The sirens captain, p.23
The Siren's Captain,
p.23
“Are you all right?” he asked when she remained silent in study.
He spoke with an accent, a twang that softened his speech. She had heard French, German, and Gaelic at the school, but she did not think this accent was a result of their influence.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she managed. She glanced about and found that the footmen were tossing down the luggage from the top of the carriage and the boot. The man beside her appeared invisible to the servants, who bustled past with loaded arms. He was equally invisible to the groomsmen who held the horses. None of them met his gaze as he glanced about. She wondered suddenly whether her bemused brain had conjured him, like a fairy from a mushroom circle, to grant her wish to paint. But no fairy she had ever read about dressed like a shepherd.
“You’re the chaperone from the Barnsley School?” he asked politely.
He was making conversation, and she was gawking again. She forced a smile. “Yes. I’m the school’s art teacher.”
A light sprang to his eyes, making her catch her breath anew. “You’re an artist? What medium?”
“Oil painting,” she replied a little surprised at his interest. “Although I like charcoal as well. There is a way of shadowing that gives the subject depth.” Realizing she sounded as if she were lecturing, she blushed.
“Do you prefer landscapes, objects, or people?” he prompted eagerly.
“People,” she answered.
“Classical or portrait?” he quizzed.
She was beginning to feel like the student for once. “Classical,” she responded before she could think better of it. Then, knowing how scandalous that confession was, she quickly corrected herself. “That is, I hope to one day paint portraits.”
“Have you studied, then?” he asked. “Would you know a classical piece if you saw one?”
Was this some kind of interview? She seemed to remember being asked such questions when she had arrived at the Barnsley School.
“I am self-taught,” she told him proudly. “My family did not have the funds to send me to school. But I can assure you I know the Masters.”
He grinned. “Then maybe I could show you a few of the Brentfield pieces.”
She looked him askance, still trying to determine why he was so interested. She had met few so eager to discuss her painting, even among those she painted. “Are you an artist, too?”
His smile deepened. “I’ve been called that a few times. But I work in leather, not paper or canvas.” He held out his hands, which she saw were stained brown. His smile faded. “Although my badge of honor looks like it’s wearing off. The mark of a gentleman, I guess.”
Even with his gentle voice and accent, he made it sound as if being marked as a gentleman was a shameful thing. He shook himself and offered her a smile that was a pale copy of his original. “I’d love to see your work. And I do have a project that I’d like your help on. You’ll be staying until Easter, I hope?”
“As long as the girls need me,” Hannah replied. Belatedly, she glanced up the drive after her charges. Not a single girl was in sight. She rolled her eyes at her own ineptitude. Her first assignment as a chaperone, and she hadn’t even escorted them into the house!
A tall, elderly dark-skinned gentleman in tan knee breeches, navy coat, and the undisguisable air of command, was making his way toward them. Othello Coming to His People, her bemused brain suggested.
“I’m in trouble now,” her companion murmured. “Derelict in duty once again.” He heaved a sigh, but the twinkle in his eye told her he was hardly sorry.
“You’re needed inside,” the older man intoned with a nod. Hannah wondered why the Tenants would have use for their own in-house leather craftsman, but she felt a shiver of pleasure that she would be able to see him again during her visit. Perhaps she might find a moment to help him with his work here.
The older man turned to her with a bow. “You’d be the Miss Alexander for whom the young ladies are searching?”
“She’s still beside the carriage, so they can’t be searching very hard,” her David quipped. “Now, don’t glare, Asheram. You wouldn’t want to reduce me to a quivering pulp in front of Miss Alexander, would you?”
“Perish the thought,” the man replied.
“Good. Earn your keep and introduce me the way you tell me these Brits insist on.”
The older gentleman rolled his wide-set eyes. “If you would be so kind as to tell me your first name, Miss Alexander?”
Her David leaned forward as eagerly as when he had asked about her painting and set her blushing again. “Hannah,” she murmured.
“Miss Hannah Alexander,” the man said solemnly. “May I present David Tenant, Earl of Brentfield?”
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About the Author
Regina Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages, including Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has had published more than fifty works of warm, witty historical romance.
She loves everything about England, so it was only a matter of time before she started her own village. Where more perfect than the gorgeous Dorset Coast? She can imagine herself sailing along the chalk cliffs, racing her horse across the Downs, dancing at the assembly, and even drinking the spa waters. She drank the waters in Bath, after all!
Regina Scott and her husband of more than 30 years reside in the Puget Sound area of Washington State on the way to Mt. Rainier. She has dressed as a Regency dandy, learned to fence, driven four-in-hand, and sailed on a tall ship, all in the name of research, of course. Learn more about her at her website.
Regina Scott, The Siren's Captain
