. Mrs Wildblood’s novels were always published in bright red cloth, or leather for the special editions, with large gold-tooled type.

“The Withered Bough by Wilbert Averythe,” Eustacia read. “It sounds rather grim.”

“It’s a Gothic novel. It’s supposed to be grim,” Seb replied darkly, snatching the book from her.

“What did the article say, Seb?” Eustacia asked as Seb stalked away from her towards the stairs.

He paused with his hand on the newel post. “In essence, it condemned Mrs Wildblood as vulgar and profitable, read by persons whose intellects are less than keen. Mr Wilbert Averythe, by contrast, writes with restraint, gravity, and all those other virtues which are liable to make a novel worthy but entirely unreadable,” he said in disgust, and stalked up the stairs.

Eustacia watched him go, knowing he had taken the article to heart and having no clue what to do about it. “Come and eat, Seb. Mrs Wainwright has made something delicious.”