Page 50 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Chapter 18

Hattie arrived at the barn early, the confirmation note from Bentley tucked into her reticule, which swung from her wrist. It bumped against the rough, wooden ladder with each rung as she climbed up to the loft. She reached the top and swiftly crossed to the wide, open door on the end, unlatching it and allowing it to swing open. Cloudy, overcast skies spread out as far as the eye could see over coarse, green terrain, and she breathed in a deep, cleansing breath of Devon air.

“Miss Green,” a deep voice called from below. Bentley appeared from around the corner atop a deep brown steed.

Hattie pulled the watch from her bodice. It was still a quarter-hour before ten. “Good day!” she called back. “You may stable him inside.”

Bentley nodded and dismounted, the motion so smooth and quick it spoke to his many years of practice. She leaned against the open doorway for a few minutes longer before cautiously crossing the floor and peeking down at the mostly dark ground below. Light spilled through the wooden slats of the barn walls and dotted light over the duke’s familiar form.

“Am I to come up there?” he asked dubiously.

“Of course. If I can climb that ladder in a gown, you can certainly do so in riding boots.”

His deep, warm chuckle floated up to her, and she stepped away from the ladder. “That is a faultless argument, Miss Green.”

“My father has always told me I have impeccable logic.”

“Has he?” Bentley’s head rose above the loft floor. He heaved himself over the side and unfolded himself, his height doing much to make the loft appear quite small.

“You needn’t sound so doubtful,” she said. “My father happens to have impeccable logic as well.”

“Ah, well, then it stands to reason he would think the same about—” He stopped, his eyes crossing over the many paintings, sketches, and drawings tacked on the walls. “Are you the artist of everything here?”

She hadn’t considered the walls when she suggested this barn. Indeed, she had not even noticed it when she’d arrived that morning, so familiar the sight had become to her. She and her friends had met in this space for years before marriages and babies had gotten in the way and turned them toward their drawing rooms for convenience, but throughout all those years, Hattie had brought her art to display here.

Originally, it had been done in an effort to brighten up the dreary barn, but over time she added to the space simply so her drawings and paintings would have somewhere to go. It reminded her much of the gallery in her own house, but instead of portraits of her ancestors, this one contained every stage of development Hattie had gone through as an artist, including those early ones she’d rather not show someone as talented as Bentley.

She noticed a particularly ill-done rendition of the old church in Graton and cringed. “Do not judge my ability on what you see here. I have been adding to this space for a decade now.”

“But it was you?” he asked again, glancing at her over his shoulder as he moved closer to one wall. “All of this?”

“Yes.” She tried to sound off-hand, but even she could hear the shaky uncertainty in her voice. It was terrifying to bare her soul onto the page and then offer it up to another’s viewing pleasure; it welcomed Bentley’s opinion on something dear to her, and it was all she could do to keep her heart from speeding so fast that it erupted. For currently, it felt as though it was about to pound directly out of her chest.

What made it even worse—worse than the long stretch of silence as he gazed at her work—was how deeply Hattie cared for his opinion. She wanted Bentley’s approval desperately, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why it mattered to her so greatly.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and her heart skipped a beat. Bentley slowly made his way about the room and looked at each individual piece of art.

She found herself following him, just a pace behind, her heart racing and lips flattened.

“I can see your growth,” he said, stopping before a portrait she had tried to do of her brother when they were younger, before Jeffrey had left for university. “Your skill has greatly improved.”

Of all her paintings, that particular one was undoubtedly the worst. There was a reason it was in the barn and not hanging among the other Green ancestors in the gallery—Jeffrey had forbidden it from hanging alongside the depiction of their father at the same age. Hattie did not blame him.

She came to stand level beside the duke. “Yet I still do not possess the skill of capturing the human form in any way that closely resembles the person I’m meant to copy. I keep mostly to animals and landscapes now.”

Bentley’s lips curved in a smile, a deep groove creasing the side of his mouth. “I noticed that.” He opened his mouth to say more, but his eyes drifted back to the wall. “Have you considered giving it another try?”

She scrunched her nose in apology. “Jeffrey forbade it.”

Bentley’s smile grew. “Then perhaps a different subject?”

“My father isn’t keen on the idea either.” She tilted her head. “Can you not see how Jeffrey looks more swine than human?”

Bentley looked again, nodding slowly. “Yes, I can. But I think you’ve grown, and your skill has developed quite a lot since doing that. You should try again.”

She shrugged. “Very well. I can try again. But when Jeffrey refuses to sit for me then—”

“Don’t paint Jeffrey.”

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