Page 9 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“It might have.” Stella paused, adding significantly, “Under other circumstances.”

Anne comprehended her meaning. She’d been present when Stella had first crossed paths with Mr. Hayes at the British Museum, and had seen firsthand how the encounter had disconcerted Stella.

“You had nothing to fear in the end,” Anne said. “It turns out, the gentleman in the wheeled chair is perfectly harmless. He’s only the brother of one of the guests. An aspiring artist, I understand. Apparently, he’s lately returned from several years’ studying in Paris under some famous painter or other.”

“He studied in Paris?” Stella echoed in some surprise. She’d known Mr. Hayes resided in France, but she hadn’t realized he was quite so cosmopolitan as that. She’d imagined his impertinence had arisen purely from the intensity of his fascination with her, not from the mere fact that he was accustomed to consorting with Parisian sophisticates and bohemians.

Was he truly a portrait painter, then? Not just an overbold gentleman intrigued by the appearance of a formerly gray-haired young lady, seeking to discompose her with nonsensical flattery, but a man who saw something of artistic merit in her face and figure?

“It goes a long way toward explaining his forward manner toward you at the King’s Gallery,” Anne said.

“Yes,” Stella acknowledged, taking a thoughtful sip of her tea. “I suppose it does.”

“So you see, you had no cause to flee. Indeed,” Anne continued, leaning forward in her chair, “you’d have done better to remain. So much occurred after you went.”

Stella caught the quiver of excitement underlying her friend’s words. She came to immediate attention, her own troubles temporarily forgotten. “My goodness. What happened?”

“Oh, Stella.” Anne’s sherry-brown eyes glowed with warmth. “Hartford and I are going to be married!”

“What!” Stella hastily sat her cup on the small, inlaid rosewood table beside her, lest she spill what remained of her tea. “When?” she sputtered. “How?”

“There was such a to-do in the library. All manner of chaos with his family. But the long and short of it is that, once the others had gone away, Hartford proposed to me and I accepted.” Anne’s gaze held the shimmer of happy tears. “We’re going to be ridiculously happy together.”

Matching tears sprang to Stella’s eyes. Crossing the short distance between them, she caught her friend up in her arms. The two of them hugged each other fiercely. “My dear, I’m so dreadfully pleased for you both.”

“So am I. Pleased. Elated. Stunned.” Anne uttered a shaky laugh. “What an evening! I still can’t believe it’s real.”

“You do love him, don’t you?”

“I do,” Anne said. “God help me. And he loves me, too. He vows that he always has.”

“Of course he has. How could he not?” Stella drew back to search Anne’s face. She’d never seen her friend’s countenance so full of joy. Not even when they were galloping their horses together in Rotten Row. “Oh, Anne. What a turn up!”

“I know. Only think—yesterday I was still in my blacks, today I’m in crimson velvet, and soon I shall be in white.”

Anne and her mother, Lady Arundell, had been mourning the loss of the late Earl of Arundell for nearly seven years. Anne had only emerged from her blacks yesterday—a shocking event in itself. A betrothal was yet another happy alteration to her circumstances. One that must be universally acclaimed.

“Another wedding,” Stella said. “Just as Julia predicted.”

Anne laughed again. “Yes, she did, didn’t she? I’d almost forgotten.”

A newlywed herself, bookish, raven-haired beauty Julia had briefly returned to town a few months ago with her dour, battle-scarred husband, Captain Jasper Blunt, to attend Evie’s wedding to Mr. Malik. The simple ceremony had been held at the home of Evie’s uncle, Mr. Fielding, in Russell Square. It was there where Julia had remarked that one wedding generally prompted another. She’d given Stella a meaningful nudge as she’d said it.

Naturally, Julia had assumed Stella would be next. They none of them would have thought it would be Anne, their starchy, black-clothed leader who had long professed herself content with the single state.

Stella felt a twinge of sadness to think of it now. It wasn’t because she had a particular longing to be married. It was because she wanted her freedom, and, rather ironically, marriage was the only way to secure it. Until such time as she was wed, she must live under her brother’s thumb. Worse, she could now anticipate living under the thumb of her brother’s future wife. And the reign of the sanctimonious Miss Amanda Trent didn’t promise to be a comfortable one.

It was one of the reasons Stella had come to Hampshire—to thwart her brother’s matrimonial plans. Without her to play chaperone, he’d be less likely to spend the holiday courting Miss Trent. Less likely to propose to her.

But Daniel’s plans couldn’t be thwarted forever. He would marry someone eventually. And when that day came, the hourglass of Stella’s fate would effectively be turned over, and the sand would begin to run. She would no longer be needed at the vicarage. Possibly, no longer wanted.

The only solution was for Stella to find a husband of her own.

It was easier said than done.

She had but one viable prospect at present. Squire Smalljoy was a widowered parishioner of her brother’s in Fostonbury. Though viable was overstating the case. The man was pushing sixty. One might better describe him as willing.

“He won’t mind your gray hair,” Daniel had said.