Baxter mumbled something, though he wasn’t sure what the words were (other than that they were not coherent), and turned his attention back to the opera. But before he tucked away his lemon drops once more, he offered them again, and Miss Stillwell popped another sweet into her mouth with a smile.
***
The snowy streets were clogged with carriages; one could avoid the majority of the jostling when arriving at the opera (as the audience did so at different intervals), but once the curtain fell, the entirety poured out onto the streets, battling to get home. Clearly, Miss Stillwell was a woman of great foresight, for only those leaving on foot were able to weave through the mess with little trouble. Baxter stared out the window and glanced at the people, many of whom were outpacing the carriage.
A few snowflakes fluttered down from the heavens. Not enough to be concerning, but it filled the air with magic. Drifting between the darkness and the circle of golden lights radiating from the lamp, the sparks of white tumbled through the air undisturbed.
Had anyone suggested that Baxter would be pleased to be trapped in a carriage after having spent the evening at a wretched opera with a stranger, he would’ve thought them a lackwit, but there was no denying that he was, in fact, quite pleased.
Miss Stillwell was a treat. Baxter couldn’t comprehend how such a gratuitous, engaging creature remained unwed; a man would quite happily gaze into those laughing eyes for the rest of his life. There was a quality to her that drew a man in, and Baxter couldn’t recall another evening he’d enjoyed as well in some time. The lady was delightful.
A prickle at the back of his neck ran down his spine as Baxter considered that truth once more. When was the last time he’d felt like smiling so freely? Or laughing? Or felt anything at all? It was as though he’d been trapped outside, slowly acclimating to the cold until he didn’t know what true warmth was, and then Miss Stillwell had swept into his world like a blazing bonfire.
“You two were quite cozy,” said Stanley.
Baxter jolted from his thoughts, jerking his gaze from the window as a flush of heat swept his cheeks. “Pardon?”
His son stared out the window opposite. “You and Miss Stillwell seemed to enjoy yourselves. I hope it wasn’t too onerous a chore to distract her.”
Clearing his throat, Baxter shifted in his seat. “Of course not. She is a delightful lady. I enjoyed myself far more than I expected.”
“Then would you mind doing so in the future?” asked Stanley, swinging his gaze from the frosted glass to gaze at his father. “I was thinking of calling on them the day after tomorrow. Miss Alice mentioned they would be home to visitors.”
“Of course not.” Baxter hid a smile and ignored the happy thump of his heart. “If you think it would be helpful.”
Stanley gave a huff with vague meaning and turned his gaze back to the window as the carriage began to move in earnest. Baxter’s brows furrowed as he studied his son. The carriage was far too dark to discern the details of his expression, though the passing lights outside allowed him glimpses. Stanley stared out at the passing cityscape, his shoulders drooping.
“Is something amiss?” asked Baxter.
“Not at all,” replied Stanley, though the denial would’ve been far more convincing if there was any true feeling in his tone.
Chapter 4
Baxter longed to return to his quiet corner of Essex and the verdant beauty of his quaint country village, but even his unsophisticated eye appreciated the inherent loveliness of Bath. Though it was plagued with the usual troubles found in a population of that size, the efforts of gentlemen like Mr. John Wood and Mr. Ralph Allen hadn’t been misplaced, transforming the worn-down buildings into something new—even if much of it was merely layering over the old facade with the eponymous stone that painted the town in its hallmark honey gold.
No. 15 Hawthorne Lane, on the other hand, was not merely painted over to hide the aged interior. Though it did not boast the finest of addresses (much to Jonathan and Beatrice Goswick’s lament), Dolores’s parents had thrown their efforts into ensuring that the terraced house was as fine as any in the Royal Crescent.
Little had altered since his wife and her parents had roamed its halls. As Baxter had spent much time courting Dolores in these walls, there was a feel of familiarity to them, though he’d never felt entirely comfortable within them. Though a Baxter in blood now owned it, Stanley was a Goswick in name and fortune, and he was doing his best to ensure that the grand building was properly maintained. As was befitting a Goswick.
Which was why Baxter hid in the library, tucked away in his favorite seat.
An armchair was a personal piece of furniture. One might believe the bed more so, and though that venerable piece was a fixture in one’s life, it was often shared. Children slept together, and though some were afforded a solitary cot during their school years, that was quickly surrendered when they married.
Of course, a gentleman’s study afforded solitude, but with Juniper Court some one hundred and seventy miles from here and occupied by tenants, an armchair tucked in a quiet part of the house was as close to a haven as Baxter could find. It was his and his alone.
However, he was feeling anything but comfortable at present.
Baxter rested his head against the worn leather, his fingers thumping against the padded arms. With the brown paper pulled back, he stared at the parcel on his lap and ran his fingers over the bundle of pencils and the sketchbook beneath it. Of decent size, it was suitable for dragging about yet large enough to do proper studies; plain green linen lined the cover, but when he flipped through the pages, the paper was of fine quality. It was simple but refined.
His fingers ran along the bindings as he attempted to sort through the feelings burning in his chest. They pulsed through him with such strength that one couldn’t say they were comfortable. But as his eyes traced over the note tucked inside, his heart warmed, sending a wave of heat through him.
I expect to see a drawing soon. — H. Stillwell
Baxter’s lips twitched as though to smile, his eyes roving over the elegant hand that had rendered the words. It was easy enough to hear her voice in that succinct sentence, and he could well imagine her raising a challenging brow if he were to deny the request. And no doubt, she would ask after it in the days to come.
Scouring his memory, he didn’t think he’d mentioned his art other than during their first meeting at the opera, yet Miss Stillwell had remembered it three weeks and many conversations later—and she’d ascertained that he’d yet to recapture that hobby of his. A none-too-subtle prodding and a gift all in one.
A phantom pain in his heart panged, and Dolores appeared at his elbow once more, giving the implements a narrowed eye. A proper gentleman engaged in riding, cards, racing, and hunting; he spent endless hours in his social clubs, discussing politics and worldly issues. Doodling in sketchbooks was for men who dirtied their hands with work and made efforts to appear more genteel than they were. Yet her husband preferred art over gentlemanly pursuits.
