Page 50 of Everything But the Earl
“And if that doesn’t work, I have a good store of whiskey at my house.”
Chapter Twelve
Dear Owen,
I hope you do not mind, but I’ve commandeered the room at the back of the coastal house for a studio. There is a small pottery operation in the town, in fact, and they have allowed me to use their kiln until I am able to construct my own. I have enclosed a cost estimate for the studio expenses this quarter.
I could not wait for it to be running properly to get my hands on the clay! I made you the vase in this box. I do not know if you have need of a vase, but I do recall that the Duke of Swynford’s house has a lovely garden out back. Perhaps the Duchess of Swynford can help you find some nice flowers for it. I chose the glaze colors based on things that remind me of you, so I hope it is to your taste or goes well with your decor in London. The blue matches almost precisely the color of the walls in the main parlor at Caer Newydd, although, to be honest, the color reminds me of your eyes.
I have met a delightful woman called Catrin who lives just a short distance up the road. She has taken a keen interest in pottery, so I have been teaching her how to work the wheel. She has such a talent for it that we may soon have our own pottery company right here at the house…
The box had been a curiosity, but as soon as Owen had seen the letter, he nearly ripped it in his eagerness. It was foolish of him to get so excited about Grace’s letters, but somehow, he still got a thrill whenever the post arrived and a letter in her hand was among thecontents.
She’dmadehim something. And she’d put some thought into it.
The box itself had been carefully packed. He had one of the footmen fetch him a hammer so that he could use the claw to pry the nails out. Inside, wrapped in blanket surrounded by crumpled up newspaper was indeed a vase. He pulled it out and looked at it.
It was exquisite. It was about eight inches wide at its widest and eighteen inches tall with a rounded belly and then a twist through the middle that opened up to a top that reminded him of the bloom of a lily. The piece was gleaming white, though she’d painted a blue lily and some leaves on the belly of it. He’d never seen anything like it, and the piece struck him as quite beautiful. She’d carved a swirlyGTon the base—for Grace Thomas, he assumed.
He put the vase in a place of honor in his dining room, far from frequent foot traffic, but in a safe spot where it could be admired.
Thus he invited commentary on it when he hosted a dinner party a week later.
He had not originally intended to host a large party. Originally, he had just wanted to have Rockingham round for dinner to talk Parliament business, but then Beresford overheard him mention Rockingham’s name and had chimed in that Rockingham had a niece on the short list of potential brides and insisted on inviting himself. And then Lark, in a jealous pique, had invited himself as well, and suddenly Owen was hosting a dozen people for dinner.
Beresford was the first to arrive at the dinner party, and as Owen poured him a glass of sherry, he said, “I thought you did not want to marry.”
“I don’t.” Beresford’s tone was hard.
“Then why insist I invite Rockingham’s niece to this party?”
“So that I can verify that she is just as dull as the rest of them, and then report back to my mother that she will not do.”
“Right.” Owen handed him the glass.
Dinner was fine, if a little awkward at times. Owen had put Rockingham at his left so that they might discuss the Luddite rebellions. Rockingham seemed to not have any particular conviction but was interested in stopping the rebellions—“Those machines are so expensive, it won’t do to have angry workers destroy them”—but in the end, Owen secured his vote.
His niece, a lovely girl named Charlotte, seemed intelligent and charming. She wasn’t the prettiest girl Owen had ever seen—like Rockingham, she had a nose that was too big for her face and she paled in comparison to Grace—but he found nothing objectionable about her. Beresford seemed unmoved, though, as though meeting her was just another item to strike from his list. Lark watched every interaction between them like a hawk.
Hugh had brought his wife, who was always delightful company. And Fletcher had brought his friend Lady Louisa, reasoning that there should be a few women at the party so that Charlotte did not feel too singled out. And then Owen had invited two other MPs and their wives to round out the table, but they all seemed disinterested in discussing government business.
After dinner, Owen urged his guests to their respective gender’s rooms. Wine and conversation for the women in the front sitting room, brandy and cigars for the gentlemen. Lark and Beresford lingered after Owen saw everyone out of the dining room, and Beresford said, “I’ve been staring at that vase all night. It’s quite striking.”
Curious about where Beresford was going with this, Owen said, “Oh?”
“Is it a Makepeace?”
“A what?”
“The artist, Gerard Makepeace. He’s a pottery designer. He makes the most beautiful vases. I have several of his pieces in my home. Rutherford has a few, too. Didn’t I mention it at the ball? Makepeace isextraordinary talented, although also reclusive. I keep telling the proprietor at the shop that sells his work that I’d love to meet him, but apparently he is not interested in interacting with the adoring public.” Beresford took a step closer to the vase and leaned down to look at it. “I suppose you are the sort of philistine who just spotted it and thought it would look nice in your dining room.”
“I will admit to knowing little about pottery,” Owen said, feeling amused now.
“He’s like this,” Lark said to Owen. “One learns to grow patient with it.”
“Do you mind if I pick this up?” Beresford asked.
“As long as you’re careful.”
