Ten Years Later

Isabell Langley was the daughter of his Grace’s head shepherd, Joshua Langley. Lucy and Isabell had become friends when Isabell was laid up with a cough and a high fever. Lucy, hearing about the illness and knowing that Isabell’s mother was deceased and Isabell was caring for two younger brothers, offered to nurse Isabell until she was well.

The Langleys lived within walking distance of the Manor, and Lucy often walked over to have tea and a gossip with Isabell.

As Lucy approached the whitewashed cottage with its thatch roof nestled in the sunny glade, she could see Isabell struggling to handle a large bed sheet as she tried to throw it over the clothesline in what was proving to be a stiff and persistent breeze. Lucy ran over and grabbed one side of the sheet and helped Isabell settle it onto the line before Isabell stuck clothes pegs over the ends of the sheet.

“Oh, thank you. I thought it was going to blow me away into the next county,” Isabell said with a laugh.

Isabel was one and twenty, slight of build and was often susceptible to illness. But her bright shining brown eyes were always welcoming. She was deft with her hands, and they were always busy, washing, cooking, knitting, or cleaning up after those two younger brothers, who were old enough to look after themselves, but continued to rely on their sister to take care of their messes.

“Look what I brought you,” Lucy said holding out a cake wrapped in brown paper. Lucy had access to the Manor’s kitchen and often hung around helping with the baking. None of the daughters were allowed this privilege, but Lucy was neither fully upstairs, nor fully downstairs, so she was allowed access everywhere. She felt very fortunate in such an arrangement.

“Is that the apple pound cake I like so much? And did you make it?”

“The very same and I did make it. Might it be time for tea and a slice of cake?”

“Indeed, it might,” Isabell said. “But first, I must finish hanging the washing.”

“Let me help.”

And the two of them hung the rest of the wet laundry before heading inside to prepare the tea.

The Langley’s cottage was modest but tidy and well kept. Her father maintained the structure, and she cared for the household. There was a pleasant flower garden in front with a modest porch where the two retired to a table and sat to enjoy their tea.

“I saw your father and his Grace struggling with a monstrous stump this morning. They had a team of two horses and were trying to dislodge the brute.”

“Papa is so grateful for his position with the Duke. It has been a blessing to this family—especially with mother gone. He still broods over her but has the boys to distract him with their mischievous ways.”

Lucy laughed. “They are a handful. But I know how much you care for them.”

“I do. But I am very happy they are in school right now.”

She poured the tea as Lucy cut the cake and served a slice each on the plates provided. They sat back to enjoy their tea as a mother duck and her brood of ducklings came waddling by to inspect the front garden for bugs and insects.

“Carter was by last evening,” Isabell said shyly.

“Was he now? And what did he have to say for himself for being so scarce?”

“His employer sent him on an overnight trip to Sherborne, but he ended up needing to stay two nights and only got back yesterday afternoon.”

“How very naughty of his employer. Does he not know Carter is about to ask you to marry him? How can he be so thoughtless?”

Isabell laughed. “I think Carter may have considered the diversion a relief. He is always so nervous when he is with me recently. It seems he wants to ask me. I know he intends to, but somehow he freezes up and cannot get the words out.”

“Then you ask him,” Lucy said with a laugh.

“What a brave idea. I love it. But you know that is not how it is done.”

“Men… What useless creatures. Eh?”

“And what about Master George? He must be quite the young man by now. I have not seen him for the longest time.”

“He just turned twenty and fancies himself an adult. But sometimes he still behaves as though he was twelve.”

Isabell’s tabby slouched by, decided Lucy’s lap looked inviting, hopped up and settled in for a snooze.

The breeze had somewhat subsided, and both Lucy and Isabell settled back in their chairs and enjoyed these few quiet moments.

