CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ARABELLA SET UP her easel and gazed at the scene in front of her. The estate was spread out at her feet: the parkland and woodland in their different shades of green, the mellow honey-colored Priory tucked in its sunny hollow, the lazy glint of the brook, the broad windswept hump of Blackdown. And above, a blue sky with a few wisps of white cloud.
She hummed as she prepared her paints. Such a beautiful place, this. Magically beautiful. The days ran together, full of sunshine and beauty. Even when it rained, the Priory still felt as if it was bathed in sunlight—the golden stone, the beauty, the sense of safety.
There was so much peace here: in the cloister where roses unfurled their petals and filled the air with their scent, in the walled gardens behind the Priory where fruit trees and vegetables grew in tidy, cheerful rows, in the long stone-flagged passageways with their high-arched ceilings, even in the cool, fan-vaulted cellars. Everywhere, there was peace.
Roseneath Priory felt apart from the world. It felt safe. It felt home.
Arabella stopped humming. Roseneath Priory wasn’t her home; it was Adam St. Just’s.
But I want it to be mine.
She glanced at the scene in front of her: meadows and stands of trees, the Priory. This would be hers if she married St. Just.
Arabella frowned as she selected a brush. Was it the Priory she wanted, or Adam St. Just, or both?
It was an important question; one she needed to know the answer to. To marry St. Just because she wanted his home would be a terrible mistake to make.
Arabella tested the brush between her fingertips. The tuft was soft and flexible. Do I want to marry him?
That first night—the rug, the firelight, the candlelight—seemed almost a dream. She had spent most of the past three days in Grace’s company. St. Just, when she’d seen him, had played the host, not the lover—but she could vividly remember the lover: his gentle touch, his murmured words.
Her skin shivered in memory.
Arabella cleared her throat. She focused on the easel, on the sheet of paper. She had penciled in the outlines yesterday, very faintly. Today she would make a start on the brushwork.
THE PRIORY WAS painted, in warm tones of yellow and brown, and the sky with its wisps of clouds, when she heard a horse approaching.
Arabella turned her head.
Adam St. Just was coming along the hillside towards her astride a big bay gelding.
Her fingers tightened around the paintbrush. Her heart began to beat faster.
The big bay came up to the blanket she’d spread on the grass and halted. St. Just bowed in the saddle. “Miss Knightley,” he said. “Bella.”
Arabella swallowed nervously. “Good afternoon.”
He wore the clothes of a country gentleman: dun-colored coat, plain waistcoat, breeches, and top boots. He looked much more approachable than he did in London.
She put down the paintbrush.
“Don’t stop,” St. Just said.
“The paint needs to dry before I start the next section.”
“Then perhaps you’ll have a glass of lemonade with me?”
She glanced at him in query, and saw the small basket tied to the saddle.
Arabella slowly cleaned the brush while St. Just laid the contents of the basket on the blanket: a flask of lemonade, macaroons, plates and glasses and napkins. Where should she sit? Close to him? At a distance? For a long moment she hesitated, and then chose a spot that was close to him, but not too close. A friendly distance.
St. Just poured a glass of lemonade and handed it to her. “Grace didn’t want to paint?”
“She had letters to write.” Arabella tasted the lemonade. It was cool and tart, delicious.
St. Just politely offered her a macaroon. It was still warm from the oven. She took one and bit into it, tasting sugar and coconut. She watched as he poured himself lemonade and selected a macaroon. He’d taken off his hat and riding gloves. He had strong, lean hands.
Arabella remembered how his hands had felt on her skin. She looked hastily away, feeling suddenly awkward. St. Just had touched her so intimately—
She stared down at the glass she held. Condensation beaded on it.
“May I?”
She glanced at him. He gestured to her sketchbook, lying closed on the blanket.
“Of course.”
She sipped the lemonade and watched St. Just turn the pages. The book was one she’d started since coming here. The first few pages were filled with sketches of the windows, the gothic tracery, the trefoils and quatrefoils. Then she’d drawn the cloister and its roses, the library with its canopied alcoves, the walled kitchen gardens.
Next came the little chapel, where she’d sat in an oak pew with the rest of the household while St. Just had given a reading that was simple and sincere and had made her grandmother murmur with approval. After that came various views of the estate, of the ridge of Blackdown with its pines and wild heather.
Above them, a skylark sang. She heard the drowsy hum of bees, the sound of St. Just’s horse cropping grass, the rustle of paper as he turned each page. Her memory of that marvelous, frightening hour on the rug faded; her awkwardness became that of an artist. What did St. Just think of each sketch? Did he see the mistakes she’d made—or the greater picture? Could he see her love for his home?
He gave a snort of laughter.
Arabella put down her glass. “What?” she said, shifting closer to him on the blanket.
“This.”
She looked over his arm. Ah, he’d come to the caricatures she’d drawn for Grace: the butler, Fiscus, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bidwell.
She bit her lip and glanced at St. Just. Laughter creased the corners of his eyes.
Arabella was conscious of a flush of pleasure. He liked the caricatures.
She returned her gaze to the drawings, examining them. Fiscus was a stork, with his height, his thin arms and legs, his long face and jutting beak of a nose. Mrs. Bidwell was a bustling hen, round-cheeked and plump and
