Eva tapped her fingertips against the gray-blue of the fountain, checking to see how tacky the oil paint remained. If she packed it carefully, perhaps it could make the trip to Birmingham along with the others. She would have to tell Mr. Stevenson to hang it immediately, however.
She had spent the last ten days finishing this painting, and the dress, and attempting to create miracles of improvements on other garments. Right now Rebecca sewed by the light of the bigwindow, attaching some new trimmings to an old pelisse. The goal—the hope—was to appear not nearly as out of date as the age of those garments might indicate.
She lifted the painting she had copied. Wrapped again in its burlap, she rested its weight on her hip. “I am going now. I should be back in an hour or so.”
Rebecca looked up. “Can it not wait until we return from our journey? I had hoped to have your help with this.”
“He is gone now and may have returned by then. Best if this resides in its attic when we leave town.”
“I doubt he will miss it if it is never returned. You said that attic is hard to find. And should he discover it and somehow know something is missing, he is not likely to think you took it what with so much else missing too.”
“It is a painting of some value, Rebecca. A few chairs that would probably end up as a vagrant’s firewood are one thing. A Gainsborough painting is another. Honesty decrees I return it.”
“Go then. I will begin to warm the soup if you are not back soon.”
Eva let herself out of the house and strode down the drive to the lane. Albany Lodge sat no more than fifteen minutes north of their house. She reached the road that connected the two properties, and soon passed the crossroads with the other road that took one to Langdon’s End.
She rounded the bend and Albany Lodge jumped into view. It appeared no different from the past. Nothing indicated someone now inhabited it and that repairs were under way.
He would be gone at least a fortnight, Gareth had said. Erasmus and Harold had not been working at the property during its master’s absence. She trusted no one would be about this afternoon and see her complete her mission.
Tacking for horses, a jumble of cutlery, and an assortment of jars and crockery bowls decorated the lodge’s portico floorwhen she arrived at the lodge. The citizens of Langdon’s End had done as she now did, and taken advantage of Gareth’s absence to return more of the items borrowed over the years. This batch had perhaps been lured out of its temporary lodgings by the vicar’s sermon on Sunday, in which he preached on the commandment not to steal.
Gareth’s habitation proved more obvious inside than out. Refuse and dust had disappeared. A few items of furniture gave the reception hall a spare but lived-in appearance. Someone had even cleaned the fireplace and scrubbed the hearthstones. She looked in the library and saw similar improvements.
The painting grew heavy in her arms. Carrying it up the stairs proved a chore. She soldiered on, up to the servant quarters then down to a small door tucked to the side at the end of the corridor. She had missed this access to the upper attics her first few times exploring the empty house. When she finally found it and ventured above, the contents had amazed her.
She clutched the painting firmly and maneuvered the narrow stairs into the dusty, warm space right under the roof of one of the stone wings to the house. Little light penetrated because it had only one window, which was small and obscured by the deep eaves of the roof. It would be easy to miss the forms against the walls, covered by blankets. She almost had.
She set down her painting, carefully positioning it so it stood in front of a large, flat surface hidden by a blanket. She slid the blanket up. A bit of light caught the bright colors of tulips and glass on the canvas surface, rendered with such realism as to invite one to touch the different textures. The painting was Dutch, she was sure, and probably from the seventeenth century. She had been tempted to try and copy it, but it was just large enough to be impossible to carry home.
She let the blanket drop so that it covered the three little boys and the fountain, now returned to their stack of paintings. Shelooked down the wall at other small canvases that she would not be able to borrow now that Gareth had moved into the house.
He had not found this attic yet, but eventually he would. Then he would most likely move the paintings back to the walls below, from where they had no doubt been taken when the house was closed up after the last time the duke visited.
Even if he never found them, she could hardly cart one out right under his nose, or return it the same way.
Could she?
She walked to the final stack of paintings and lifted the blanket. She had intended to borrow the ones here. Without them, she was not sure how she and Rebecca would live once the money from the current group was spent. It might be impossible to build new lives, too, let alone have the fun she so proudly informed Gareth she intended to have.
If Gareth made journeys like this one with any kind of frequency, and if she did not tell him about the attic, might she on occasion still ply her copyist trade and earn a few shillings?
She lifted the front painting, a small landscape with peasants in front and a ruined castle in the background. She thought the subject would appeal to many of Mr. Stevenson’s patrons.
Her conscience debated with her practicality over the temptation to leave with a bundle just as she had arrived. While she concentrated on her conflicting inclinations, an intuitive awareness crept into her mind.
She froze and listened. Nothing. And yet—she sensed she was no longer alone in the house.
Perhaps Erasmus had come by, or Harold. Should they see her leaving, she expected she could come up with a passable excuse. All the same her heart thudded and alarm sharpened her senses. She set down the painting, tiptoed to the attic’s top stair, and listened again. More silence.
She tried to tell herself she was being a goose, but she still felt someone’s presence. Not up on the servant’s level, but below somewhere. She felt more than heard footsteps.
What if it was not Erasmus or Harold, or even someone from the town? What if a thief who knew the house had returned, unaware that it now was inhabited? What if one of those strangers who seemed to always be around had entered? She did not want to come face-to-face with such a man.
She also did not want to get trapped up in this attic.
Listening hard, sure she was wrong but knowing she was right, she descended the stairs as quietly as possible. She pulled the door closed behind her, and aimed for the servants’ stairs to the lower levels.
