“Ah, our tea and refreshments have arrived. Son, there are many things about your mother you do not know.”
Chapter Four
Madeline braced her hands on both sides of the inside of the coach as the team of white horses jostled around a bend in the road toward Castle Conclarton, splashing mud in through the open windows. The coach sped at a dangerous speed to make up time. They had visited the nearby village of Conclarton, as her mother insisted they needed new bonnets.
The village was charming and the people friendly, but Madeline noticed a few of the shops were boarded up and others were in need of repair. When they returned to the carriage with their new bonnets, the driver assured Madeline and her mother that they would reach their destination before dark. As far as Madeline was concerned, she would have preferred for them to turn around and book the first available boat back to America.
Maybe her mother was mistaken, and the judge would reconsider his boast of revenge by closing Feathers. If the judge did make good on his promise, how could her mother’s scheme prevent it from occurring?
Madeline dabbed at her mud-splattered face with her handkerchief, worrying about the smudge, then sighed. She would need more than a flawless complexion to attract a man with a title. She would need a miracle. She had never felt so out of place in all her twenty-four years, and she had been born in a brothel and attended boarding schools where students boasted of their fine homes, servants, and impeccable lineage.
Her mother dozed across from her, as content as a well-fed cat. Madeline believed this wild scheme was doomed to fail. Or worse, get them tossed into the Tower of London for impersonating an heiress. Madeline had been seasick for most of the voyage from New York to England, kept her mother calm when they landed at London’s rat-infested docks, and procured the carriage and directions to Conclarton Castle. The only thing that kept her going was knowing that this was important to her mother.
The coach and four sped around another bend in the road and Conclarton Castle loomed in the distance, highlighted by the setting sun. Torches flanked the stone towers on either side of the iron gate like watchful guards who knew the secrets of all who entered. Madeline shuddered. She hoped not. Secrets should stay buried and protected.
She pulled back from the open window and resumed working on her drawing. She had been sketching to occupy her time along the journey from America to London. It calmed her and gave her a respite from the never-ending lists of details her mother required her to memorize.
“That is a fair likeness of that poor soul you gifted with coins on the road a while back,” her mother said, stretching as she awoke from her nap. Her mother’s dress, like Madeline’s, was the height of fashion with its high waistline and Greek-style silhouette. Her mother had exchanged her signature red color for the demurer shade of purple, while Madeline had chosen dark green.
“You view the image upside down. How can you possibly know that it is a fair likeness? Besides, it’s only a rough sketch, thanks to the way this carriage bounces.”
“But I know talent and my daughter’s skill,” her mother said with a confident air. “Have you forgotten that many of my patrons gifted me with masterpieces? One in particular from the female Belgian artist Michaelina Wautier, theTriumph of Bacchus, is one of my favorites.”
Madeline smiled. “A nine-foot-high and twelve-foot-wide portrait of near-naked men surrounding the god of wine, which you hung in the main room of your establishment. How could I forget? The women in Boston called it scandalous.”
“Ah, yes, and yet they visited my establishment often to view the painting and comment on its inappropriateness. As a child you tried to copy Wautier’s skill, sketching little drawings of our cat, bowls of fruit, or vases of flowers. That is when I realized your interest in painting.”
“I am grateful you encouraged me and hired tutors, but I fear I lack Wautier’s gift.” Madeline examined her drawing of the horse and rider who had chased down the carriage.
Growing up in America she had ridden since she could walk. As a result, she recognized a skilled horseman. The man chasing the carriage looked as though he were born on a horse. Horse and rider moved as one in her direction. Hooves dug into the mud, splashing water and clouds of dirt.
Heart racing to the beat of the thundering hooves, she silently urged them closer. Unlike the clean-shaven men on the ship and those she had encountered in London, the rider had a full beard and long hair that flew behind him untethered. “Wild and free as the wind” had been her first impression. “Dangerous” her second.
“I particularly like the man’s eyes,” her mother said. “Silver.”
Jolted back to reality, she realized her mother was commenting on her sketch. Straightening on the carriage’s bench seat, Madeline nodded. “His eyes are not silver. They are the shade of the ocean on a stormy day. I much prefer people to bowls of fruit. But I am not satisfied that I captured the expression in his eyes. They were unexpected. Wise, and yet sad, as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.”
“He wore a military uniform that was threadbare and stained, although his companion was in common clothing. The uniform was like that of a man who has seen battle. An honorable men who faced death so that others could live. Unlike those who avoid the messiness of war yet strut like peacocks in uniforms with polished boots and shiny buttons. I am pleased you helped those men.”
Madeline traced the jawline of the man she had sketched. “I wonder what he looks like under the beard.”
“Or naked,” her mother said with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Broad shoulders, with a commanding hold on his horse, and the way he sat the saddle reminded me of…”
“Mother!”
“Oh, do not give me that false look of indignation. You saw exactly what I saw and blushed scarlet when he rode after our carriage. For what it is worth, he has the look of a man a woman can trust.”
The carriage jolted from side to side over a pothole as Madeline tucked her drawing between the pages of a book and placed it in her valise. “How can you make that assumption? You caught only a glimpse.”
Her mother leaned against the back of the seat. “You forget. It is my business to understand men.”
“I offered him more, but he declined.”
“Oh, dear, no wonder you look smitten.”
“You realize that you are the most inappropriate of mothers. The young women at my boarding school said that their mothers only discussed fashion and the importance of marrying well.”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “It is no wonder those kinds of mothers visited Wautier’s painting. But I share one characteristic in common with those mothers. I, too, wish my daughter to marry well.”
