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Authors: Janet MacLeod Trotter
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black woods and thought about how close she had stood to Lady Ravensworth in her shimmering evening dress. And the tall gentleman with the mane of hair that glinted like bronze in the lamplight. His deep voice had sent a thrill through her as she stood mute and overawed. She could have listened to him speak all night. If only she had managed to see his face more clearly. But it had been largely in shadow as he stood taller than Georgeâs lantern. Still, it was this face, half-shadowed and mysterious, that filled her thoughts as she drifted off to sleep in the quiet cottage.
***
Alexander stood at the open mullioned window of his bedroom, high in the east tower, and gazed out at the blackness. The night was warm and muggy, with few stars glinting above the solid mass of trees. He heard the haunting cry of foxes from far off and saw an owl flap out of the woods and swoop out of sight. It was too stuffy in this small high room to sleep. He had a mad notion to rush to the stables, saddle up and ride out on to the moors where the air would be cooler. But he curbed the desire. He must not cause his cousin Henry any embarrassment.
Alexander flushed to think of how close he had come to losing his head and kissing Lady Ravensworth by the tranquil lake. She was old enough to be his mother, yet she dazzled him with her looks and wit and experience. He felt restless, the taste of sweet peach still on his lips. Leaning his head on the cool glass pane, he tried to rid himself of thoughts of her.
That was when the memory of the silent young woman in the hothouse came back to him. She had been chatting and laughing before their arrival, then fallen into the shadows at their approach. He had the impression of rounded pink cheeks, soft as peaches, and tumbling hair, but nothing more.
Quickly, he turned and strode across the room to the table by his bedside and pulled a piece of paper under the pool of lamplight. He sketched swiftly, a girlâs oval face bending over a small boyâs. Something about the drawing, the curve of the cheek, reminded him of something else. Suddenly it came back to him. A young woman with a large straw hat stepping down from a cart. It had been Peter holding the pony. And the small boy had rushed from the cottage in greeting. A visitor, not his mother or sister then, Alexander mused. He wished he had taken a closer look at the girl this evening. He tried to conjure up her face but it eluded him.
He turned over the paper and started again. A half-hidden face under a rim of hat, the hint of a smile. A boy running towards a cart. And a black woollen stocking showing beneath a hitched skirt, a shapely ankle. Underneath he gave it the title The Mystery Girl.
He smiled and lay down on the bed. Tomorrow he would go sketching, capturing the folk of Ravensworth going about their work. The place where he felt most at ease, among the people with whom he felt most at home.
Chapter 6
At the beginning of August, Kate was taken on at Farnacre Hall, the dower house on the estate, as a laundry maid. With Kateâs help around the house and fussing attention, Aunt Lizzie was recovering swiftly and was now able to sit in the doorway of the cottage, mending clothes or peeling vegetables. Peter had made his wife a pair of walking sticks to help her move around, and she was no longer so dependent on Kate to nurse her or tend to the household chores.
But none of the family wanted the lively girl to return home to Jarrow so soon. Lizzie enjoyed her company, Alfred doted on his cousin and even George now answered her teasing questions with bashful mumbles. It was he who came home with the news that the housekeeper at Farnacre Hall was looking for extra help in the laundry. The earlâs ancient mother, Horatia, Lady Ravensworth, who lived there, was increasingly frail and recently bed-bound. The chores in the laundry were increasing.
âTwo lasses have up and left for the town,â George said. âSay the
***
Alexander stood at the open mullioned window of his bedroom, high in the east tower, and gazed out at the blackness. The night was warm and muggy, with few stars glinting above the solid mass of trees. He heard the haunting cry of foxes from far off and saw an owl flap out of the woods and swoop out of sight. It was too stuffy in this small high room to sleep. He had a mad notion to rush to the stables, saddle up and ride out on to the moors where the air would be cooler. But he curbed the desire. He must not cause his cousin Henry any embarrassment.
Alexander flushed to think of how close he had come to losing his head and kissing Lady Ravensworth by the tranquil lake. She was old enough to be his mother, yet she dazzled him with her looks and wit and experience. He felt restless, the taste of sweet peach still on his lips. Leaning his head on the cool glass pane, he tried to rid himself of thoughts of her.
That was when the memory of the silent young woman in the hothouse came back to him. She had been chatting and laughing before their arrival, then fallen into the shadows at their approach. He had the impression of rounded pink cheeks, soft as peaches, and tumbling hair, but nothing more.
Quickly, he turned and strode across the room to the table by his bedside and pulled a piece of paper under the pool of lamplight. He sketched swiftly, a girlâs oval face bending over a small boyâs. Something about the drawing, the curve of the cheek, reminded him of something else. Suddenly it came back to him. A young woman with a large straw hat stepping down from a cart. It had been Peter holding the pony. And the small boy had rushed from the cottage in greeting. A visitor, not his mother or sister then, Alexander mused. He wished he had taken a closer look at the girl this evening. He tried to conjure up her face but it eluded him.
He turned over the paper and started again. A half-hidden face under a rim of hat, the hint of a smile. A boy running towards a cart. And a black woollen stocking showing beneath a hitched skirt, a shapely ankle. Underneath he gave it the title The Mystery Girl.
He smiled and lay down on the bed. Tomorrow he would go sketching, capturing the folk of Ravensworth going about their work. The place where he felt most at ease, among the people with whom he felt most at home.
Chapter 6
At the beginning of August, Kate was taken on at Farnacre Hall, the dower house on the estate, as a laundry maid. With Kateâs help around the house and fussing attention, Aunt Lizzie was recovering swiftly and was now able to sit in the doorway of the cottage, mending clothes or peeling vegetables. Peter had made his wife a pair of walking sticks to help her move around, and she was no longer so dependent on Kate to nurse her or tend to the household chores.
But none of the family wanted the lively girl to return home to Jarrow so soon. Lizzie enjoyed her company, Alfred doted on his cousin and even George now answered her teasing questions with bashful mumbles. It was he who came home with the news that the housekeeper at Farnacre Hall was looking for extra help in the laundry. The earlâs ancient mother, Horatia, Lady Ravensworth, who lived there, was increasingly frail and recently bed-bound. The chores in the laundry were increasing.
âTwo lasses have up and left for the town,â George said. âSay the
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