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She glanced at Lady Margaret, who was in raptures with Susan about the latest bonnet styles, and how sensible it was to buy up as much ribbon as one could get one’s hands on if the color was right.
“She is nice,” Caroline said, loath to admit that he had been right—again. The evidence was all in his favor. She would have to tell Arabella that their suspicions about Mr. Taylor had no merit to them. When she looked back at all he had done for them, his counsel had always been sound, and he had been nothing but kind and accommodating.
If he was the honorable gentleman that he appeared to be, then she should consider him as a potential suitor for one of her sisters, even though he had shown no partiality toward either of them. There was still plenty of summer ahead for feelings to develop.
“Do not mistake me. There is no one kinder than Aunt Margaret. She does know everyone, and is accepted everywhere. Doors would open to her that would otherwise be closed to you and your family. In many ways, she would be an ideal sponsor. But as to the other half of the coin which you are chasing, as achaperone…”
Lady Margaret was patting Betsy’s hand and assuring her that she would do all in her power to see her wedded this very summer. “In my day, you know, we didn’t scruple at the means! The end result was quite good enough for us. I do believe I can get a man trussed up to the altar faster than my Peggy can pluck a goose for Sunday dinner.”
Mr. Taylor sighed and moved closer to Caroline. “I call her the terror of a thousand debutante balls not because she is awful. But because she will stop at nothing to see a match go through. And I mean nothing,” he said grimly, his voice now so low that it was difficult to hear him. “Mamas despair of her methods, but daughters all love her when all is said and done and they have a ring on their finger—even if they had their skirts over their ears to get it.”
“There’s nothing better than a suitor with a sizeable pocketbook,” Lady Margaret was telling Betsy, “and an even bigger—”
“Caro, didn’t you say we may go shopping?” Susan called out, her face bright. “May we go tomorrow with Lady Margaret?”
“I am afraid we already made a commitment to visit the modiste with Miss Balfour,” she said, which was a bald-faced lie. She hoped Maeve would prove agreeable, as the girls seemed to be in awe that a woman of such fashion would accompany them.
“Nicely done,” Mr. Taylor murmured with a smile.
She frowned at him. “I can’t imagine what you mean,” she said as she gathered up her sisters and sailed out the door.
How was she ever to launch her sisters with a chaperone like this?
Chapter Nine
The fog was a reliable presence in Inverley. It rolled from the sea into town in the dark hours of earliest morning, once every fortnight. Sometimes it was no more than a damp chill swirling around one’s ankles and it dissipated by dawn. Other times it was so thick that it was difficult to see to the end of the street, and it overstayed its welcome through the day.
It happened a good deal more often than the brochure writers were wont to admit, as the evidence of fog negated their claims of a good healthful seaside air. Arabella presumed the visitors to be tucked up in their hotel rooms and manor houses and rented townhouses, playing desultory hands of cards by candlelight and tsking over the promises they were sold of a beatific summer seaside town.
What visitors were not doing on foggy days was purchasing seascapes from her brother’s front parlor.
Arabella lugged the hinged sign proclaimingART FOR SALEinside, the painted wood slick under her fingers, and propped it beneath the pegs for bonnets and cloaks. Matthew was generous to give her the use of the front parlor every morning to sell her art. The room had a big window that she could throw open and sit at with her easel to entice people inside.
There was a knock on the door, and she whirled around to see Mr. Worthington enter the parlor. He took off his hat and shook the water from it before tucking it beneath his arm and bowing.
Arabella’s heart leapt into her throat faster than Shelley jumping to the windowsill. The blood rushed to her head and she felt amoment’s dizziness. She supposed it had been too much to dream that maybe she wouldn’t see him again.
“Forgive me for calling unannounced, Miss Seton. I took your direction from the woman working in the tea shop where we met. She told me that you sell your artwork here.”
He came no closer, which she appreciated, and instead stood there by the cloaks.
“I sell my paintings here every morning, but I’ve closed up for the day,” she said, pointing to the sign that she had brought inside. “It’s too wet to welcome visitors.”
“Am I simply a visitor?” he asked. “I thought perhaps I might be considered a friend.”
Once upon a time Mr. Worthington had indeed been a friend. He was also the finest painter she had ever met, creating sprawling historical canvases that were displayed all over Bath. She had been in awe of his talent, and swept up by his charm and good looks, and had ignored every nagging thought that she would not relish his touch if she were to accept his hand in marriage.
Oh, how young she had once been. Nineteen and away from Inverley for the first time in her life, on a year-long visit with her aunt and uncle.
Emotion closed up her throat. For a moment, she wished that Rachel or Matthew were home, and she could insist on shielding herself with family, but perhaps it was better this way. She had never told them about Mr. Worthington, and she would be hard-pressed to explain his presence in the parlor. It was beyond scandalous to entertain a gentleman behind closed doors. But she longed to delay the discussion that he seemed determined to have, and wished nothing more than to avoid this wretched awkwardness that had her wanting to wring her hands.
“I am surprised to hear you say it,” Arabella said finally. “After all, the last time we spoke was when I broke off our engagement.” She swallowed. “It was not well done of me.”
“A lady has the prerogative to change her mind.”
Arabella remembered calling on Mr. Worthington the day after she had permitted certain liberties. They had enjoyed an unexpected half hour of privacy after he had escorted her home from a dance, andhis attentions had been kind, thoughtful, and welcomed. He hadn’t known that the reason she encouraged his touch was because she had needed proof that it could erase the desire for Caroline’s.
It had done nothing of the sort. Instead, it had confirmed that her passions would never be for a man.
