Olivia lowered the vase to the table. “I think I’d have liked your grandmother. I often said something similar to my father when he’d pack things away or place them in storage.”
“It doesn’t matter now, though, does it? I only hope the next person who owns it finds the same beauty in it.”
Olivia liked this side of Mrs.Milton—a side void of anger and defensiveness. She’d not even brought up Mr.Avery or her nephew once. Additionally, seeing Mrs.Milton engage with the pieces she so ardently adored incited sympathy.
A moral battled flared within Olivia. Who was right—Mrs.Milton and her desire to respect the past, or Mr.Wainbridge and his sights for the future?
Was one objective more viable than the other?
And how did one tell?
After another hour of matching documentation to the pieces and recording notes in the ledger, Mrs.Milton stood, adjusted Louis in her arms, and moved to the window that overlooked the back garden. “They’re already gathering, as if none of them have a care in the world.”
Olivia lifted her gaze through the window to the south garden, where liveried footmen were setting up easels in various sections and tables closer to the house. She recognized the opportunity to learn more. “Did you and Mr.Milton entertain often?”
A slow, wistful smile cracked Mrs. Milton’s hard expression. “When we were young, we entertained lavishly! Our gatheringswere the envy of every member of the ton. But that was long ago. Everything was so different then. So...” Her words faded off. “I can only imagine what my Francis would think of this. Ofthat mantouching and assessing his personal things as if they were naught but twigs or debris. My only comfort is that he will never know what this has come to.”
Olivia recognized the look of longing—of sadness—in Mrs.Milton’s visage. Her father used to wear it as well, thinking of his wife. “I’m sure Mr.Milton would only want your happiness. I doubt he’d want you to agonize over something out of your control.”
Mrs.Milton did not immediately respond, only stroked Louis’s fur for several seconds. “I hope against hope that you never find yourself in such a situation, my dear. I’d gladly trade every single party I have ever attended to have my Francis back with me.”
Olivia’s gaze fell back to the items she was documenting. She understood wanting to honor someone’s memory. After her father had died, her uncle had been merciless as he went over his business records. He’d been critical in his review, and Olivia had jumped to her father’s defense. This seemed, in some way, quite similar.
After finishing the morning’s work and dressing for the picnic, Olivia and Mrs.Milton made their way down from their chambers to the south lawn and gardens. White fluffy clouds, friendly and bright, floated across an azure sky.
She’d seen the two white tents from the alcove window in Mrs.Milton’s chambers, and a team of servants carried trays and crates back and forth to the house. It seemed an extravagant endeavor to eat out on the lawn instead of inside, but the spectacle of it, no doubt, was the plan.
The gentlemen were already engaged in a boisterous game of cricket on the open lawn just past the formal garden, and the ladies were positioned at easels under the shade of the garden’s majestic sprawling oaks. Everything here was so clean, so meticulous, so untouched by soot and smoke and the effect of too many people crammed closely as in London. She could see how the ladies would vie for the opportunity to make this their permanent home. Would surroundings like this ensure happiness?
“Mrs.Milton! MissBrannon! Please, you must join us.” Mr.Romano’s heavily Italian-accented English echoed as the two women stepped from the stairs to the paved garden.
“No, no, Mr.Romano. I’ve not the patience for it.” Mrs.Milton barely looked in his direction as they traversed the uneven brick pathway. “I’ve no desire for such pastimes. I will stay here in the shade, where it suits. MissBrannon may accompany you, if she wishes.”
“We shall miss your company, of course.” He bowed dramatically before turning his attention to Olivia. “But I will be honored to escort MissBrannon to her easel.”
Mr.Romano made a great display of offering her his arm and of flashing a brilliant white smile at her, and she placed her arm gently on his.
Mr.Romano’s eyes were very dark—the color of strong coffee—and yet they exuded brightness and warmth. His enthusiasm never faded. He seemed captivated by whomever he spoke with, and his confidence was palpable, as if he was aware of the effect his presence had on the fairer sex.
And now, that good-humored attention was focused entirely on her.
“We’ve not met before our time here.” He escorted her down the paved path to the section of the garden that overlooked the pond, where swans and ducks moved over the fairly still water and among the cattails.
She sensed the eyes of the other ladies watching them. “No, sir, we have not.”
“I’ve encountered the other ladies at various parties over the past two Seasons, but you’ve somehow eluded me. Where do you call home, MissBrannon?”
“London, sir.”
“Ah, London. It is a very great city. I spend much time there. It’s truly a wonder that I have not seen you. At least we will remedy that now, for it is a shame that such beauty should not be captured on the canvas. I delight in a lovely new muse.”
The unmistakably flirtatious quality of his tone, combined with the rolling timbre of his voice and the unique and lovely atmosphere, almost made her forget why she was at Cloverton Hall in the first place.
They stopped at an open easel at the edge of the hawthorn shrubs, and after she sat down, he opened the box at the base of the easel and arranged her supplies. “I do hope you’ll allow me to paint your portrait while you are here at Cloverton.”
She accepted the brush from him. “I’ve never had my portrait painted before.”
“How is that possible?” He leaned closer to her, his scent unrecognizable but not unpleasant, and stared at her face.
