Page 3 of The Art of Theft
“I hold a slightly more optimistic view of romantic love. I see it not as doomed to spoilage but as prone to change. Yes, it can dwindle to nothing. Or harden into bitterness and enmity. But it can also ripen like a fine vintage, becoming something with extraordinary depth and maturity.”
He spoke with confidence and conviction. Briefly her gloved hand came to rest against the topmost button of her bodice. How did it feel to hold such lovely, uplifting views—was it like having been born with wings? His views did not change her own, but she rued that her own beliefs were nowhere near as luminous.
The garden path turned—she’d been waiting for this moment, when they would be temporarily hidden from view by an arbor. She gave him a letter. “Will you drop this in the post for my sister?”
He stowed the missive inside his coat. “Of course.”
His cheeks were pink with cold. He wore a beard as he had in summer, when they first met, but this beard was much shorter, the accumulation of a fortnight at most. She wondered how it would feel against her palm—and was astonished both at the direction of her thoughts and that she had lived to be twenty-seven and never had a thought like that before.
He gazed at her intently. She realized she was doing the same,sustaining an unblinking stare that made her forget everything. Hurriedly she resumed walking. A few more seconds and her mother—or worse, his—would wonder what they were doing behind the arbor.
“Will you really go to the South of France?” she asked, her voice holding steady but her pace much too fast, as if she were trying to get away from a scene of misdeed.
This was the Openshaws’ farewell visit, the last time she would see him in goodness knew how long.
“I very much doubt it. Nor are we likely to spend Christmas together. Calling on others as a family—that isn’t what we normally do. It has made my sister highly uneasy. She wants us to leave Britain, disperse, and disappear for a good long while.”
“Oh!”
“She tries, but she doesn’t yet dictate everything we do.” He smiled. “I will try to remain in the country as long as possible. And I will write—long letters on everything under the sun.”
He had never written before. The idea of those letters, of their compact weight in the envelope, of the decadent, luxuriant sprawl of lines, of the intimacy and escape they promised—she yearned for them.
For this substitute of his companionship.
But how long would he persist?
“Speaking of letters, Mr. Marbleton,” she said, “I must tell you something about the one I asked you to post for me. It involves you and your family—and it involves fraud.”
?“I told Mamma I’d make her a book of pressed pansies,” said Lucinda, Lord Ingram’s daughter, a budding botanist who loved to potter about in gardens and hothouses.
They were in the orangery at Stern Hollow, his country estate, and she was inspecting a trough of pansies with a serious, critical eye that belied her tender years. He looked her over carefully—nowadays he was always looking his children over carefully, alert tothe least signs of unhappiness. But Lucinda was a sturdy soul. And even Carlisle, shyer and more sensitive, hadn’t moped too much.
Through the orangery’s glass walls, he could see Carlisle by the duck pond, holding on to Miss Yarmouth’s hand. The governess held a loaf of bread in her other hand and offered it frequently to Carlisle so he could tear off a piece to toss to the waterfowl.
Not long ago he’d been afraid of the honking and sometimes aggressive ducks. Lord Ingram was heartened to see the boy calmly shooing off one particularly large goose when it came too close. Miss Yarmouth smiled and spoke to him, no doubt with words of praise and encouragement.
Perhaps on her own Miss Yarmouth could be too dreamy and impractical, but her gentle, undemanding presence cushioned the children against the blow of their mother’s departure.
As if sensing his gaze, Miss Yarmouth glanced toward the orangery. She probably wasn’t able to see him past the bank of potted orange and lemons trees lining the glass walls. But nevertheless, as if feeling abashed, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and, after a moment of hesitation, turned back to Carlisle.
Lord Ingram frowned. He didn’t care to flatter himself, but of late, there had been something in Miss Yarmouth’s demeanor to suggest that she felt more for him than the obligation owed an employer.
The lot of a governess was trying enough—she was neither a servant in the strict sense of the word nor a member of the family. To add sentiments to the mix...
At least he had the comfort of knowing that he’d never given her any encouragement. Indeed, never spent a moment longer with her than strictly necessary.
“Maybe not these ones,” said Lucinda. “I don’t think Mamma likes orange.”
And these pansies were very orange.
“Does Mamma like pansies?” he asked.
He’d thought her tastes leaned more toward roses and orchids, elegant, stately flowers.
“I like pansies. Mamma said that I should do what I like—for her. So I told her I’d collect pansies and make really pretty pressed flowers. And that every time I see a pansy, I’d think of her.”
He crouched down beside her and traced a thumb down her cheek. “That is thoroughly lovely of you.”