Lucy, who was now sixteen, closed her eyes and savored the patch of sun that was streaming down upon her. No longer a child, but not yet quite a woman, she hovered at that delicate point of transition on the threshold of adulthood. Her features had matured from the child into what everyone now recognized as a great beauty. She maintained her milky white, satin complexion, framed by her dark hair, accentuating her slim, delicate features. She still had a svelte figure, but she had spurted in growth and had an attractive willowy stature.

“Do you have any more stories you can show me? I loved the last one about the porcupine. And so did the boys,” Isabell asked, breaking Lucy’s reverie.

“Oh, you liked that? Good. I am working on a new one now, but it is not quite ready.”

“You can take the one I read back with you.”

Stretching her arms above her head, Lucy wanted to stand, but she still had a sleeping cat in her lap.

“I am seriously thinking of starting a novel after I finish this story.”

“That is ambitious. Might you someday be published?” Isabell asked as she stood to put the used cups and plates on the tea tray.

“Who knows? But I do know I am not ready yet.”

Isabell paused with the tray in her hands and looked at the cat in Lucy’s lap.

“You can just shoo him away. He would stay there all afternoon if you let him.”

Lucy picked up the cat, which protested, but wandered away behind a bush at the front of the cottage.

George’s friend, Stephen Rutley, was courting a young lady at Shelby Hall, and he invited George and their mutual friend, Roger Sylvester, to come along with him to the Shelby’s Saturday morning open house. Stephen’s friends were somewhat reluctant to attend, but Stephen promised there would be a number of other great beauties present, so they agreed to accompany him.

It was nearly nine-thirty, and George was supposed to meet with his friends at the Chiseldon-Lambourn crossroads at ten o’clock. However, he was covered in paint and smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. He would need to wash up, as there was no time for a proper bath, but he did not want to leave his painting either. He was at a crucial point in one area of a landscape, and if he left it too long, the paint would dry and he would be unable to complete the area as he wanted and would have to start over.

“Damn,” he exclaimed as he put his brushes in a jar of turps and headed to the house to wash and change.

Of course, he was running way late by the time he rode up to the crossroads, but by then, his friends had abandoned him and gone on to the open house.

George patted his horse’s neck as he considered what to do next. Part of him wanted to follow after his friends and see the promised great beauties. But he knew most of the great beauties in the area already, and they were neither that great nor that beautiful. There was not a single beauty who could hold a candle to his dear friend, Lucy—and he could not but smile in remembrance of her.

What a handsome young man George Grayson had become. He wore his blond hair long—almost to his shoulders. His blue eyes sparkled when he focused his attention on you. His broad shoulders and slim-waisted torso were sculpted for action, and his fine long hands were definitely an artist’s hands. He presented a model of masculine beauty and grace. But did he really want to attend the gathering? He would have had the young ladies all over him—turpentine aroma or not. But his standards were high, and he found most of the local ladies lacking in either beauty or character.

What was clearly calling him the loudest was his painting. He raised his sleeve to his nose and realized he still smelled like his studio, and that clinched his decision. He would be a fool to continue on to a house party smelling as he was—remember, he had standards—so he turned his horse, spurred her on, and headed back toward home.

Nanny Wilkes no longer taught any of the family’s children. The daughters, except for Betsy, had shown little interest in furthering their education once they reached a marriageable age. Certain standards in music, drawing, dancing, and elocution were considered desirable in eligible young ladies of higher social status, but those subjects were outside of Nanny Wilke’s purview, and other teachers had been brought in to tutor the young ladies. But Nanny Wilkes was kept on. She was young enough to be thought of as a nanny for the first daughter to marry and have children. In the meantime, she kept herself useful around the Manor.

Lucy, however, was another matter. No one quite knew what to do with her. She was far too smart and educated to be considered as a house servant. The natural option was for her to find a position as a nanny, but she had never taught any children and had no references for such a position. Therefore, she remained in a strange limbo helping in the kitchen, when needed, and constantly attending to the family when no servants were available to them.

