Lavinia, a mother? I am happy for Miles, of course, but knowing my sister-in-law, it will just make Lavinia more determined to claim Clayton House as hers and force me more into the shadows. Well. It seems as though Providence has provided her with a child in order to close the door of Clayton House to me forever. And, Reginald made it clear he would not welcome me here as a full-time guest. It seems I must make a match as soon as may be, even though my heart is not entirely convinced.
“Charlotte—are you listening to me?”
Dorothea’s voice startled Charlotte out of her reverie. She saw Dawson exiting the room. When had he walked in?
“I apologize, Sister. I was just so astounded at this happy word from Lavinia.” She noticed Dorothea held a piece of fine paper. She saw the red wax seal with the initialMon it. “Did that just arrive?”
“Indeed, it did, and it bears even more good news. Mr. Morton has invited us all to Brentwood for dinner this Thursday. He also asks us to arrive early, as he—” she broke off to find the line in the note to read aloud, “—wishes to give Miss Kendall a full tour of the estate.” She squealed with delight. “Oh, my dear, it is just as I hoped. He wishes to gain your approval because he is of a mind to make you the new mistress of Brentwood.”
Charlotte felt a shudder run through her. “Oh…I am certain he cannot be thinking of that, Dorothea. We have met but a handful of times. How could he possibly determine so soon that I am suitable to be his wife? No, no. We should not get our hopes up in such a manner and so early. It is a return invitation for his dinner here and nothing more.”
Dorothea smiled and shook her head with affection. “Your lack of confidence in your own charms continues to astonish me, Charlotte. You have quite won him over, and I am certain by the time we hold our ball, he will be your conquest, completely.”
Chapter Sixteen
Monday night beforeshe went to bed, Charlotte left the tall curtains of her bedroom windows open so that the early morning sun would wake her. She did not wish to oversleep and miss her drawing lesson with Frederick Morton. Early Tuesday, she was up, dressed, and out the door of Haverstone by seven-thirty, walking swiftly to the Greek temple with her watercolor box clutched firmly in her hand.
She had expected to arrive first, but to her surprise found Mr. Frederick awaiting her. He greeted her warmly.
“Good morning, Miss Kendall,” he said with a small bow. “I have been looking forward to our engagement exceedingly.”
Charlotte curtseyed and smiled. She judged his words to be true and not polite flattery. As little time as she had spent with him, Charlotte had quickly assessed that the younger Mr. Morton was sincere in all ways. In addition, she had also discovered that his emotions were quite easily read upon his countenance. His smile always appeared genuine, never forced, and his eyes were warm and kind. So very unlike his older brother, whose expressions she still sometimes found rather inscrutable.
“Good morning to you, sir,” she replied. “I, too, have been most eager for our lesson. Our last drawing session rekindled a strong desire to put pencil to paper more often.” She glanced over at a canvas bagsitting next to his art box.
Following her gaze, he moved toward the bag, opened it, and brought out a smallish, silver bowl. Then, he reached inside for an assortment of apples which he placed in the bowl. He set the whole arrangement on a short stone pillar at one end of the temple.
“These are last season’s crop and while not quite suitable for eating, they are perfect for drawing,” he said. “I thought we might begin with working on the sun’s reflection on the silver bowl and the shadow it casts. As you yourself said, capturing the light is vital to bringing art to life.” He fussed a minute to get the apples positioned as he wanted before stepping back with a satisfied nod. “Why do you not have a seat on the bench opposite there and begin?”
Charlotte opened her watercolor box and quickly set up her lap easel, paper, and pencils. She studied the setting a moment and took a deep breath with her hand holding the pencil frozen above the paper.
“Gracious, I confess I find myself quite nervous, Mr. Morton,” she said. “I cannot imagine why. It must be because I am still rather unused to having anyone see my process. As I told you, I have had no formal training and am accustomed to doing my art in privacy. That way, should I not care for what I have drawn, I can simply tear it up and nobody has to see my poor effort.”
Frederick laughed and walked over to stand beside the bench where she sat. He remained silent for a while, until she had roughly sketched in the image. Then, he gently gave her small instruction as she worked, pointing out minor changes. When the image was nearly complete, he spoke.
“You are doing quite well, Miss Kendall, but do you perceive how your rendering of the bowl appears to float on the pillar?”
“Yes, I can see it is not quite right, but I do not know how to correct it,” Charlotte said.
“It is quite simple. You must add a darker line along the bottom of the silver bowl. It grounds the object by implying the slightest ofshadows where it sits.” He leaned down and reached for her pencil. “May I?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, catching a whiff of him as he bent closer. He smelled of sandalwood and something else—what was it? She did not know, but it was not unpleasant at any rate.
He knelt beside her and angled her easel closer to him, then quickly added a stronger pencil line across the bottom of the bowl she had drawn. She leaned in, observing, then gave a small gasp.
“Oh! I see exactly what you mean. The bowl is no longer floating.” She turned her face to him, so close and now on the same level as she. Their eyes held a long moment. She inhaled again—had she ever noticed before how lovely the scent of a man could be? Then, she abruptly turned away, clearing her throat as she reclaimed her easel. She held it out, as though to study it. “Thank you, Mr. Morton,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “We have been here but a short time and you have already proved your worth as an art teacher.”
“My pleasure, Miss Kendall,” he replied in a soft voice, still kneeling beside her. “But, I must give credit where it is due. You are a most…apt pupil.”
Charlotte turned to find his eyes still focused on her. She felt her face warm, and flustered, blurted, “Perhaps you should consider teaching art to others. It would be a way of adding to your curate’s income.”
He abruptly stood, his face now stormy.
“Yes, curates are often forced to teach, since their incomes are so poor,” he said tightly. He moved to dismantle the still-life arrangement, putting things back into the canvas sack.
Charlotte felt a knot in her stomach. How could she have spoken so rudely? She quickly tried to make amends. “Forgive me, Mr. Morton, I did not mean to offend, but to compliment. I meant to say—that is—I think you have a gift for teaching, is all. This may be the best thing I have ever drawn, and I give full credit to your guidance.”
He stood with his back to her a moment before turning and giving her an awkward smile. “Thank you for your compliments. I am aware you did not mean to cause offense.”
