“I know of no reason it wouldn’t be. We lead a quiet life, and Cousin Flora hasn’t mentioned any visits, so I believe that arrangement will suit.” With a wave, she indicated the raised terrace that ran along the house’s south face, overlooking the long lawn. “But let’s join Flora and ask, just to make sure.”
They walked back to the house and up the steps to the terrace. Flora was waiting, seated at the round wrought-iron table, which had already been set with plates, cups, and saucers, with a multitiered cake stand in the table’s center. Felicia made the introductions. Flora gave Mayhew her hand and smiled in her usual soft and comfortable way, then she waved them both to sit.
Mayhew held Felicia’s chair. Once she’d settled, he claimed the third chair at the table.
Despite Flora’s overtly gentle and feminine appearance, Felicia knew her chaperon was shrewd and observant. Flora poured tea and chatted in amiable vein, professing her delight at the thought of Mayhew sketching the Hall. She confirmed Felicia’s expectation that there was no reason Mayhew couldn’t ply his pencil the following afternoon and approved of his choice of view.
Flora waited until Mayhew had sampled one of Cook’s lemon cakes and sipped his tea before leaning forward and declaring, “I have to confess, Mr. Mayhew, that I am quite impatient to see the sketches Felicia said you would bring to dazzle us.”
A faint flush stained Mayhew’s long cheeks. He shot Felicia a self-deprecating glance. “I wouldn’t describe my work as ‘dazzling,’ ma’am.” He set down his cup and reached into his pocket. “However, I have brought several of my sketches—of Ashampstead and of the river nearby. I hope you’ll recognize the view and approve of my poor talent.”
He withdrew a roll of paper about nine inches long that was wound about a thin wooden rod. Seeing Felicia look curiously at the roll, Mayhew explained, “I carry my sketches in this way so they don’t crease.”
“Ah. Of course.” Felicia watched while Mayhew unrolled several sheets of fine artist’s paper from the spool. When he handed the curling sheets to her, she eagerly took them. Flora quickly cleared a space on the table between her and Felicia, and Felicia laid the sketches down.
She and Flora stared, mesmerized by the pencil-and-ink sketches that had captured views with which they were both familiar with such accuracy and felicity that the scenes were not just instantly recognizable but the sketches somehow conveyed a sense of the atmosphere pertaining to each place. The sketch of Ashampstead village street on a market day was abustle with life, while the delicate sketch of the pool on the river Pang to the east of Hampstead Norreys invoked a sense of bucolic peace.
Once she’d looked her fill, Felicia glanced up and, across the table, met Mayhew’s eyes. “These are exquisite. You are, indeed, very talented.”
Somewhat to her surprise, Mayhew didn’t smile but lightly raised one shoulder, as if he remained unsure of his skill or was, for some reason, uncomfortable acknowledging it.
Looking again at the sketches, Felicia felt vindicated in having agreed to allow him to sketch the Hall; such an opportunity, dropped into her lap by Fate, shouldn’t be lightly passed up, and if it helped Mayhew continue and gain more confidence in his work, well and good.
“I admit,” she said, raising her gaze once more to Mayhew’s face, “to being intrigued to see what you make of the Hall, sir. It was a lucky chance that sent you our way.”
Flora added her compliments, too.
Mayhew blushed anew and, yet again, disclaimed—although with the evidence of his talent lying before Felicia and Flora, he might as well have saved his breath. Then, with all three of them transparently pleased with the outcome of Mayhew’s visit, they settled to finish their tea.
* * *
From the shadows of the woodland bordering the south lawn, Rand watched the trio on the terrace as they laughed, smiled, and chatted.
It wasn’t difficult to assess how Felicia—and Flora, who Rand considered a sensible and supportive lady—viewed Mayhew. They’d both relaxed and were smiling with genuine delight upon the supposed artist.
Although Rand had retreated to the workshop with William John after luncheon, he’d set Shields on guard by the stable. Shields had hurried around to the workshop to warn Rand that Mayhew had arrived, riding a rather poor-quality nag—Shields being the sort to notice such things.
Leaving William John muttering at his engine, Rand had climbed the stairs and confirmed that the door at the top was firmly shut. He’d waited behind the panel and had heard Mayhew arrive and speak with Johnson, then Felicia had come and taken Mayhew outside.
Rand had descended to the workshop and, assisted by Shields, had closed the large double doors. William John had noticed the light dimming. He’d blinked, then crossed to the wall and fiddled with a knob, setting the gaslights in the gantry above his workbench blazing. Then he’d returned to his invention, ignoring Rand and Shields and all else about him.
Rand had dismissed Shields, who had clattered back up the stairs and out via the front hall. Rand had counseled himself to patience, but hadn’t been able to squash the impulse to ease one of the big workshop doors open a fraction—just enough to peer out.
He’d glimpsed Felicia and the artist walking through the roses, then had watched Felicia lead the man down the lawn, until the pair had passed out of sight behind the kitchen garden.
That had given Rand an idea. He’d confirmed that William John had no intention of emerging from the workshop before the gong rang for dinner. With Felicia and Mayhew still screened by the walls of the kitchen garden, Rand had slipped out through the double doors. He’d shut them behind him, then swiftly circled the kitchen garden to the corner where he could see Felicia and Mayhew walking down the south lawn, their backs to him.
He’d walked quickly across the lawn and into the woodland that so helpfully surrounded the house.
From the cover of the trees, he’d watched Felicia and the artist stroll the lawns, eventually fetching up at a spot almost directly across from where Rand had been standing. After some discussion, apparently pleasing to both, they’d repaired to the terrace, where Flora was waiting with the teacups.
Mayhew had shown them some papers—presumably some of his sketches. Rand hadn’t been able to get a clear view of Felicia’s face, but from the expression on Flora’s, Mayhew’s sketches were very definitely worthy of admiration.
As the trio consumed their tea and cakes and conversed in pleasant vein, Rand shifted in the shadows and wondered if he was being overly paranoid. Or overly something else.
Could Mayhew simply be what he purported to be? A sketch artist whose works were published in the London News and who was eager to find new vistas to draw?
Certainly, Mayhew had shown no interest in the workshop doors, although given their location, they could easily be taken to be doors to a cellar for storing produce from the kitchen garden. Yet Rand wasn’t even sure Mayhew had noticed the doors; he’d seemed more interested in Felicia and, later, in the long views of the house.