By now the Duchess had her sights set on Oxford for George, and even though it was early summer, she was already seeing to the preparation of his clothing for his first year at Oxford in the autumn.

This morning, Judith was in George’s rooms overseeing Flossy as she went through Mr. George’s effects to see what might be sent up to college and what must remain behind. Judith had a notebook on a table beside her, and when they came across an unsuitable garment, she would make a note of what must be purchased.

The Duchess was still dressed in black—in mourning for her father who had passed away last winter. To console herself, she had obtained a small King Charles Spaniel, named Isabell, which was now her constant companion. This caused Lucy no end of consternation, as when the Duchess called for Isabell, Lucy thought her friend had just arrived.

Isabell—the dog—resided in her Grace’s lap most of the time, except when Lucy was called upon to take the dog outside to do her business. Judith’s other main chore for Lucy was to keep her laudanum bottle filled; ever since her father’s death, she suffered from the vapors and needed her little boost to quell her melancholy from time to time.

“Fold that jacket properly,” the Duchess demanded, pointing to Lucy who was assisting by placing each item in a trunk destined for Oxford. “You fold the jacket inside out. It helps prevent wrinkles.”

“But what is George to wear until Oxford? You are practically emptying his armoire,” Lucy questioned.

“He has all of those work clothes he wears in the dresser. He will not be taking any of those filthy rags with him.”

“He might still want to paint at the university,” Lucy suggested.

“I think not. He is there to study law not to fritter his time away with his hobby. And whoever heard of a government minister—or one might even hope—a prime minister dabbling with paints?”

Lucy held her tongue. She knew all too well that George’s intention was not the law but painting. But far be it from her to suggest such a possibility to her Grace. That was George’s battle to fight.

The trunk was almost completely packed. Flossy was shuffling through the last of the jackets and preparing to examine trousers when George came into his room and stopped, obviously not expecting to find anyone in his rooms.

“What is going on here?” he asked with some degree of irritation.

His mother turned toward him and said, “We are preparing your clothes for Oxford.”

“Mother, that is months away, and besides, I have told you repeatedly that I do not want to study law. Papa wants me on the estate and I want to paint. When will you get that into your thick head?”

His mother looked at him with astonishment. “You will not speak to your mother in that insolent manner, young man. You are still under my roof and you will treat me with respect.”

George threw his hands up into the air and began pacing.

“I am sorry, Mother, but you exasperate me to no end. How am I to make you understand that I do not want to attend university? I want to paint, and I have already found a London gallery that wishes to show my work.”

Mother made her pinched face and shifted in her chair, causing Isabell to grumble and reposition herself in her Grace’s lap.

“George, I absolutely forbid such a scandalous idea. A Grayson selling paintings in a commercial establishment is unheard of,” she said in her most haughty voice.”

“Mother, we sell wool and sheep, how is that any more noble than selling paintings?”

“It is the idea. Sheep are humble, practical commodities. But painting—it reeks of anarchy and unseemliness.”

George and Lucy could not help themselves and began to laugh.

The Duchess became indignant and protested. “Enough. You will not mock me.”

“Mother, how are we mocking you? I can name any number of well-established painters with knighthoods, honors, and access to the queen. It is my understanding that she is, even now, in the process of having the royal portrait painted.”

“You have made me upset, and I need some reinforcement.” Judith turned to Lucy and pointed to the bottle on the table beside her.

Lucy went over and added some drops of the laudanum to the glass of water next to the bottle and handed it to her Grace. She drank and exclaimed, “Much better.” She waved her hand at George, dismissing him. But he was not to be dismissed.

Instead, he instructed Flossy, “Please put my clothing back in the armoire. I am not ready to be packed away at the beginning of the summer. And, please, ask for my permission before entering my rooms again.”

Judith looked at her son in astonishment but did not protest. Instead, she gathered Isabell in her arms, stood, and swept out of the room after pointing to Lucy to follow with the precious little bottle.