Her Grace was in deep mourning. Dressed in black with a thick veil covering her face she stood mournfully at the graveside, presided over by the local vicar—who was induced to officiate at the funeral by a sizable donation to the widow and orphan’s fund. The vicar, however, emphasized the church did not recognize the soul of a dog entering the kingdom of heaven.

On her left and right were Lucy and Flossy. Matthew absolutely refused to attend such nonsense. George stood next to Lucy but did not wear black. Of the daughters, only Betsy agreed to attend—but reluctantly.

The Vicar rattled off his spiel as quickly as possible and then fled, even though he had been offered a glass of sherry and a buffet after the service.

The Duchess lingered at the gravesite, but was finally persuaded to leave by George, who put his arm around his mother’s shoulder and led her resolutely back to the house.

George whispered to his mother as they neared to house, “Perhaps a new puppy? Might that be a solution for your sorrow?”

“Oh, George, how could you even think of such a terrible thing—and Isabell only freshly laid in the ground?”

They walked silently on, and then George added. “I happen to know of a new brood of puppies at the Waltrams. Might be just the thing.”

“How big is the litter? Mother asked.

“Seven. Four males and three females.”

“How old?”

“Four weeks, I believe.”

“Then take me to see them when they are six.”

* * *

Despite the disaster for the Duchess at the ball, the two older sisters were in heaven. Ann actually smiled occasionally, and her perpetually pinched face seemed to relax somewhat. To please herself, she often replayed her conversation with Beaumont at dinner over and over again in her mind.

Charlotte began a journal which she constantly updated with news or even thoughts about Beaumont.

But he was not the only catch of the evening. Several other young men had indicated they might call for tea in the next week to two—having been discreetly informed that each of the daughters came with a sizable living. Things were definitely looking up.

The Duchess, in anticipation of a new puppy, shed her widow’s weeds and decided several new day dresses were required for her eldest two. One could anticipate guests for tea almost any day, and fresh attire was called for. Madame Hortense was summoned, once again, and fabrics, ribbons, buttons, and trim were examined and chosen with the scrutiny of planning a military campaign—which they were.

Again, Betsy drifted through the process in a daze, unconcerned about her haberdashery.

But it had also become clear that both Charlotte and Ann were equally interested in Mr. Goodwin. They had never competed before for the same man, and there were times when sisterly affection was wearing thin.

Charlotte was prancing around Ann’s dressing room in her new green dress, twirling in circles to see how the fabric flared when she moved.

Madame Hortense cooed, “So lovely. The perfect shade of green to go with your eyes, Miss Charlotte.”

“You think so? Beaumont commented on the color of my eyes as we were dancing. He said they were the color of Burmese jade.”

Ann scowled. “All the best jade comes from China. Everyone knows that.” Madame Hortense was fastening up the yellow dress she had made for Ann.

Charlotte looked at Ann in her new dress. “Yellow. Really? Why would you ever choose that? It makes you look like a summer squash.”

“And you look like a scummy pond,” Ann retorted.

“Now, girls,” Mother scolded. “Behave yourselves. You should be pleased to have any suitable young gentlemen calling on you at your ages. Be ladies and stop this quibbling nonsense. You are both too old to be behaving like catty, jealous children.”

“Has anyone announced they are coming for tea this afternoon?” Ann asked, pulling up the dress over her shoulders.

“Not that I know of, but we extended open invitations, so we must be ready to receive guests each and every day. And always on our best behavior. Yes, my darlings?”

“Yes, Mother,” they said in unison.

* * *

For two afternoons the three daughters were elegantly dressed, anticipating one or more young gentlemen, but the only one to call was Mrs. Stevenson, head of the Stevenson All-Girl Academy, soliciting funds for the Christmas pageant.

However, on the third afternoon, there were several callers. First to arrive was Mr. Hawthorn and his mother. He was the son of the Shaftesbury Mayor. He was but three and twenty, with a rotund face and wispy, thinning blond hair. His mother sat herself down with a cup of tea and her knitting and said barely a word the entire afternoon.

But to everyone’s delight both Mr. and Miss Goodwin arrived, having gone about the countryside for a gallop and deciding to grace the Graysons with their presence for tea—as invited.

Both Charlotte and Ann stood when the guests entered the drawing room, rushing over and taking the brother and sister’s hands and ushering them to the most comfortable chairs by the tea table.

Ann and Charlotte immediately engaged them in a conversation, tripping over each other as they tried to dominate the subject matter.

Poor Mr. Hawthorn, sat next to his mother with his cup of tea but no one paying him any attention until her Grace asked him, “Do you often get into the countryside? Mid-autumn is such a lovely time of year and I find it to be exceptionally invigorating. Is that not so?”

“I-i-i-t is,” he said with a stutter. O-o-often t-t-times I like to go fishing as w-w-ell. M-m-mother likes to go for a carriage r-r-ride when the leaves turn. Is t-t-that not so, Mama?”

“Aye, it is a pleasure,” she responded.

Miss Priscilla interrupted the sisters’ discussion about cider making by asking, “Does your brother, George, join you for tea? I had hoped we might continue our discussions from the night of the ball.”

