Page 30 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
Eliza steadied herself. “Mrs. Yarrow … I did not mean to disturb anyone. I was only … exploring.”
The housekeeper’s gaze shifted to the portrait. “And you found something.”
Eliza looked down at the woman’s painted eyes, then back to her. “Do you know her?”
Mrs. Yarrow stepped closer, studying the canvas with calm interest. She shook her head. “No one has paid attention to that one in years.”
“Would it trouble anyone if I restored it?” Eliza asked quietly.
“Trouble? Not at all,” Mrs. Yarrow said, her tone gentle. “If it gives you purpose, then do it. The painting has waited long enough.”
Eliza felt warmth stir in her chest, a spark of joy. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Shall I have a place prepared for it tomorrow?” the housekeeper asked.
“Yes,” Eliza said, smiling faintly. “Yes, please.”
Mrs. Yarrow inclined her head. “Goodnight, my lady.”
“Goodnight,” Eliza replied softly.
Back in her room, Eliza set the portrait against the wall. The candlelight flickered across the woman’s face, softening the cracks. For the first time, she felt she had found a purpose of her own.
She felt like she had something to look forward to.
Chapter 9
The sun bore down hard upon the roof of the estate’s old accounts shed as Tristan wiped beads of sweat off his brow. The smell of hay and dust filled his nostrils and the air almost at the same time, a feat he wasn’t especially accustomed to.
He sat behind a chair and let his eyes settle on the estate ledgers before him, then he looked out at the queue across his desk and huffed a sigh of frustration.
Standing by his side, his hand tucked behind his back, was Gideon, who did not exactly look happy to be there either. Tristan exhaled one more time and let his eyes drift to the rafters above. The rays of the sun were a giant distraction, and he was certain that the people standing before him could feel it as well.
Tristan tapped his quill impatiently against the paper on the table, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
“Are you all right, my lord?” Gideon asked, stepping forward.
“As all right as one can be,” he responded. “I still cannot believe he made me come out here.”
Gideon glanced sideways. “Your grandfather did insist it was part of a landowner’s duty.”
Tristan scowled. “Part of a landowner’s torment, more like. I did not return from years at the hunting lodge just to weigh the worth of chickens and coins. This is an utter waste of my time.”
“Someone must do it,” Gideon reminded him.
“Yes, but it ought to be anyone but me.” He scratched a sharp line into the ledger, nearly tearing the page. “What am I to gain from counting every penny and every animal these people offer? There are better uses of my day.”
Before Gideon could answer, a woman approached the table, clutching a small purse in one hand and a chicken in the other. Tristan and Gideon exchanged knowing glances before turning back to look at the woman.
She gave a nervous bow of her head before holding out the bird. “My lord, I have brought the rest of what I can. Please accept it.”
Tristan arched a brow, looking at the chicken suspiciously. “This?”
“Yes, my lord,” the woman responded.
Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but the chicken’s wings flapped suddenly, and in the same moment it escaped her grasp,flying straight up into the rafters. A flurry of feathers filled the shed, and the startled tenants ducked immediately.
He swore under his breath as the creature landed with a thud against the roof, then tumbled down to the ground with a strained squawk.
