Page 5 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
“A bit of both, in truth,” he admitted, with a faintly rueful smile. “I had intended to carry out a brief inspection and file the sort of report that would satisfy familial expectations without causing undue disruption. But even from a short acquaintance with this place, I find that a purely detached approach may prove... more difficult than anticipated.”
“And what, precisely, have you seen that makes detachment such a challenge?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she truly wanted the answer. Compliments from handsome men, she knew, could prove far more hazardous to her peace of mind than criticism from her adversaries.
“I have observed enough to know that this is not what I expected,” he said after a pause. “The grounds, the quiet—yes—but also the people. There is a sense of order here, of intention. I will not pretend to understand how it all functions—that would be premature, and presumptuous—but I can already tell this is no vanity project.”
Thalia blinked, momentarily caught off balance by the measured sincerity in his voice. She had grown so accustomed to defending her work against those who viewed it as eccentric, naïve, or conveniently self-indulgent, that the absence of mockery left her momentarily adrift.
“You speak as if you’ve given this more thought than one would expect from a man on a fact-finding errand,” she said, unable to keep a faint note of disbelief from creeping into her voice.
“Perhaps I have,” he said, casting a glance toward the window, where a handful of residents were engaged in their morning pursuits. “My sister Eliza paints—quite seriously, in fact—but society insists on treating her talent as no more than a pleasant diversion. Drawing is expected of young ladies, of course, so long as it remains safely ornamental. The moment it becomes meaningful—or skilled enough to challenge that assumption—it’s politely discouraged. I suppose I hadn’t realised just how subtle, and persistent, that discouragement could be—until now.”
Before Thalia could formulate a reply, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the moment. Hopkins appeared in the doorway, his expression perfectly neutral—the sort that suggested he had overheard more than he intended to reveal.
“Forgive the intrusion, my lady,” he said with a small bow. “Miss Fairweather requests your assistance with a matter concerning her painting supplies, and Mr Whiston wishes to consult you regarding the arrangements for this afternoon’s reading in the library.”
“Of course, Hopkins. Please inform them that I shall attend to their concerns presently,” Thalia replied, seizing the welcome interruption as an opportunity to gather her thoughts. Lord Jasper’s admissions, while unexpectedly candid, required careful consideration—and no small degree of caution. She was not yet prepared to decide how much trust, if any, they merited.
Turning back to him with composed poise, she added, “Lord Jasper, perhaps you would care to accompany me on a tour of the establishment—since your family’s interests appear to require such... comprehensive observation?”
“I should be honoured,” he replied with obvious enthusiasm, though she detected a flicker of something that might have been apprehension in his eyes. “Though I hope you will not think me presumptuous if I express my desire to meet your residents and learn more about their individual circumstances and artistic pursuits.”
“Not presumptuous at all,” Thalia assured him as they moved toward the door, though privately she wondered whether his interest stemmed from genuine curiosity or from the thoroughness required by whatever report he would eventually submit to his family. “Indeed, I believe you will find their stories both inspiring and illuminating, for each has overcome considerable obstacles to pursue their creative calling.”
Their first destination was the conservatory, now converted into a light-filled studio for Miss Ivy Fairweather, whose deafness had never hindered her from cultivating a remarkable gift for capturing the subtle interplay of light and shadow in her landscapes. She was seated near the tall windows, her brush moving with steady assurance across the canvas—each stroke revealing not only natural ability but the discipline of focused, thoughtful practice.
As they approached, Thalia moved deliberately into the artist’s field of vision and waited until Ivy glanced up before speaking. “Miss Fairweather,” she said gently, “may I introduce Lord Jasper Vexley, who has expressed a sincere interest in learning more about our artistic community?”
Ivy turned from her work with a smile that lit her features with quiet delight, her dark eyes alive with the unmistakable brightness of someone wholly engaged in her craft. Upon noting the presence of a gentleman, her expression shifted to one of mild surprise, but she greeted him with a graceful curtsy that reflected both her natural poise and the refinement of her early upbringing.
“Miss Fairweather’s landscapes have begun to attract attention from collectors in London,” Thalia explained as Lord Jasper examined the painting currently in progress with obvious appreciation. “Her ability to capture the changing moods of the sea and countryside has earned praise from several critics who have had occasion to view her work.”
“The composition is remarkable,” Lord Jasper observed, moving closer to study the delicate brushwork that brought the coastal scene to vivid life. “The way you have rendered the light reflecting off the water creates such a sense of movement and vitality that one can almost hear the waves breaking against the shore.”
Though Ivy could not hear his words, the sincerity in his expression and the care with which he regarded her work needed no translation. Her cheeks coloured with quiet pride, and her smile held the unmistakable glow of someone whose efforts had been truly seen and valued.
“Miss Fairweather reads lips quite well,” Thalia explained, “though she finds it easier to follow conversations when speakers face her directly and speak with deliberate clarity rather than the rapid pace that characterises most social discourse.”
“I should very much like to learn more about your artistic training and the subjects that inspire your work,” Lord Jasper said to Ivy, turning to face her fully.His tone was measured and his diction deliberate, his effort to make himself understood both respectful and sincere. “Do you find that being deaf has influenced the way you perceive and interpret the world around you?”
Thalia glanced at him with renewed appreciation. Most visitors either ignored Ivy altogether or spoke about her as if she were not present, never thinking to engage her directly—let alone inquire about her perspective as an artist.
Ivy answered with a fluid series of gestures—graceful, precise—her expression animated with thought. Thalia, though far from fluent, had spent enough time observing the language to grasp the general sense of her reply.
“She says that not hearing has made her more attuned to visual details,” Thalia translated carefully. “That she often notices things others miss, simply because they rely so much on sound to understand their surroundings.”
“How fascinating,” Lord Jasper murmured, his gaze moving thoughtfully between Ivy and her painting. “I imagine such sensitivity offers a rare advantage in your work—though I suspect it must come with its share of frustrations in a world that too often assumes words are the only way to listen.”
His perceptive observation drew another flush of pleasure from Ivy, who nodded emphatically before returning to her easel with renewed enthusiasm, clearly encouraged by his understanding and interest in her work.
Their next stop was the library, where they found Mr Christopher—Kit—Whiston arranging chairs for the afternoon’s reading, his movements quick and efficient despite the slight tremor in his hands that spoke of nervous energy barely held in check. The young playwright looked up at their approach with an expression that mixed hope and wariness in equal measure, his eyes darting between Thalia and her companion with obvious curiosity about the stranger’s identity and purpose.
“Mr Whiston, I should like you to meet Lord Jasper Vexley, who has expressed interest in learning more about the artistic endeavours pursued by our residents,” Thalia performed the introduction with the sort of careful attention to social protocol that might help put the obviously nervous young man at ease.
“My lord,” Kit replied with a bow that revealed both proper training and current anxiety, his sandy hair falling across his forehead in a way that made him appear even younger than his twenty-four years. “I hope you will forgive the disarray, but I am preparing for this afternoon’s reading of excerpts from my latest work.”
“Not disarray at all,” Lord Jasper assured him. “Indeed, I find myself curious about the nature of your work and the reception it has received from audiences who have had the privilege of experiencing your dramatic presentations.”
“You are very kind to express interest, my lord, though I fear my recent efforts have met with somewhat mixed reception from critics who find my themestoo controversial for standard taste,” Kit replied with a bitter laugh that spoke of disappointments and setbacks that had clearly taken their toll on his confidence.
