Page 30 of My Fair Lord

The house was old—positively ancient in places—and had a timeless quality which was the result of so many additions to the original building. The furnishings were dark with the weight of centuries upon them and worn in places from use. The end of Florence’s bed had initials carved into the footboard from a previous occupant that Twemlow thought might have been his great-great uncle who had become a bishop.

History and family: after a day wandering the corridors and observing the way the dimensions of windows and doors changed as she moved from the newest to the oldest parts, Florence began to gain an understanding of why such unending solidity was appealing. Everything in her house back in Philadelphia was new, or no older than two decades at most. Lord Griggs’ home was evidence of a lineage which stretched back centuries. It was breathtaking to consider, and Florence found herself envying Cordelia more than she ever expected to. And, to her consternation, found herself more than once pondering if Lord Stretford’s family seat was equally ancient and imposing.

* * *

The days passed quickly and on the appointed day of Mr Blake’s arrival, she and Cordelia sat sketching by the lake where bunches of reeds and water flowers were growing lush in the heat. Neither of them was being particularly successful. Cordelia daubed a couple of splodges of moss green on her canvas then stood back to admire her handiwork. She dropped her brush into the glass jar filled with water and tutted.

“Now I’ve ruined it with too much working on the reeds. I’m bored of painting in any case. Aren’t you? Let’s go for a walk into the village. We can take some hothouse fruits to a few of the deserving widows. We have such a glut at the moment.”

Florence regarded her own attempt at capturing the scene. It wasn’t much better than her sister’s. The lake looked like it was floating above the grass and the sheep she had painted on the distant hills looked more like unfortunate clouds that had tumbled from the heavens. She’d gladly work away at it all day – though she knew that would most likely ruin it further – but she had other reasons for not wanting to leave the grounds.

“I’d rather stay here, if it’s all the same to you,” she said hesitantly. “Today is the day that Mr Blake should be arriving and I thought I might go with Jeavons when he takes the pony trap to meet him from Congleton. I don’t want to be too tired by this afternoon.”

“Shouldbe arriving?” Cordelia gave her a narrow-eyed look that penetrated Florence’s belly and made her squirm. “Do you think he won’t come?”

“Of course he will come!” Florence exclaimed. She dabbed an errant spot of Van Dyke brown from her brush. “He will be here. If I know anything of Mr Blake, then I know he likes a challenge and won’t give up on an undertaking.”

She hoped she was right. Before she left Liverpool, she had given him twenty pounds in order to outfit himself as a gentleman and buy whatever sundries he would need. She hoped he was not a confidence trickster who intended to swindle her out of it. It was a considerable sum to have given him and she didn’t want to lose it. More than that, she worried that if he vanished never to be seen again it would reflect badly on her judgement. She bit her lip and looked sidelong at Cordelia.

“What if he doesn’t?” she whispered.

Cordelia shrugged. “We’ll have to persuade the second footman to play the role instead. He has very good legs and would look fine in evening wear.”

Florence was still pondering how her sister had come to notice such an intriguing detail when the first footman arrived at their side. He bowed to Cordelia, then to Florence.

“My lady, a gentleman has arrived. He says you are expecting him.”

Florence felt a thrill run through her. “Did he give his name?”

The footman looked a little taken aback that Florence had interrupted. His nostrils flared then tightened. “A Mr Blake, I believe, Miss Wakechild.” He turned to address Cordelia once more. “Mr Wilikins has taken him to the Summer Room to wait for you.”

“Thank you, Johnson. Please inform Mr Wilikins that we’ll be along shortly,” Cordelia said.

“He’s early,” Florence murmured as she gathered her easel and paints.

“Leave those. I’ll send Johnson back to collect them,” Cordelia instructed her. She grinned nastily. “He’s such an objectional piece of work. If his father and grandfather hadn’t held positions, I’m sure Twemlow would have seen him off years ago.”

“Not good legs?” Florence whispered as they strolled back to the house.

“Not at all!” Cordelia said firmly. “I wonder what your Mr Blake’s legs are like?”

Florence halted. “I have no idea! I haven’t ever looked. And he’s not ‘my’ Mr Blake, thank you very much!”

Frustratingly, once they arrived in the Summer Room – so called because the thick stone walls and narrow windows of the original building made it unbearably cold at any other time of year – Florence was unable to stop speculating about the suitability of Mr Blake’s legs.

The man in question was standing with his back to the door, hands loosely clasped behind his back and sporting a pair of lemon-yellow gloves. He was dressed in a frock coat of deep grey and wore a derby hat. He was admiring an old, faded tapestry portraying a pastoral scene of ancient Greece with shepherds and nymphs who would have frozen blue if they had really been in the room, given their lack of clothing. Mr Wilikins was standing in the corner of the room, clearly standing guard in case the visitor decided to abscond with the candlesticks.

“Mr Blake,” Cordelia said as she swept into the room.

He turned. His eyes darted to Florence then centred on the baroness.

“Lady Griggs, good morning.”

He swept the derby from his head and gave a deep bow to Cordelia then turned to address Florence.

“Miss Wakechild.”

His eyes twinkled as he smiled at her, and Florence felt her heart skip a beat. She could not help but blush as she curtsied politely and returned his greeting. He had a debonair air about him and beneath the open coat, she could see he was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit. He wore polished boots that had somehow picked up a little dust. His coat reached to mid-thigh so she had no opportunity to assess his legs.