ChapterTen
Right before bed, Molly brought me a bulky note from Liza.
Opera tomorrow! (Can you believe Charlie agreed?) We shall come for you at 8 pm. Let me know if you like this aria. If not, I shall send another.
I sat atop my white covers embroidered with white flowers and decorations and separated the papers into three piles: her letter, my list, returned from Mr. Winston, and the Italian aria. I tucked the latter away for tomorrow. Mr. Winston had likely agreed to the opera just to spite me. But I could not complain. Since my wish had been granted, so should Liza’s.
I groaned. I could appreciate the music, and singing in general, but hours of loud, constant vibrato took its toll on a person.
I’d have to endure the opera, and Mr. Winston would be there. Which Mr. Winston, though? The smug boxer or the gentleman friend? Regardless, he’d given me Liza back,andhe’dpromised to help me with my list. At present, I would take all the help I could get.
I continued reading the last of Liza’s letter.
Also, Charlie has had his nose in your list all day. He is so dedicated and serious, I hardly recognize him. Ideas are brewing for better or worse, and he would like to be prepared. He asks that you kindly send along your favorite watercolor first thing in the morning so that he may decide how to best proceed.
Love,
L.
My favorite watercolor? He was thinking of number four.
My mind whirled with the possibility of my painting hanging somewhere for anyone to see. I’d written number four because I loved to paint, not necessarily because I wanted to be recognized for my skill. But having a painting hung seemed to be the pinnacle of success in that field. And I wanted to succeed as an artist.
I knew immediately which painting I wanted to share. Jumping down from my bed, I tugged out a flat, rectangular case from underneath my bed. I unlocked the two clasps and lifted the lid, revealing pages of my favorite sketches and watercolor paintings I’d saved from my training. Flipping through the first ten or so images, I found it—my very favorite watercolor I’d done of the grove. I knew that spot better than any other on the estate. Liza and I had picked flowers there, hid away for afternoons long past, and climbed saplings as they grew.
Trees framed the painting as though the viewer was walking into the grove, sunlight sparkling through the leaves. Greens, browns, yellows, and specks of blue and orange filled the paper, creating almost a tunneling effect. It was, in my opinion, my best work. I could take one look at that painting, close my eyes, and feel like I was there.
I tucked my case back under my bed and rolled up my painting. Then I tied it with three strings, one around each end and one in the center.
I found a paper on my desk and pulled out ink and a pen. After dipping the pen, I started to write.
Liza,
I trust you will keep my painting safe. I do wonder what plans your cousin is brewing. Any clues? I shall see you tomorrow at 8 p.m.
Ros
After the ink dried, I gave my letter and painting to Molly to deliver in the morning and snuffed out my candles.
I focused the next day on learning my song, taking calls, and drafting the perfect menu for Marlow’s arrival, and before I could blink, it was time to dress for dinner. I picked out an emerald-and-golden sari gown and had Molly arrange my hair with a matching bandeau.
There were only two problems: I’d heard nothing back from Liza, and I’d yet to inform Mama of my plans.
“You look lovely this evening,” she said with a happy sigh as I descended for dinner. “Chin high, Ros.”
Father and Benjamin were waiting for me as I entered the drawing room with Mama on my heels. Father waved me over to join him. “I’ve had a letter from His Grace, Rosalind. I assume you’ll want to hear what your intended has to say.”
I wrapped my arms around Father’s neck and kissed his cheek. “If he wants more land, tell him no.”
Father laughed. “Negotiations are not for you to trouble yourself over,” he said, and I pursed my lips. “His Grace wrote to inquire after your favorite jewel. I think he means to buy you a wedding gift before his return.”
My eyes widened. “A jewel? That seems extravagant.” Then again, as Mr. Winston had so prudently pointed out, I hardly knew the duke.
Father grinned, eyeing the color of my evening dress. “Shall I suggest an emerald?”
I could hardly imagine receiving such a lavish gift. It was much too generous. How would I thank him? “An emerald would be lovely. Did Marlow say anything else?”
“About you? No.” Benjamin narrowed his gaze. “About the land ...”
