Shadows of Doubt (5 page)

“I had a brother, but he fell in the Peninsular Campaign.” She looked away to blink back tears. His loss never stopped hurting.

“Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you, Mr. Abbott. Or should I call you Major? You were also many years in the Army, I believe your grandmother said.”

“I answer to either. And many other names,” he chuckled. “I do not believe your brother and I were acquainted. Was he a hussar?”

“No, he was infantry. A captain in the Light Division.”

“The 95
^th
or 52
^nd
?”

“The Light Bobs.”

“Ah, under Colburne.”

“I believe so.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, and they were both breathing heavily with exertion by the time they reached the pinnacle of the Beechen Cliff walk overlooking the Avon Valley. They took in the beauty in silent appreciation. The River Avon snaked through the town, and the sun highlighted the city made of golden stone.

“You captured the likeness very well.” He surveyed the scene with approval.

“Thank you, sir. You could hardly say else.”

“I could have said nothing at all, merely remarked on the lovely view. I do believe I prefer your version, however. You added in the elms here and the cliffs there, did you not?” he indicated with his hands where the additions had been made.

“You are very observant, Mr. Abbott.”

“Much good it does me. Though it often makes one more aware of beauty, it also has the opposite effect.”

“Indeed.”

“But, I feel much better about leaving Bath now that I know it affords such a vista.”

“Leaving? So soon?” she felt a pang of sadness despite her minute acquaintance.

“I'm afraid duty calls me to America.”

“America? You return to the Army, then?”

“No, familial duty.”

“You have family there?”

“No,” he held out his arm to lead her back down the path. He pulled an orange from his pocket and began to peel it as they walked slowly down the steep hill. “My father was the minister there before and after the war began. We still own a plantation there that was burned when the war came ashore.”

He handed her half of the orange, which she took hesitantly and bit into a slice of heaven.

“The house remains in need of repairs and a steward to run it. We have a capable man for the farming at least.”

“Have you been to America before?”

“I visited once before, in the small window of reprieve from Napoleon.”

“Which part of America?” she asked eagerly.

“Just outside of Washington, near Virginia. The plantation borders the eastern coast of America, so it is a fairly easy trip. I do not have to bushwhack my way across the frontier, or forage through the wilderness.”

She laughed and almost hit his arm reprovingly in jest, but stopped herself before she did something so familiar. It was for the best this man was leaving. She was beginning to feel dangerously attracted to him and his easy ways.

“I would love to see America one day,” she said longingly.

“Perhaps you shall.” He turned and looked at her. Their eyes met and she trembled slightly with anticipation. For what, she knew not. He swallowed and continued, “But today, we shall see more of Bath.” He began walking again. “Is there anywhere to procure an ice in Bath?

By the time they made it back down the path into the town, dark clouds were forming and the wind was beginning to howl.

“Are you sure you want an ice, Mr. Abbott?” she asked doubtfully.

“At this point, I will be happy to escape a soaking. Do you know anywhere we may take shelter quickly?”

Her bonnet blew off and she barely caught it. But when Mr. Abbott looked at her, with a look she could not name, his mouth was gaping at her riot of curls tumbling about her. She had done her best with it that morning, but having had to wash the oil out from the ball meant it was at its wildest. She had no team of maids to dress her hair every day. She hastily tried to re-pin it and nodded towards the nearest shop she was certain of welcome. Mr. Abbott led her into the colourist’s shop, where she used to spend hours carefully selecting canvas, brushes and colour. It would be torture being there, seeing the pity on old Mr. Scott's face. Were it only herself, she would have rather braved the storm and returned home.

***

“Miss Lambert, is that you?” The hair always gave her away. She turned to see Mr. Scott, her old friend and painting teacher, was now an old man.
 

“Mr. Scott, it is I. How are you?”
 
She held out her hands and greeted him.

“It has been too long, my dear.” His face filled with sadness.

“It has.” They need not speak about why, for they both knew.

Remembering Mr. Abbott’s presence, “Forgive me. I was trapped in nostalgia. May I present my friend, Mr. Abbott—Mr. Scott.”

“A pleasure.” Mr. Abbott made a courteous bow. “It is a shame Miss Lambert has given up painting. Her talent is rare.”
 

“Aye. Many people fancy themselves masters, but hers is real talent. I still keep some of her work in my studio.”

“You do?” She could not remember any of her works that would be worth keeping that had not already been sold.

“May I see?” Mr. Abbott asked eagerly.

“Of course, right this way.”
 

There in his own studio, where he taught lessons on occasion, were two of her early works. One, a still life, the other was of a horse grazing in a pasture.

“Those were my first paintings,” she exclaimed as she walked over to them.

“Yes, but you showed great promise even then. I use them to instruct my current pupils.”
 

“They are lovely, but I confess the landscape to be my favourite,” Mr. Abbott said thoughtfully as he looked them over.

“Perhaps because I enjoy landscapes most. I have always thought heart shows through an artist’s work.”

“I wish I still had the landscapes,” Mr. Scott said regretfully.

“Mr. Scott was kind enough to sell some of them for me.”

“My offer still stands if you ever decide to paint again.”

She shook her head. “You are most kind. But I have no time. I cannot leave my mother for so long.” She looked out the window. “And it looks as if the storm has let up. It was lovely to see you again, Mr. Scott. Thank you for the shelter.”

They walked quietly up the rain soaked hill to her rooms.

Mr. Abbott spoke: “What other landscapes have you painted?”

