Elisabeth Fairchild (3 page)

The volume of his voice dropped. Walsh was almost upon them. Beyond him the archers were lined up for another go at the targets, the ranks of competitors thinned. Only those who had hit a golden center ring were requested to knock arrow for a shot at the cleared targets. As this smaller number of females adjusted stance and raised bows, Walsh arrived to engage Grace in unwanted conversation, but Miles no more than nodded to the earl. He was too caught up in the archery contest.

For a brief moment, it was as though the heavens meant to proce a living canvas before the little Doric temple. A shaft of painterly light filtered through the lush green of the trees glancing off graceful columns and catching in pale, white muslin dresses that belled and wafted in the breeze, like the wings of pale butterflies. In the midst of this weightless gathering, one young woman, as tall and trim and shapely as a Greek vase, seemed almost rooted to the earth by the dark weight of the distinctive hunter’s green outfit she wore. The sun touched this garment only in the whiteness of the fur that trimmed its neckline and the buff slash insets at shoulder, cuff and ankle-high hem. It hung too, in the white feather that graced the brim of the archer’s green hat, marking her a member of the Royal British Bowmen’s Society.

Miles Fletcher had seen countless beautiful women in his travels throughout Europe and the Far East, but he had never seen a woman who looked so much like a fox hiding in the undergrowth of her clothing as this one. More than anywhere else, the light shifted and glittered like fire in the wispy tendrils that had freed themselves from a heavy, fox-fur colored braid coiled at the nape of her neck.

He leaned forward as if drawn by a string.

She turned her face in his direction for the breath of a moment, her cheeks heavily freckled, lending this fair young woman’s complexion a rare, golden cast. Here was, Miles decided, a feral and intriguing sort of beauty.

She looked away, her attention on the targets.

As different as the young woman was in her attire, so too was she different in the manner in which she drew arrow. Almost as one, the other archers raised and drew in one single, sweeping motion. This was the commonly accepted method in which a woman took aim. It was a graceful move, a flattering move. But the dark green silhouette chose a more difficult and less graceful approach--one that required more strength. Her bow arm rose above the others, then drew string to gilded cheek, aiming at the heavens before lowering to sight upon the target. For a heartbeat her gaze, stance and focus were steady and self-assured.

Miles held his breath. For that single heartbeat, the sculptural line of arm, the careful positioning of shoulder, the soft curve of breast echoing the taut curve of the bow, was a thing of such perfect beauty, symmetry and grace that Miles was struck by the sensation that art and myth had come to life. Diana the Huntress had sprung from the forest floor, in the form of this fiery archer who would as blithely shoot down a cloud as she might shoot at ringed targets. For an instant, it seemed as though an architect designed her stance--for an instant as if the light of a Heaven she had pierced poured heavy and honey-gold upon her head.

“So, you are the reason I am here,” Miles murmured under his breath.

The arrows launched.

Miles willed her arrow to find the center ring. He willed her to turn and look his way, that he might see the whole of her face.

Of course her arrow struck center. Of course this fair huntress must be proclaimed the winner. He expected nothing less. The only thing that surprised Miles was that she did turn in the moment the arrow sank home, her face suffused with the satisfaction of a job perfectly executed, to look in his direction, as if she was in some way moved by his desire that she should do so. Her pleasure in the moment had her smiling, teeth and dimples flashing amid the tawny freckling of her skin. The wind stirred her bright hair like a candle flickering in a draught.

Ye Gods, she was breathtaking! He had not expected to encounter such beau in the fulfillment of his promise to Lester.

The light changed. The fire in her fox-fur braid died down. The stirring crowd hid her from view.

“A goddess sublime,” he murmured, as he took the first truly steady breath he had managed since catching sight of the archer whose brilliance cast all others into the shade.

Grace knew of whom he spoke. She had watched the archers as well, but Walsh had his back to the targets. In talking to Grace, who smiled vapidly and answered in monosyllables in hopes of cutting short their conversation. He missed the competition’s conclusion.

“A goddess is it?” He turned to observe the crowd and saw nothing remarkable. “Really, Miles, old man, which goddess has shown herself?”

 “Diana, of course. The huntress,” he said mildly, politely, unwilling to point the girl out. Pulling forth his watch, he pleased Grace no end by announcing, “Goddesses aside, it is high time we made our way to Holkham Hall. Our host is expecting us.”

Walsh took himself off, with a parting promise to secure a dance or two from Grace that evening.

Miles bade the coachman, “Walk on.”

The coach lurched forward.

“That was sublimely trying.” Grace said wearily, as she settled back against the cushions.

“Walsh is a sublimely superior sort of fellow,” Miles said with a contained smile as he tucked away his quizzing glass.

“Have done,” she protested. “Else we both become sublimely ridiculous.”

They rode in silence a moment, enjoying the view.

Then came the interrogation Miles had been expecting, voiced in the innocent tone that marked Gracie’s most delving questions. “Do you know,” she said sweetly, “I do not recall ever having heard you refer to any of your other goddesses as sublime.” She toyed with the ribbons of her bonnet. “That compliment is one you normally reserve for oils or marble or architecture. Tell me, can a woman with so many freckles truly be judged so? I think not! Her hair is far too forward a color to be greatly admired.”

Miles laughed, the sound welling from deep within his chest. Grace meant to test him with words. Grace always set about discovering things by indirect methods, in honeyed tones.

