Dorothea frowned. “No. Although I am sure he will call upon you later. As for today, it is as I anticipated: Mr. Wincock, Mr. Shelby, Mr. Cartwright,andMr. Bellington. Well, now, that one surprises me—you did not even dance with him.”
“Perhaps he wishes to adopt me. You cannot hope that I shall choose that gentleman, Dorothea. He must be nearly fifty. Can we not at least discourage him?”
Dorothea leveled a firm gaze at her sister. “Absolutely not. You will be charming and conversant with each of them until we learn more about their personalities and intentions. Oh, I am so thankful Ihad the good sense last night to ask Cook to make some of those delightful little almond cakes today. We shall certainly put them to good use.” She reached for the letters again, then stopped and made an exasperated sound. “What are you waiting for? Go bathe and prepare yourself.”
Charlotte gave a small smile and turned away. She tried not to dwell on the chore ahead of her—entertaining so many callers. She would have much preferred a day of solitude, sketching and painting. Mr. Shelby was tolerable enough. Mr. Wincock might have more conversation in him than he did at the assembly. Oh, but those teeth. And, Mr. Cartwright had seemed so serious last night, but perhaps he would demonstrate a more lively nature. She could only hope.
As she climbed the stairs to her room, Charlotte felt a small pang of dismay that Frederick Morton had not sent word of any plans to call on her.
Chapter Twelve
By three thatafternoon, Charlotte felt exhausted. She had no idea that entertaining could be so draining. Her father frequently entertained company at Clayton House, of course, but for the most part, guests were there to speak to her father, and so her presence and polite talk were rarely required, unless they stayed to dinner. Even then, her sister-in-law Lavinia tended to dominate the conversation on behalf of the women. Later, of course, Lavinia would subtly berate Charlotte for “not keeping up her end of the conversation.”
Even so, Charlotte had felt up to the task of conversing with the gentlemen callers, especially knowing Dorothea was nearby. So, it surprised her that she felt so very weary after Mr. Bellington finally departed. Each caller had stayed slightly over what was considered good manners—fifteen minutes, although Mr. Cartwright hung on for more than half an hour.
As soon as the door closed on the last gentleman, Dorothea turned a beaming face to her sister.
“Well done, my dear. You handled yourself extremely well, and I must say you were a credit to the family. Even when that dolt Mr. Wincock asked whether you were fond ofpotatoes, of all things, you showed grace and charm. We can give him another chance, I suppose, but I believe we shall likely soon cross him off the list. He simply has no conversation in him, and I should think Mr. Shelby or Mr.Cartwright would suit you better.” She looked up and down at Charlotte. “Why do you not go upstairs to rest a while?”
“Thank you, I think I shall.” Charlotte nodded and left the sitting room. When she reached her room, though, she realized she was not longing for a nap at all but for some fresh air and exercise after sitting for so long. Grabbing her Spencer and bonnet she skipped down the back staircase and exited Haverstone for a vigorous walk.
*
After walking forsome time, Charlotte decided to rest at the top of a rise with a faux Greek temple (a vanity project of her brother-in-law’s that she found pretty, but peculiar). The location offered an expansive view of Haverstone’s fields and gardens below. As she observed the beauty before her, she wished she had brought her watercolors. A movement below caught her attention, and she watched a man approach from the grove of oak trees on the west side of a field. He was wearing a woven peasant’s hat that concealed his face and was dressed simply—an estate worker perhaps? Then, Charlotte noticed he was carrying a small wooden case, which appeared similar to her own travel painting kit.
She continued to observe the man as he turned and walked briskly toward the Greek temple where she sat, but he had not noticed her yet. Realizing the impropriety of being alone with a strange man, she rose from the stone bench to depart. At that moment, the man lifted his face, and she knew him to be Frederick Morton. He recognized her as well and smiled.
“Hello!” he called, waving. He hastened his steps and was soon standing before her, puffing with exertion. He bowed as she curtseyed. “What a surprise to find you here, Miss Kendall. Did you come to paint as well? I recall we spoke of your fondness for art during our dance.”
“No, I merely took a walk and ended up here. In fact, I was just wishing I had brought my painter’s kit with me. The prospect from here is so fine.”
“I have paper and paints enough to share if you like,” he said, opening his kit. Charlotte saw it was better supplied than her own.
“That would be lovely, but you only have the one easel.”
“You take it. I shall sketch using my case. I can always add the watercolors later.”
“Are you quite sure?”
In reply, he pulled out the lap easel and some paper and handed them to her. Then, he set out the pencils and tins of watercolor, along with a small, corked bottle of water. Then, he took a sheet of paper for himself, sat on a bench next to hers, and immediately began his sketch.
Charlotte knew to be alone with Frederick might expose her to gossip, which could damage her reputation. But, the longing to paint overcame her; she had done no art at all since coming to Haverstone. Besides, Frederick had given no hint of any intentions toward her. And, as one who had just received his orders, he was certainly trustworthy. His behavior toward her had always been gentlemanly. And, who would see her way out here on the estate, anyway? Placing the lap easel on her knees and picking up a pencil to rough in the landscape, she happily set to work.
For more than an hour, the two worked intently, side by side, without speaking. The only sounds were of pencil against paper and the birdcalls in the nearby trees. Charlotte occasionally glanced over to observe his work, but he single-mindedly sketched, focused on his own project. She reached for the watercolors and a brush, a feeling of complete contentment she had not experienced since coming to Haverstone.
It was not until Charlotte had nearly completed her painting that Frederick spoke.
“You have captured the light falling on the oak grove quite well,Miss Kendall.”
Charlotte held it up, considering. “I thank you, sir. I read once that painting is naught but rendering light and shadows and once you have that down, you can paint anything.” She giggled. “I confess, though, that I prefer landscapes, as my one attempt to paint a face resulted in something more akin to a baboon than a person.”
“I am sure you exaggerate. I, myself, enjoy painting people and I flatter myself I am moderately competent at it. May I…that is, would you pose for me, Miss Kendall?”
“What—now?” She felt herself blush.
“You have an elegant profile, and I should like to see whether I am able to capture it.” He waited a moment before dropping his eyes and continuing, “Oh, but I should not presume—pray, forgive my impertinence, Miss Kendall.”
“Not at all. I have no objection to your attempting a drawing of me. But, you must promise not to show it to my sister or Lord Gillingham. They would both think it quite inappropriate, I am certain.”