“Most were down by the Avon near the Pulteney Bridge—I especially love the spring and summer blooms around, and the challenge of capturing running water was always a favourite.”

“Any others?”

She barked a slight deprecating laugh. “I confess to trying to imitate the Renaissance Masters’ techniques, except with architecture not people. The park in front of the Royal Crescent was my favourite medium for that disastrous attempt.”

“Do you have any of those?”

“I believe a few may be stuffed into a trunk in the attic. Which is where they belong, I assure you!”

“Would you be willing to paint one for me before I go? Commissioned, of course.”

“No,” she bent her head quietly as they reached the door.

“I'm not asking out of pity.”

She looked up at him then. How had he read her thoughts?

“I don't know if I could finish before you leave.”

“I will pick you up early tomorrow to give us the best chance.”

 
Before she could protest he tipped his hat with a huge grin on his face and ran off.

Chapter Four

“Do you think it will do any good?” Millicent asked her cousin Henrietta.

“All we can do is put them in each other’s way and let nature take its course.”

“I suppose so. If only Mr. Abbott were not obliged to leave for A…A…” she trailed off, searching for the word.

“America. From the look of the two of them together, I would think he would offer for her before he leaves. It had better be all he does. Smelling of April and May, those two.”

“I am afraid she will feel obligated to me. The girl is more headstrong than she appears.”

“She need not leave you. He will not be gone very long. Sir Charles assured me of that or I would have insisted he remain,” the Dowager said reassuringly.

“That assumes they take to each other. I only wish she would not be left in such dire straits when I am gone.”

“Now, Millicent, I assured you I would look after her.”

“I know, Cousin. But she will outlive the both of us, Lord willing, and who will look after her then? I began to suggest she attempt to contact her cousin Kendall, but she was vehemently opposed to it.”

“After the way the family behaved towards you, I cannot be surprised. I would feel much the same.”

“Perhaps I should attempt to write to him myself, though I am not certain I can manage with my shakes. Their grandfather had intended the two of them to be matched at one point. How things change,” she reflected sadly.

“I do not think we are at the point to be grovelling. Let us see if my grandson comes up to scratch before we do anything unbecoming. I have a fair notion that Andrew was besotted at first sight.”

“Gwen has nothing to offer him,” she said, frowning.

 
“It depends on what one is looking for. I assure you, Andrew has had every eligible cap thrown at him. If it was power or wealth he desired, he could have had it any time this age.”

“If only I was assured of her, I would be easy. She does not believe herself to be a worthy match. He seems a very fine gentleman.”

“Let us hope my grandson will convince her. He is not without charms, I assure you.”

“If I were younger I would have swooned at the sight of him,” Millicent agreed.

“Oh nothing so vulgar, I hope dear,” she said with a hint of distaste.

The door opened and Gwen came in damp with her hair unkempt.

“Did that rapscallion grandson of mine abandon you on the doorstep?” she asked, looking for him.

“Yes, I mean no, ma'am. I would not say abandoned, but he did leave.”

“Well! I never! He was raised better than that,” she exclaimed.

“Oh, don't be cross with him. I believe he had another errand. He was very attentive to me all afternoon.”

The Dowager eyed her dishevelled state. “Not too attentive, I hope.”

Gwen blushed and self-consciously smoothed down her unruly hair. “We were caught in the storm. Shall I make tea?” She began walking towards the kitchen in hope of escaping the Dowager’s inquisition.

“Hettie is already seeing to it. Come sit and tell me about your walk.”

She forced herself to smile and sat obediently. Hettie brought in the tea tray, and Gwen poured for everyone.

“So what do you think of my handsome grandson?”

Gwen swallowed her sip of tea too quickly and had to hold back a hiccough.

The Dowager looked her over thoughtfully, waiting for her answer. Her mother pulled her head up from where it was resting to look.

“I think he is a very entertaining companion.” Gwen carefully selected a biscuit and did not look up, though she could feel their eyes upon her.

“That is all?”

No, but she wasn't about to say he was the most handsome, witty, above-her-touch man she had ever met.
 

“He likes my paintings.”

“Gwen, you are being purposefully...” Her mother wrinkled her brow and put her head down again.

“Obtuse, Mama? I am not sure what your expectations were of an afternoon walk, but we enjoyed a nice exercise, a beautiful view and pleasant conversation.”

The Dowager humphed. “Sounds perfectly mundane.”

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“I believe he wishes me to paint something for him.”

“Oh, Gwen! You haven't….” She searched for the right word but couldn’t find it. “…Done that in years. What shall you…?” Her face grew frustrated.

“Paint? Whatever Mr. Abbott wishes. He is commissioning it.”

“My grandson commissioned a painting?” the Dowager said with surprise.

“He did, ma'am.”

“Oh, dear. This is serious indeed.” She flashed a smile at her cousin. “I will see you in the morning it seems. I best be away, dear.”

***

Andrew hurried back to the colourist’s shop and availed himself of every possible canvas, brush and pigment Mr. Scott thought Miss Lambert might desire. After arranging for the supplies to be delivered, he then went to the Pulteney Bridge to examine the various options for her masterpiece. Unsatisfied, he walked back towards his house on the Circus and diverted himself along Brock Street towards the park in front of the Royal Crescent.
 

“This will do nicely,” he said to himself as he envisioned a lovely day with Miss Lambert. “A picnic, a blanket, her canvas right there. A lovely day it will be.” He looked up to the sky, begging for cooperative weather. “Except perhaps enough of a breeze to blow Miss Lambert’s wild hair about.”