wished he had never extended the invitation to her aunt that they all come to Lincolnshire. Perhaps he could undo it...but then, he would miss the pleasure of her guardian’s company.
They were amusing and interesting, and would certainly liven up his dull days. What was so very wrong with taking advantage of that?
Chapter Four
The Wells heard nothing further from the infamous Paris Mulholland during the few days immediately after Lord Pimblett’s ball. Clara decided he had changed his mind about the portrait and told herself she was glad of it. No matter how her aunt fretted—and dear Aunt Aurora could fuet—Clara couldn’t help feeling it would be a blessing if they never saw the man again. It would be awkward to return the money, yet that might be far preferable to dealing with Lord Mulholland for any length of time.
There was also another reason Clara did not wish to spend more time in such company. What might her guardians say or do at Mulholland House? They were so...so enthusiastic about their passions! She was not ashamed of them exactly, but more than once their unbridled remarks had caused Clara to wish to bury her head in the proverbial sand. A man like Paris Mulholland would have stories to tell for years—and he would tell them, too, in that seductive, utterly captivating voice of his.
Then, a fortnight after the Pimbletts’ ball, they received a note from a Mr. Mycroft, Lord Mulholland’s man of business in the city, detailing the travel arrangements and providing the funds. They were to go to Folkingham in Lincolnshire and disembark at the Greyhound Inn, where they would be met by a coachman from Mulholland House who would drive them to the manor.
There was no doubt, from that moment, that they would go.
Although preparing for the journey to Lincolnshire severely taxed Clara’s patience, she dared not protest. Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron now believed that Lord Paris Mulholland was something of a saint, and they would not listen to any attempt to persuade them otherwise.
Aunt Aurora, who considered her commission to paint Lord Mulholland as the beginning of a new and important phase of her career, simply could not be made to see the troubles this journey entailed. She quite cheerfully entrusted all the arrangements to Clara, with the single exception of the preparation of her painting materials.
Uncle Byron concerned himself with composing a farewell ode to the Thames and outfitting himself with what he considered the proper garb of a country gentleman, which meant tweeds and gaiters. Under no circumstances did he wish to hear that they could not afford new clothes, and Clara finally gave up trying.
The landlady of their shabby and meager lodgings proved to be completely unreasonable. She insisted that if they were going to vacate the rooms, vacate them they must, which meant packing up all their belongings and paying rent for the cellar, where they were graciously allowed to store the few pieces of furniture they owned outright.
There was also the matter of Zeus, the family cat, a large and dignified black feline. Clara wasn’t sure what to do about him, until Aunt Aurora suggested turning him over to the tender mercies of one of her artistic friends, a young woman who kept decidedly odd hours and rarely managed to feed herself, let alone a cat. Clara refused, and finally decided that since Lord Mulholland had invited “the whole household,” he would get the whole household.
Clara’s anxiety over their imminent departure was not assisted by her deep-seated dread that they would all have a terrible time in the country. For one thing, their host, who was said to be completely at the mercy of his whims, might take it into his head not to have his portrait painted at all once they arrived, and they would be left with no lodgings and perhaps having to return the twenty-five pounds, already gone to the purchase of new paints, canvas and Uncle Byron’s clothes.
That was bad enough, but the idea of living in the same house as the handsome and charming Lord Mulholland who could make her knees weak with a look was worse yet. She knew the visit was going to prove a great strain, especially if he exerted himself to seduce her. Not that she thought he could succeed, of course; she knew all the games and stratagems, even if they had not been practiced by such an attractive man. She finally decided she would simply avoid him and hope that Aunt Aurora painted quickly.
At last the day they were to leave for Lincolnshire arrived. Clara greeted it with great trepidation and considerable anxiety, and all too soon found herself wedged inside the coach for the journey north, with her aunt on one side and the basket holding Zeus on her own lap. Her uncle sat across from them with his feet sticking out into the middle of the compartment. He fell into a doze the moment the coach, with several other passengers perched on the top, lurched into motion.
Despite her misgivings, as the coach left the suburbs of London and entered the countryside, Clara found herself pleased and excited to be out of the city. She had forgotten how green and pleasant rural England could be, and how much sweeter smelling. The day was a fine one, and although the road was dusty, it was still better than London.
If only they were not going to the country home of Lord Paris Mulholland!
“Folkingham!” the coachman bellowed as the coach began rattling over the cobblestones of a village street.
Clara woke with a start and a jerk. She had fallen asleep during the last stretch of their journey. Mercifully, this final part of the ride was brief, or Clara doubted that her internal organs would ever be set right again. The jostling also managed to awaken her aunt, whose bonnet was more than slightly askew.
“We’re at Folkingham,” Clara said, grabbing Zeus’s basket with a tighter grip.
“Folkingham?” Aunt Aurora repeated, confused. As she struggled to a more upright position, she looked like a caterpillar making its way out of a cocoon, for she was encumbered by petticoats, a heavy skirt, a cloak and three shawls, having decided there was an unseasonable chill in the air that morning after they had stopped for the night. “Heaven forbid I should have the ague!” she had declared.
She had also wrapped a large scarf round her head, which was topped with a bonnet of her own design generously covered with artificial flowers. It looked more like a centerpiece than a hat. “Folkingham?” she said again.
“Yes, Aunt. We are to meet Lord Mulholland’s carriage here, remember?”
“Oh, indeed. Byron!” Aunt Aurora gave her husband a gentle kick.
“Hail, my nymph!” he muttered sleepily, blinking. He looked not unlike a turtle whose slumber has been disturbed. “Where the devil are we?”
“Folkingham,” Clara reiterated as the coach came to a stop. They felt the conveyance sway as the driver and some of the passengers climbed down. “I daresay this is the yard of the Greyhound Inn.”
She looked out the window at the large, pale orange brick building, and saw a confirming sign of that name. “I wonder if we shall have to wait long for Lord Mulholland’s carriage.”
“It matters not!” Uncle Byron exclaimed. “Such a beautiful day in the heart of a bucolic paradise! It will be a pleasure to wait here!”
He opened the door and stepped forth like a conquering hero surveying his recently acquired domain. Such was his natural grace and bearing that nobody, either from the top of the coach or the stables nearby, made any comment, and for that,
