Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,65
case of one particular cottage, the entirety of an earth-covered roof.
But what stopped her in her tracks was not the scenery, but animals dressed in country garb going about their business. Here a squirrel in a large white cap and a brown sack of a dress watered her rosebushes with a dreamy look in her eyes; there stood a group of rabbits in tweeds and short trousers in the midst of a game of cricket; and on the pond, in a small blue rowboat, a pair of ducklings fished, one in a bowler hat with a pipe clamped in his bill, the other, a girl, sporting a straw hat piled high with fresh flowers, much like those Eton rowers wore for the annual Procession of the Boats.
“Thank you for joining us,” said Hastings, rising from a table spread with half a dozen small plates of sliced cake and sandwiches.
Helena nodded, not quite looking at him, and took a seat on the other side of Bea, who seemed to be in a much happier frame of mind. She did not smile or speak when Helena greeted her, but she did hold out a thick, clothbound notebook.
When Helena tried to take the notebook into her own hands, however, Bea did not let go. “Ah, I see,” said Helena. “I’ll be happy to look at it on the table, my dear, if you will turn the pages for me.”
Hastings sent her a small, grateful smile as he took his seat again. She did not smile back, but bent her attention to the notebook. “So this is your favorite book, Bea?”
After a few seconds, Bea nodded.
“Will you open it for me?”
Bea lifted the blue brocade-bound cover. The first few pages were blank, high-quality paper that appeared heavy yet soft, separated from one another by layers of translucent rice paper—this was not so much a book as an exceptionally well-constructed artist’s sketch pad.
The next turning of the page revealed a duckling in country tweed and a deerstalker hat, a jaunty-looking fellow, despite the very staid elbow patches on his jacket and the even more staid tobacco pipe sticking out of one pocket flap.
Helena turned toward the murals and noticed for the first time that they were not yet complete: One wall remained blank; the outlines of a small bridge and a tree with a swing hanging from one branch had been drawn with pencil, but no paint had been applied. The room was a work in progress.
She didn’t know why that should cause a twinge in her heart.
“The duckling in the boat on the wall, he is the same one as this?”
Bea nodded again. Helena did not need to ask Hastings to know that he was the artist. Where had he hidden so much talent during their long and unprofitable association?
Next to the duck’s feet was written the name Tobias. “My goodness,” said Helena, “I’ve just noticed he has four feet. Why does Tobias have four feet?”
Bea turned the page. Now Tobias was shown leaning to the side, revealing a girl duckling behind him: the girl duckling from the boat, wearing another flower-laden hat.
“Do you have a hat like this?” Helena asked Bea.
Bea looked toward her father. He gave her an encouraging smile, an expression of infinite kindness and affection. Helena didn’t know she was staring at him until Bea tugged at her sleeve. And when Helena pivoted her attention back to the girl, Bea nodded slowly and emphatically, as if she were repeating her answer.
Helena had very nearly forgotten the question. The hat, right, the flowered hat. “Do you like flowers very much?”
Her question was answered with another nod.
“Do you garden yourself?”
This time the answer was more complicated. Bea nodded, frowned, then shook her head, seemingly slightly discouraged.
“She waters a part of the garden on Mondays,” Hastings explained.
He hadn’t spoken for a few minutes, leaving the conversation to Helena and Bea. At the sound of his voice, she was suddenly back in her sickbed, listening to his reading of the sonnets of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
She pushed away the memory and bent her head forward a few inches so she could look Bea more directly in the eye. “I have published a book on gardening, a very good one. If you like, Bea, you can ask Papa to read it to you, so that you can learn how to grow the most beautiful flowers. Also, my sister-in-law, Lady Fitzhugh, has one of the finest gardens in England. When you are ready to start your own