“Rarely,” Charlotte replied, “He is usually holed up in his studio painting. And we are lucky if we even see him at supper. He tends to be rather solitary.”

“Oh, if he is in his studio, might I go visit him? I have seen his paintings in London, and he promised I might see what he is working on these days.”

Charlotte and Ann looked at each other. They had no idea what the proper protocol might be for escorting Miss Priscilla to see their brother. In any case, neither offered to take her.

Priscilla turned to her brother. “Beaumont, my dearest, would you like to go with me to see Mr. George’s paintings?”

“Not my cup of tea generally, but if it pleases you, I should be happy to accompany you.”

He stood up and offered his hand to his sister. “Ladies, if you will excuse us, and tell us how we might find this studio?”

Ann and Charlotte were startled by this turn and did not immediately respond.

The Duchess, catching on to the situation and not wanting to disturb the conversation between Beaumont and her daughters, said, “Miss Priscilla, let me call someone to take you to the studio. There is no need for you, Mr. Goodwin, to disturb yourself since you are so pleasantly engaged in a conversation.”

The Duchess rang the little bell that was on the table beside her and Lucy shortly appeared.

“Your Grace?” she said standing at the door. “How may I help you?”

Beaumont caught his breath when he saw Lucy and smiled.

“Might you escort Miss Priscilla to George’s studio?” She wishes to view his paintings. And while you are at it, tell him we have guests, and he should come in for tea.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lucy said and turned to look at Priscilla. “Miss, if you will follow me…”

Beaumont then said, “I think I should like to go along as well. Our dining room is a bit barren. Might be just the thing to buy a painting for above the fireplace if it would suit you, Sister.”

It was then the Duchess recognized her mistake in calling for Lucy. Mr. Goodwin clearly found Lucy to be superior to her daughters. She panicked, but there was nothing that could be done. Pandora had opened her box.

Lucy led the way through the house, out a door from the library, and headed toward the stable.

“His studio is out here?” Miss Priscilla asked. “I thought it would be high in the house. With velvet drapes, floor to ceiling windows and a day bed for the hard-working artist to repose after an exhausting night of painting.”

Beaumont laughed. “Sister, I believe you read too many romantic novels.”

“Do not be mean to me,” she protested.

Beaumont could not take his eyes off Lucy. “Finally,” he said, “I am Beaumont Goodwin and this is my sister Priscilla. I saw you the night of the ball—but only briefly. Why were you not dancing? I most certainly would have asked you to dance with me.”

Lucy turned to look at him. She studied him for a moment before responding. “I was not invited,” was all she would say.

“Oh, and why not? A lovely creature like you would have captured all the gentlemen’s hearts, and you could have danced all evening.”

“I am not of the gentry,” she said tersely.

“And why would that matter? Great beauty surpasses all class barriers.”

Lucy gave him a look that seemed to say—walk in my shoes and find out.

They had arrived at the stables, and Lucy took them up to the studio. “Wait one moment, please, and let me see if he can see you.”

She knocked and went inside, leaving the brother and sister outside. George did not seem to be painting at the moment.

“George, we have some guests who want to see the studio, and they might be interested in purchasing a painting. Is it all right if I bring them in?”

He gave Lucy a smile. “Let them come. I will be happy to show what I have.”

Lucy went to the door and waved for them to enter.

“Oh, what a lovely space,” Priscilla said, looking around and admiring the studio. She went to the window and looked out, and then turned back. “I believe the paintings I have seen of yours have been mostly landscapes. What other subjects do you paint?”

George went to the wall where he had his paintings stored in racks and pulled out a portrait of Lucy. “My very most favorite subject,” he said, placing the painting on an easel to show it off.

Beaumont’s interest was immediately sparked, and he went to look at the painting more closely.

“I must say, old man, that is splendid. I had no idea you were this talented.”

Priscilla frowned. “No landscapes?”

“I have some of those as well. What exactly are you looking for,” George asked.

“This,” Beaumont said, pointing to the portrait at the same time Priscilla said, “Something else.”

George laughed. “Then perhaps you might want two paintings,” he said half joking.

“I would entertain that,” Beaumont said. “What are you asking?”

George with his disheveled hair and work clothes, scratched his unshaved face, and said, “I would be getting five hundred Guineas at the gallery, but that includes their commission. I could let you have it for three.”

“Sold,” Beaumont said smiling broadly. “And for a landscape for my sister?”

“Depends on what she picks. Might I show you?” he asked her.

She nodded eagerly, and he began pulling landscapes out of the racks and showing them until she found the one she loved—a rocky crag with a waterfall and stream in the early evening light.

“Definitely that one,” she enthused, looking at George with her eyes sparkling. She went over and took his arm as she gazed at the painting more.

“Two hundred for that one,” George said.

Beaumont turned to his sister, and she nodded to him.

“Very well, then. But it seems this has been the most expensive tea I have ever had—five hundred Guineas.”

“But the paintings are worth it,” George said proudly.

“Send them to Brookdale at your convenience, and I shall have a cheque ready for you, old man.”

George and Beaumont shook hands to seal the deal.