families and able to support a wife in style. It is worth a little effort to catch one of them.”
“I believe you are over optimistic. Even if Polly were her usual contented self, I cannot suppose that either his lordship or Mr. Bevan has any serious intentions. They must be acquainted with scores of young ladies far more eligible than my sister.”
“Lady John was a governess,” his mother reminded him stubbornly.
“Well, I shall talk to Polly,” said Ned with a sigh, “but if she does not have a mind to either I shall not press her. I wish she might find a husband she can care for who is of our own station in the world.”
“The world?” Nick bounced in, grubby and dishevelled as always. “I’d give the world for something to eat right this instant, but Mrs. Coates says I must wait until dinner-time. I wish you will put Ella in charge of the kitchen, Mother. She would not starve me half to death.”
Reminded of the hour, Mrs. Howard hustled her sons upstairs to wash off their dirt and change their dress. It was too late for Ned to talk to Polly before dinner, though she, for once, was in good time. Sure that the interview would be painful, he wanted to get it over with.
Fortunately, after the meal, Nick took himself off about his own business when his elders repaired to the sitting room. Ned settled his mother by the fire with a branch of candles to light her everlasting sewing. Polly sat at a small writing desk in the window with her sketch book before her. She often spent the evenings planning the composition of her next landscape, but Ned saw that she was gazing out into the dusk without even picking up her pencil.
He hesitated, unsure how to introduce the subject of her suitors. It would be easier, he thought, if he were her father rather than her brother and her friend.
She started as he pulled up a chair beside her and put his hand over hers. “Polly, dear,” he said with quiet sympathy, “I hate to see my tranquil, cheerful sister so despondent.”
“Despondent? Not I.” She smiled brightly.
“I fear you miss Mr. Volkov,” he persisted.
“I’m by far too busy to miss anyone, I assure you.”
“Then you do not fancy yourself in love with him?”
“In love? Heavens no! Is that what has brought about your long face, dear Ned? Pray put it out of your mind. Mr. Volkov was an agreeable acquaintance and I enjoyed his company, but Lady John warned me, you know, that he is a shocking flirt, so of course I did not take him seriously.”
Ned was afraid she was trying to convince herself, but his relief at her denial was such that he allowed her to persuade him that her heart was untouched. Though she undoubtedly missed the Russian, in time she would regain her serenity. He braced himself to tackle the next point.
“Mother tells me you have lost interest in your aristocratic admirers. Do you dislike Lord Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bevan?”
“I like them very well.”
“Then will you try to look more kindly on them? Mother fears you will drive them away, and either would be an excellent match.”
“I would never marry a man only because he was an excellent match,” she said, indignation overcoming her listlessness.
“I know you would not and I’m glad of it,” Ned soothed. “But you said you like them.”
“No better than I liked Dr. Leacroft or Mr. Grant.”
“Your Tunbridge Wells suitors? I seem to remember the rector of King Charles the Martyr popped the question, too.”
She smiled at his teasing, a real smile. “Yes, and I refused them all. I doubt I shall ever marry, Ned, for a husband will expect me to give up painting, and that I will not do.”
He believed her. In the weeks she had lived at Loxwood, he had come to comprehend her dedication to her work as he never had on his short visits to Tunbridge Wells. She was capable of being a loving, if absentminded, wife and mother, but she would never have any attention to spare for household matters. The man who married her must
“I believe you are over optimistic. Even if Polly were her usual contented self, I cannot suppose that either his lordship or Mr. Bevan has any serious intentions. They must be acquainted with scores of young ladies far more eligible than my sister.”
“Lady John was a governess,” his mother reminded him stubbornly.
“Well, I shall talk to Polly,” said Ned with a sigh, “but if she does not have a mind to either I shall not press her. I wish she might find a husband she can care for who is of our own station in the world.”
“The world?” Nick bounced in, grubby and dishevelled as always. “I’d give the world for something to eat right this instant, but Mrs. Coates says I must wait until dinner-time. I wish you will put Ella in charge of the kitchen, Mother. She would not starve me half to death.”
Reminded of the hour, Mrs. Howard hustled her sons upstairs to wash off their dirt and change their dress. It was too late for Ned to talk to Polly before dinner, though she, for once, was in good time. Sure that the interview would be painful, he wanted to get it over with.
Fortunately, after the meal, Nick took himself off about his own business when his elders repaired to the sitting room. Ned settled his mother by the fire with a branch of candles to light her everlasting sewing. Polly sat at a small writing desk in the window with her sketch book before her. She often spent the evenings planning the composition of her next landscape, but Ned saw that she was gazing out into the dusk without even picking up her pencil.
He hesitated, unsure how to introduce the subject of her suitors. It would be easier, he thought, if he were her father rather than her brother and her friend.
She started as he pulled up a chair beside her and put his hand over hers. “Polly, dear,” he said with quiet sympathy, “I hate to see my tranquil, cheerful sister so despondent.”
“Despondent? Not I.” She smiled brightly.
“I fear you miss Mr. Volkov,” he persisted.
“I’m by far too busy to miss anyone, I assure you.”
“Then you do not fancy yourself in love with him?”
“In love? Heavens no! Is that what has brought about your long face, dear Ned? Pray put it out of your mind. Mr. Volkov was an agreeable acquaintance and I enjoyed his company, but Lady John warned me, you know, that he is a shocking flirt, so of course I did not take him seriously.”
Ned was afraid she was trying to convince herself, but his relief at her denial was such that he allowed her to persuade him that her heart was untouched. Though she undoubtedly missed the Russian, in time she would regain her serenity. He braced himself to tackle the next point.
“Mother tells me you have lost interest in your aristocratic admirers. Do you dislike Lord Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bevan?”
“I like them very well.”
“Then will you try to look more kindly on them? Mother fears you will drive them away, and either would be an excellent match.”
“I would never marry a man only because he was an excellent match,” she said, indignation overcoming her listlessness.
“I know you would not and I’m glad of it,” Ned soothed. “But you said you like them.”
“No better than I liked Dr. Leacroft or Mr. Grant.”
“Your Tunbridge Wells suitors? I seem to remember the rector of King Charles the Martyr popped the question, too.”
She smiled at his teasing, a real smile. “Yes, and I refused them all. I doubt I shall ever marry, Ned, for a husband will expect me to give up painting, and that I will not do.”
He believed her. In the weeks she had lived at Loxwood, he had come to comprehend her dedication to her work as he never had on his short visits to Tunbridge Wells. She was capable of being a loving, if absentminded, wife and mother, but she would never have any attention to spare for household matters. The man who married her must
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