Page 42 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Alone. Isolated. Constantia thought of the hours and rooms they’d shared, and might have shared, on their journey and understood she did not really have a choice.

She also had the distinct impression that Frederica—or perhaps that was Georgiana? They’d all shifted about a little and those two were remarkably similar in appearance, even for sisters—was inclined to protest her brother’s edict.

“That is, indeed, as I would prefer it,” Constantia insisted. She was, after all, accustomed to solitude. “And as is proper, of course.”

“Miss Blackstone ate dinner with the family on occasion,” either Georgiana or Frederica reminded him—whichever had not been on the point of speaking before.

“That’s true,” Lord Ryland agreed. But he extended no offer.

“You must be tired after your journey,” Edwina said kindly after an awkward silence. “And my sisters will not give you a moment’s peace here.” She picked up a candlestick. “I’ll show you to your room if you like.”

“I would like that very much indeed.”

She curtsied and followed Edwina out the door. The remaining sisters immediately began to speak—asking questions of their brother, she supposed—but they were discreet enough to keep their voices too low for her to hear any details.

“The family apartments are all here in the center hall,” she explained. “Where the monks used to live, closest to the church. The public rooms and the schoolroom are all in the east wing.”

They retraced the path Constantia had traveled earlier, down the narrow spiral staircase and across the entry hall, which was now nearly dark. Then up another staircase, straight this time, two floors. “The drawing room and library are just here,” Edwina indicated with a wave of her hand when they paused at the first landing. “But it will be easier for you to learn your way about once it’s daylight.”

One floor up, the stairwell ended at a door that opened onto a large, low-ceilinged room, with a row of smaller windows along one side. The space was filled with serviceable tables and benches. She could imagine a team of monkish scribes bent over them. When—if—the sun shone, it would be a passable studio. Better, certainly, than any she had had in many years.

“Your room is back there.” Edwin gestured with a nod toward a door on the room’s far side. “Wellend will have had your things brought up, and I’ll see to it that Mrs. Swetley sends hot water.”

Constantia wondered at the likelihood of hot anything, given the distance it would have to travel to reach her. But she nodded her thanks all the same. “You’re very kind.”

“I hope you will be comfortable here, Miss Cooper. Please tell me if there’s anything I can do to make you more so. As the eldest Haythorne sister still living at home, I fancy myself mistress here at Rylemoor—until my brother marries, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You can’t imagine what a surprise your arrival has been. A blessing, really. I thought we had done with teachers and masters and the like, after—well, anyway. And a teacher of art? Harry—Harriet—especially is pleased, I know.”

“I hope my instruction does not disappoint.”

Edwina looked surprised at that. “I cannot imagine it would. You must be an accomplished artist. My brother would not have brought you so far if you were not.”

It was on the tip of Constantia’s tongue to point out that an ability to do a thing did not necessarily guarantee a facility for teaching that thing to others. And also to mention that her brother’s opinion of her art—both good and bad—may have been, well, colored by certain factors.

But she contented herself with dipping her head, a gesture of acknowledgment if not honest agreement that she feared she had picked up from Lord Ryland himself.

Edwina set the candlestick on the nearest table; its flame wavered warningly in some draft. “I’ll leave you to your rest, then, Miss Cooper.”

“Thank you. But won’t you need the light?” Not that she was eager to be left in the dark.

Edwina’s answering smile was gentle. “I know my way.”

And then she was gone and Constantia was alone—in the room, and possibly the entire wing of the house. The silence, to which she had imagined herself accustomed, was awful. After a moment spent studying the odd shadows cast around the room by the flickering light, she crossed to the bedroom. It was larger than she had expected, with a bed, a washstand, a small clothes press, and a table and chair. A good many governesses, she felt certain, managed with far less.

An oil lamp sat on a small shelf above the washstand. She lit it and placed the candlestick on the table, beside her paper and box of charcoals. And then she realized that their presence there meant someone must have unpacked her things.

Reaching for the clothes press, she jerked open the door and found her things already arranged, the muddy-hemmed dress from yesterday brushed clean, and the one she’d been wearing on the day of her fall taken away, no doubt for mending. On the bottom of the cupboard, beside her shoes, sat the valise. She snatched it up, her heart thumping too hard to be much reassured by the familiar weight of it. Dropping back into the chair, she fumbled with the clasp and rummaged in its dark depths, prying up the false bottom with her nails.

Her fingertips brushed the edge of the picture frame. Carefully withdrawing it from the bag, she laid it atop her sketch pad and drew a steadying breath. The servant who had unpacked the valise had not found it. No one had seen it.

Except, of course, for Lord Ryland.

Alistair.

In four days of increasing intimacy between them, up to and including the revelation of secrets she’d never told anyone, his given name was information that had never fallen her way. She thought perhaps she still ought not to have it. But now that it was in her possession, it could not be taken from her.

She traced the clasp on the frame with trembling fingers but did not open it. Had it been a mistake to tell him about her mother? Certainly, she could not be surprised at his aloofness in the hours since, or his decision to tuck her away so far from everyone he held dear, from the warmth and chatter of his family. He had not cut her loose, for which she could only be grateful.

But that did not mean he would ever again hold her close.

Another gust of wind rattled the schoolroom windowpanes, breaking the silence. She shivered and returned the portrait of her mother to its hiding place.

No sense in wondering why he had brought her here, or why he had agreed to her mad scheme in the first place. She would focus on the delight and enthusiasm in his sisters’ eyes, particularly Harriet’s, at the prospect of being taught to draw. With a little hum of satisfaction, she opened her sketchbook, took out the landscape she’d been amusing herself with over the last day and a half, and pinned it to the wall above the table.

Only then was she struck by a realization. Hadn’t he assured her she would find sufficient models here to use for his sisters’ instruction in shape and perspective?

There was still a great deal of the house to be explored, of course. But she hadn’t glimpsed a single work of art, not a painting or sculpture or tapestry, anywhere she’d looked.