“You are too severe,” he said lightly. “Both in your opinion of me and in judging the attraction of your own sex. Yon fair Diana was undeniably sublime. It was her hair and freckles, and the bow in her hand, that made her so.”

Grace studied him very carefully from beneath her bonnet rim. “This is what I thought you would find sublime, Miles.” She waved her hand toward the view of Holkham Hall as the road turned westward and they were afforded a better aspect of the large and very striking Palladian country house their host’s ancestor had built in the middle of the Norfolk wilderness half a century ago. With a gusty sigh she sank back among the cushions. “It is even more beautiful than I had imagined it from Kent’s drawings, a delightful combination of Greek and Roman influences. A sight worth seeing, Miles. I am pleased you talked me into coming with you, Walsh or no. I must have out my watercolors and paint the place before the day is done.”

Miles was pleased to indulge his sister’s passion for Classical architecture. It never occurred to him to destroy her joy in the sight of Holkham Hall by telling her that he found the Palladian style a trifle austere, almost severe in the cleanliness of its lines. “I look forward to viewing the Italian landscapes and Roman marbles that the late Lord Leicester gathered in hrand Tour of Europe,” was what he said by way of an answer.

“This place is a treasure trove!” Grace was never so passionate as when she spoke of her love of art. No man had ever lit her eyes and brought color to her cheeks in such a way. “Do you see the large, central block of the building?” She pointed. “There, beneath the Corinthian portico? I am told Coke devotes the whole of that part of the Hall to the display of his collection. The layout of the buildings is modeled--”

“After Palladio’s
Villa Mocenigo
.” Miles tried to suppress a smile and failed.

Grace’s lips pursed. She would not smile back at him. “Have I been boring you with architectural detail with which you are already familiar throughout the entirety of the journey, Miles?”

One raven’s wing brow flew upward. “No, Grace. I have not been bored. It is a rare pleasure to spend time with someone as immersed in an appreciation of art and antiquities as I am. I do not know that I would have made this trip at all without you to accompany me.”

“Pish!” She shoved at his arm. “Your real reason for being here has nothing to do with me.”

Miles shrugged, his gaze focused on the approaching view of symmetrical rooftops, dun colored brick, massive Corinthean columns and arched or porticoed windowframes. The image of a real-life Diana, posed with bow before her temple in the woods, blotted out the architectural eyeful. Grace was quite right of course. His reasons for coming were many and varied and none of them had much to do with his sister.

“You are come to this sheep shearing fortnight so that you might see a flock denuded. Admit it,” she teased him.

Miles splayed his hands in acquiescence. He preferred not to divulge all of his true reasons. To explain meant discussing their Uncle Lester’s impending death and he had no desire to contemplate too thoroughly such a reality. For the present, he would let Grace believe what she would.

“As you say, I have come to see how one goes about undressing a sheep. I have come to see a flock defrocked. I must understand this business of fleecing and being fleeced much better than I do.” He spoke lightly though his thoughts weighed heavy.

She laughed and then frowned as she plucked at the lace that hung down over her wrists. “You could have gone to Matthew for the information you seek and saved yourself this trip.”

Miles sighed. Grace sought his confidences by back-door methods again. Matthew would have been no help at all in the matter at hand. “Matthew, I am sorry to say, is rather annoyed with me at the moment.”

“Annoyed? Whatever for?”

“He is displeased that I am to inherit Uncle Lester’s land and properties.”

“What?” She laughed at the absurdity of it. “Matthew begrudges you Loughdon Hall, and a townhouse inferior to his own when he is already in possession of more land and property than he can personally oversee?”

Miles shrugged and tried to keep the conversation light. “Perhaps it is the hunting box he covets.”

She pursed her lips. “How absurd! How selfish! Yet, how typical. Matthew has always seen himself, alone among us, in the role of lord and master of all he surveys.”

Miles allowed himself a tight little smile. “Yes. He was brought up with no other expectation to trouble him.”

“And you, as second son, were not, any more than I was,” Grace said gently, voicing far more understanding than Miles had expected, even from his nearest and dearest sibling.

“So Matthew was quick to point out to me.” He altered the tilt of his head and the pitch of his voice to give a fair impression of Matthew’s condescending tone. “Whatever will you do with land, Miles? I advise you to sell before your overseer has much chance to cheat you. After all, you haven’t the vaguest idea what to do when it comes to looking after an estate, now have you?”

“Did he really suggest that you sell? Matthew? Who would never part with so much as a handful of his own soil? What cheek!”

Miles stroked the fisted end of his cane. “Honest cheek. He is dead-on accurate. I’ve not the least notion how to manage the land Uncle saw fit to entrust in me.”

Grace laughed and reached out to pat his arm in a comforting manner. “Uncle Lester believes otherwise, else he would not be so set on leaving you Loughdon and its acreage. You’ve brought the world to his drawing room, Miles. It is no wonder he means to give it all back to you. Never fear your ignorance of land management. I have seen you pouring over agricultural texts and pamphlets. Here, where the most informed agriculturalists in England have gathered you will soon understand the handling of your properties every bit as well as you understand the handling of a Grecian urn or a Roman marble.”

He smiled at her a little less convincingly than usual. “That would lead Matthew’s preconceived notions of me a merry dance wouldn’t it?”

She squeezed his hand. “Indeed, and I would pay the piper to see such a reel.”