Page 59 of The Heiress's Daughter
Clarissa sank back onto her chair, shaken and shaking. She’d remained firm, at least, but Clayborn’s emotional response had distressed her. Had she led him on? She didn’t think so. She’d sat out a few dances with him, and allowed him one kiss, that was all. And her refusal certainly had nothing to do with his war injury—in fact she’d honored him for that.
She heard the front door close and heaved a sigh of relief. She would ask Treadwell not to admit him again.
His reaction was upsetting, but the more his accusations echoed in her mind, the more they angered her. She might have considered him as a suitor at the start—she’d considered several men—but at no stage had she ever given him reason to expect that she would welcome him as a husband. One kiss did not amount to an agreement to marry. Especially when she’d made it clear she did not.
She rose to her feet. She couldn’t bear to go back into Lady Scattergood’s sitting room and face the questions that would await her there. She felt shattered after Mr. Clayborn’s accusations, and needed to escape for a short while. Calm down. She slipped out the back door and took herself out into the garden. Being in the serene, lovely garden always made her feel better.
She paced restlessly along one of the garden walks, too wound up to sit. Had she led Mr. Clayborn on? Yes, she had allowed that kiss—not that he’d given her much choice at the time. But both Mrs. Price-Jones and Lady Tarrant had implied, each in her own way, that a discreet kiss or two was acceptable, as long as nobody found out.
No, Mr. Clayborn was being unreasonable and melodramatic. In fact, now she came to reflect on it, she rather doubted he loved her at all. He seemed more angry than hurt.
It was all most disheartening. She’d let two men kiss her and neither one loved her. One was a rake, who might kiss like a dream, but presumably kissed whomever he fancied whenever he liked, and the other was…a puzzle.
Why was Mr. Clayborn so angry at her rejection? He barely knew her. And as his great-aunt’s sole heir, it wasn’t as if he needed Clarissa’s fortune, so why the fuss? And she was sure he didn’t love her.
Papa had been a very bad loser. She supposed some men didn’t take kindly to rejection.
Feeling a little calmer, if no closer to understanding the state of her emotions, she was heading for her favorite seat in the rose arbor when she spotted Zoë seated cross-legged on the lawn. She was all alone, bent over something. Clarissa hadn’t given a thought to where her sister might be. She’d just been relieved that Zoë hadn’t been witness to the discussion with Lady Scattergood and Mrs. Price-Jones about Mr. Clayborn.
The poor girl was probably bored. She still refused to go anywhere with Clarissa, not even to go shopping. She refused to see people who made morning calls, and spent all day either inside Lady Scattergood’s, or in the garden, or visiting Lady Tarrant and the little girls, and Lucy, with whom she’d struck up an instant friendship.
As she drew closer, she realized Zoë’s pencil was flying over a white pad. “Good morning, Zoë,” she said as she approached. “Isn’t this weather glorious? Outside is the best place to be.”
Zoë jumped and twisted around, clutching the pad protectively to her chest. “Oh, it’s you. I thought it might be that awful Milly. She’s forever sneaking up on me trying to see what I’m doing. A right nosy pest, she is.”
“I think she’s just lonely,” Clarissa said. “She doesn’t seem to have many friends.”
Zoë pulled a face. “Funny way to make friends, sneaking up and spying on people. Anyway, I just talk to her nonstop in French. That soon gets rid of her.” She grinned.
Clarissa glanced at the pad Zoë was holding, and the girl flushed and pressed it against her chest. “It’s just an old sketch pad I found lying around—nobody was using it,honest, Clarissa. The top pages were all yellowed and grubby. I’m sorry if I did wrong.” She jumped to her feet, regarding Clarissa with a guilty expression. “Is the old lady looking for me? I s’pose she wants me to read to her again.”
With a pang of dismay, Clarissa realized that Zoë still didn’t feel as though this was her home.
“No, not at all. You’re free to do whatever you like. And don’t worry about taking the pad—you’re welcome to it.” She smiled. “Now, come and show me what you’ve been drawing.”
Zoë hesitated.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course,” Clarissa assured her. “I’m just interested, that’s all. I remember the clever sketch you did of that woman at the orphan asylum. I can’t draw to save myself, so I’m always impressed when others can.”
“All right.” Zoë was still obviously a bit reluctant but she allowed Clarissa to link arms with her and lead her to the seat in the rose arbor. They sat and Zoë handed the sketch pad to Clarissa.
Clarissa turned the pages slowly. There were dozens of drawings, some quick sketches, conveying their subjects vividly in a handful of lines; others were beautifully detailed. There were delicate drawings of some of the plants and flowers in the garden, and one of a spider in extraordinary detail.
There were lively portraits of Lady Tarrant’s little girls—Debo with her cat, Mittens, slung around her neck—several drawing of Lady Tarrant, of Lucy, of Lady Scattergood, one with her beloved dogs, and even some individual drawings of the dogs that were not only recognizable but through some magic of her pencil conveyed their personalities as well. There were also drawings of Betty and Joan, the maidservants, and of Jeremiah, the young footman who tended the dogs. And there was one positively wicked caricature of Treadwell that made Clarissa laugh out loud.
There were also quite a few sketches of Clarissa; she wasn’t sure what to think about those. She looked almost…not pretty, obviously—as Papa used to say, you couldn’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear—but…something.
“Zoë, these are good—very, very good,” Clarissa said slowly, mentally kicking herself for forgetting she’d decided to purchase art supplies for Zoë.
Zoë hunched an awkward shoulder. “They’re all right,” she muttered. “I’m still learning.”
“No, they’re much better than all right. You have real talent.” She gave Zoë a quick, one-armed hug. “You should see the dreadful watercolors I tried to paint when I was a girl—truly ghastly. And Izzy’s weren’t much better.” She laughed. “Well, you can’t see them: we had to burn the evidence.” She handed the sketchbook back.
Her sister should have an art tutor. The poor girl had been laboring through her reading and writing lessons, and she’d been very patient about having her accent and grammar endlessly corrected. Painting and drawing were things she’d actually enjoy. In the meantime Clarissa would purchase drawing and painting materials for her.
She rose to her feet, feeling much refreshed. All thoughts of Mr. Clayborn had been purged by the combination of the beauty and freshness of the garden and excitement over her new plans for her talented little sister.
“Come along. I want a cup of tea, and Cook was baking orange biscuits earlier—a recipe from Alfonso, my brother-in-law’s cook—and the smell was heavenly. They should be out of the oven by now.”
