“Would you like to go?”
“Not especially. It’s too much trouble in my condition. And I despise making a spectacle of myself.” His smile turned wry. “You disapprove?”
“I merely think you shouldn’t deprive yourself of the joy of the season.”
“Is it joyful to flounder about in the mud with my chair? Or to have my manservant carry me through the woods like a babe? You and I must have a very different definition of joy.” He dabbed his brush into his palette, deftly mixing shades of blue and yellow. “Tell me, what do you think of the way I’ve rendered the light?”
She went to stand at his side. What she saw on his canvas made her catch her breath.
He’d painted the sea—the water as it rose up over the jagged rocks beneath the cliffs. The sky above was a shadowed purple gray, out of which diffuse rays of sunlight appeared to shine down, illuminating patches of water in stormy blues and greens.
“Goodness,” she murmured. “It’s quite violent.”
“Like Turner.” A hint of pride echoed in his words.
“I’m not familiar with all of Mr. Turner’s work, but…yes, I can see the similarity. Though this seems altogether different somehow. It’s the light. The way it seeps through the storm clouds.”
“Yes.” Teddy nodded eagerly. “Yes, exactly.”
She drew back to look at him. He was just a boy, really. So earnest and passionate. “You’re very talented.”
He didn’t deny it. “Alex says there are painters in France who are experimenting with light the way I am. He means to find one who’ll teach me.” He laid down another brushstroke. “You were a teacher, weren’t you?”
She went still. “Excuse me?”
“You said so the evening we arrived. When you were talking with Tom Finchley.” He glanced up at her. “You never said so before.”
“It hardly seemed relevant. Besides, I wasn’t an art teacher.”
“Even so, I’m surprised you abandoned the profession to be a companion to elderly ladies like my aunt. You don’t seem suited for it.”
“You speak with some authority.” Clara made her voice light. As if the subject hadn’t rattled her. Hadn’t caused her pain. “Have you met many ladies’ companions?”
“No, but—”
“We’re not all alike, you know. Only consider Mrs. Finchley.”
“Yes, I daresay you’re right. Still, I think you’d have done better to remain a teacher. Who wants to be trailing after old women all day, catering to their megrims? And what’s that in your hand? Waverley? Good lord. I suppose Aunt Charlotte asked you to read it to her?”
“I don’t mind.”
“So you claim. And yet…I have the funniest suspicion that you do mind.”
Clara felt as if he’d shone a harsh light on her. As if he’d exposed her secrets to the world. Ridiculous, really. Teddy Hayes didn’t know the first thing about her. “If I’ve done something to indicate I’m displeased with my position—”
“Nothing significant. But I told you”—he added a dab of sea-green paint to his canvas—“I notice things.”
The woods that bordered the Abbey were nothing much to speak of. Only a few clusters of hearty pine trees, willows, and oaks, growing as wild as the rest of the landscape. They were set back from the cliffs, further inland. A natural woodland that had never yet been bent to the will of man.
Neville tramped through the trees with the rest of the guests, the rain-sodden ground squelching beneath his boots. In his early days in residence, he’d often ventured into the woods to cut firewood. Now, however, it was the servants who were responsible for gathering fuel for the fire. Neville rarely had cause to go into the woods anymore, but he was still as familiar with them as he was with the rest of Greyfriar’s Abbey.
“We’re relying on you to guide us,” Tom said. “No one knows the property better than you.”
No one save Justin. But he’d stayed behind with Lady Helena. He was loath to leave her for any length of time in her present condition. Jenny had stayed behind as well, fussing over Lady Helena with near as much concern. With them were Mrs. Bainbridge, Mr. Boothroyd, and Mr. Hayes, none of whom had any interest in venturing out into the rain and mud.
Only Alex, Tom, Laura, and Miss Hartwright had come. Along with a party of housemaids and footmen, they traipsed through the woods. The servants were in far better spirits about it than the houseguests. Some of them sang carols. Others talked and laughed.
“Careful!” Alex caught hold of Laura a fraction of a second before she slipped in the mud. “Hang on to me, love.”
Laura clung to her husband’s arm. “Goodness, this footing is terrible.”
“What footing? It’s a swamp up here.”
“You’ve lived too long in the city,” Tom said. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like in Devon during the winter.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Alex replied. “I merely prefer the snow to the wind and the rain. There’s nothing festive about six inches of mud.”
Tom cast a look at the group of caroling maids and footmen. “The servants seem happy enough.”
At that moment, one of the housemaids—a tall, dark-haired young woman named Mary—fixed her laughing eyes on Neville. “Where might we find mistletoe, Mr. Cross? Is it much farther?”
The other housemaids giggled amongst themselves.
Neville suppressed the urge to tug at his cravat. Mary had arrived at the Abbey a year ago with the rest of the new servants and had been subjecting him to her flirtatious remarks ever since. It never failed to make him uncomfortable. Especially now.
Miss Hartwright was nearby, choosing her steps carefully through the mud. Her flaxen hair was covered with a sensible bonnet, as plain as her woolen cloak. She hadn’t talked very much since they departed the house. Not to him.
“It grows on the oak trees,” Neville said. “Beyond the p-pines.”
“You’ll have to show it to me.” Mary giggled again. “I’ll never find it on my own.”
Neville didn’t respond.
Tom shot him a questioning look. His voice lowered. “Is she…?”
“No,” Neville said emphatically.
“Beware of corrupting the servant girls, my lad,” Alex advised under his breath.
“He’s doing nothing of the sort,” Laura said in equally low tones. “And it isn’t polite for us all to be whispering.” She raised her voice. “Are you having difficulty, Miss Hartwright?”