“How do you feel about this development, Mr. Nobley?” she asked.
“It does not matter how I feel about Miss Heartwright.” He nudged his horse forward, and hers followed without any action on her part.
“Wait, are you heartbroken?” She knew Miss Erstwhile shouldn’t ask the question, but Jane couldn’t help it.
“No, of course not.”
“Not about Miss Heartwright, anyway.” Jane watched Mr. Nobley’s face closely for signs of Henry Jenkins. His mouth was still, unrevealing, but his eyes were sad. “Maybe you’re not heartbroken anymore, maybe you’ve passed that part, and now you’re just lonely.”
Mr. Nobley smiled with just half of his mouth. “You arevery good at nettling me, Miss Erstwhile. As I said, it does not matter how I feel. We are speaking of Miss Heartwright and Captain East. I think it nonsense how they have kept silent. They should speak their minds to each other.”
“You think so? But you didn’t approve of me speaking my mind last week. What’s changed?”
He looked visibly upset—or embarrassed perhaps. Could it be that Mr. Nobley felt as exposed around her as he made her feel? His frown deepened, his cheeks seemed to have a bit more color, and it appeared Mr. Nobley had no intention of answering the question. Jane was stumped at how to restart the conversation, so they rode on in silence.
Of course just at that moment, shewouldsee Martin by a line of trees, looking her way. Why couldn’t she be chatting and laughing and having a wonderful time? She smiled generously at the world around her and hoped that Martin would think she was enthralled with Mr. Nobley’s company and perfectly happy.
Mr. Nobley turned to ask her a question, but when he saw her grinning without apparent cause, the words hung in his mouth. His eyes widened. “What? You are laughing at me again. What have I done now?”
Jane did laugh. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to help myself around you. You are so tease-able.” Which was precisely not true, and yet saying it somehow made it so.
Mr. Nobley looked over his shoulder just as the line of trees hid Martin from view. Jane wasn’t sure if he saw him.
“I’m going to try to be easier on you,” said Jane. “I am sorry I annoy you so much.”
“You don’t annoy me.” Mr. Nobley cleared his throat uncomfortably, and his fingers fiddled with the reins. “Youbring out something rare in me that I cannot name. It is an agitation, I suppose, and yet one that I begin to crave.”
Jane was stunned to speechlessness. Could he be serious? He was looking at his hands thoughtfully, not speaking again for several moments, and in the silence, Jane became aware of her heart beating. Why had that declaration completely upended her?
When he spoke again, his tone had changed, innocuous, chitchatty. “How do you find Pembrook Park, Miss Erstwhile?”
“Do you mean the house itself?” asked Jane, grateful for a change of subject. “Well, it’s beautiful, no question, friendly and yet too grand to be really comfortable. Like wearing a corset, I like how it looks and feels, but I can’t relax in it.” She shook her head. How did she keep slipping up? Saying things to this man that the Rules said she shouldn’t. She tried to think of something more innocent to say. “I love the paintings. The ones hanging in the gallery, they’re all in the grand style of portrait art, luminous with natural light. The artist isn’t just concerned with outer beauty but takes pains to express the virtue of soul in the subjects and catch that gleam of importance in their eyes. No matter how portly or drastically thin, how sickly or sad, all the people in those paintings know that they’re significant. You have to envy that kind of self-assurance.”
Jane stopped herself, realizing that she’d gotten carried away in the subject and her audience probably wasn’t the least bit interested. A glance sideways at Mr. Nobley—he was watching her, intently.
“You’re a painter.”
Jane blinked. “I used to paint, but it’s been years. Now I . . .” She paused, not knowing how to translate “non-creativebook design” into Austen lingo. “It’s been a while since I’ve used that medium.”
“Do you miss it?”
“You know, I do, especially lately. Maybe it’s because my head’s all mixed-up”—she gestured toward him, acknowledging her awkward breakdown days ago—“but all the new things I’m seeing make my hands twitch, wanting to work out those images on paper. I think drawing and painting used to be a way of thinking for me. Until I came here, I’d almost forgotten about it.”
“Here I am!” Captain East was cantering his mount toward them. He rode beautifully, confidently. Molly had grown up horseback riding, and she used to say that the way a man rides a horse could give you a pretty good idea how he would do something else. Jane eyed Mr. Nobley on his mount, noted that he was a smooth, gentle rider. The surprise of thinking this while wearing a bonnet made Jane choke. Her breath snarled in her throat, and she laughed.
Mr. Nobley’s eyes widened. “What’s funny? You often have some secret laugh, Miss Erstwhile.”
“The way you have some secret displeasure?”
“No, not displeasure,” he said, and she realized he was right. Sadness, or heartbreak, or grief that there was nothing to give him hope. Perhaps he really was Henry Jenkins.
Captain East reined in beside Jane. “Miss Heartwright had a headache and went inside. So sorry to neglect you, Miss Erstwhile. You must tell me what I missed.”
“I have discovered that Miss Erstwhile is an artist,” Mr. Nobley said.
“Is that so?”
“It’s been years since I picked up a paintbrush.” She glared at
