Page 36 of Beguiling the Baron

Chapter 22

The first thing Tia did after Hal left for London was pen a letter to Lucy, Duchess of Finchingfield. Though increasing with Finchingfield’s second child, Lucy had accompanied her husband to the capital, despite it being the end of the Season. As she’d informed Tia in an earlier letter, she loved him so much, she’d far rather be with, than without him.

Tia knew exactly what she meant. More so, now she was falling for Hal.

When she watched his carriage disappear down the drive, it was as if part of her had been hacked away—leaving her in agony.

Foolish, foolish girl, wasting her affections on a most undeserving man—one flawed beyond redemption. A fact made particularly obvious by the way he’d behaved toward her before he left.

The letter to Lucy was written and posted immediately afterward, in hopes it would reach London before Ansford did. Tia had charged Lucy with a mission and needed to give her friend time to engineer a meeting between her husband and Hal.

Without confessing her burgeoning attraction to him, Tia had asked Lucy to write back quickly if Finchingfield noticed any improvement in Hal. The Duke had attended the late Baroness Ansford’s funeral and so would have been present on the cusp of Hal’s descent into melancholia so severe, it verged on madness.

If the duke did notice a change for the better, it would cheer Tia enormously to think she’d contributed. But it wasn’t only her pride needing the boost. It was her heart.

If, while in London, Hal reverted to his dour, reclusive self, any improvement she’d wrought in him could be no more than skin deep. She’d have to give up all hope of happiness if this was the case.

She and Mama would then have to leave Foxleaze. She couldn’t bear it if Hal were to treat her with the same indifference as when they’d first met.

She’d rather die.

Four days passed, but Tia heard nothing back from Lucy. She tried to convince herself if there were anything terribly wrong with Hal, her friend would have let her know instantly. So, there remained cause for hope.

She told herself the longer Hal remained in London, keeping company with his peers and his relations, the more likely he was to return to normality. His sojourn with his Aunt Dorothea might even work to Polly’s advantage, for surely the woman would inquire after her great-niece, and might even prevail upon Hal to bring the girl up to Town on his next visit. Polly would love that.

It was now Sunday, another fine July day. After all religious duties had been attended to, Tia was left with time on her hands.

A perfect day to take Polly sketching. Only partly for pleasure, for it was still a lesson of sorts, and Tia didn’t see how Hal could object.

“Where are we going, Miss Wyndham?” Polly asked as they donned their sunbonnets.

“Down to the river. Have you ever tried to draw water before?”

“You can draw water? Really?”

“Well, a representation of it, anyhow. But if it proves too difficult, there may be a kingfisher, or a water vole, or some interesting plant.”

Polly pulled a face. “I had far rather draw a plant—I know how they work. A stem, leaves, flowers—simple. Voles and birds never stop moving.”

“You must view them as a challenge. Observe closely and sketch while you can recall what you see. You may at least capture the essence of the animal, even if you can’t record the detail.”

Polly seemed unconvinced, but asked politely, “Do you think I might sit on the lawn if I put my apron beneath me?”

“Only if the grass isn’t wet. Otherwise, we shall make do with the fallen tree trunk.”

It seemed odd, on a well-run estate like Foxleaze, that the dead lime tree had never been taken away. But it made an admirable seat, with its trunk resting on the riverbank and the outer branches overhanging the rushing water. The latter made an excellent perch for kingfishers.

“What’s that, Miss Wyndham?” Polly had set down her paint box and was pointing at the place where the great trunk forked. Nestled in the joint, in a damp mossy depression, grew a plant with bright green leaves. “Is the tree growing again?”

“Unlikely.” Tia leaned out as far as she could and looked. “It may be a fern of some kind, growing out of the dead wood. I’m really not sure. I can see more than one, I think.”

“Can I pick it and press it in my book? It looks most unusual.”

“But it’s out of reach.”

“Oh, please, Miss Wyndham.”

Tia gave a sigh of resignation. Her charge was clearly losing respect for her, trying to influence her with fluttering eyelashes and a simpering tone. From whom had she learned such a trick? As if she couldn’t guess.

“I’ll get it for you. I don’t want you falling in.” Gathering up her skirts, she clambered onto the trunk where the riverbank seemed most shallow and started edging out toward the plants.

It was farther than she expected, and she didn’t want to trust her weight to the old branches, so she lay flat along the trunk and inched forward on her stomach. She was at full stretch, her fingers brushing the green fronds, when a great shout smote her ears.

Glancing back in alarm, she saw Hal bowling down the slope toward them, looking thunderous. She gave a great gulp of surprise, started to retreat, slipped down the curved trunk of the tree, and landed with a splash in the water.