This painting made me think of Mr. Dobney’s cottage in So Very Unexpected. It is the first place where he and Lydia really meet — even if they had been introduced the day before. Below is how that meeting started. (And it really did not get any better for some time — though eventually, Lydia finds that the fellow who owns the cottage into which she crept when running away has decided to be her friend, a real friend, unlike any she has ever had before.)
The first rays of sun poked their fingers through a small gap between two boards on the wall opposite Lydia. The light played with her hair and then crept across her face, tickling first her nose and then her eyelashes. Lydia swatted at the offending light and turned her head to avoid it. Her hair caught on a nail that had not been hammered in completely, and the sharp pain of the tugging woke her. She rubbed her eyes and looked around the shed. In the light of the morning, it was not quite so empty as it had been in lantern light. In one corner, there were five pieces of wood neatly stacked, but that was all — five pieces of wood and a lot of nothing else.
She peeked out the door. There was neither the smell of a fire nor a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney of the cottage. Confident she was alone, she stepped out of her sleeping spot and surveyed her surroundings. Nothing looked familiar. There were fields of grass and flowers beyond the cottage and trees behind her. To her left was a slope that descended for some distance. She had not seen any of this when they had travelled from Kympton to Willow Hall. She would have remembered it, for it was beautiful ─ the kind of beautiful that caused one to stop and admire it for hours, the kind of beautiful that inspired paintings and poems, the kind of beautiful that brought a smile to her face and peace to her heart.
After several minutes of admiring her surroundings, Lydia decided it was time to explore the cottage. Carefully, she opened the door, calling out a greeting as she did, just in case someone might be within. She waited for a reply, and when none came, she entered. Dust covered the table and the three glasses that sat turned upside down on the small cabinet next to a larger cupboard with doors. In the small sitting room, Lydia took a seat on a large chair in front of the fireplace. The back of the chair wrapped up and around her. She leaned her head against its back. Ah, she sighed with pleasure. Even though the fabric of the chair was worn so thin that the pattern was little more than a shadow, this was much more comfortable than that shed.
She allowed herself to close her eyes and enjoy the comfort for what she thought was a moment. However, when one is as tired from travelling in crowded coaches, debating with one’s relative to avoid an untenable marriage, and then walking for nearly an hour in a circular path along a road and amongst trees while fearing that some creature was going to attack her, even a moment of rest can stretch into hours.
Lydia’s weary body welcomed sleep, and just as it had in the shed, it did not wake of its own accord. However, this time it was not the gentle and playful fingers of the sun which woke Lydia but the banging of a door and a masculine voice.
Lydia tucked herself into the chair as best she could. The back of the chair was nearly turned completely toward the door, so perhaps if she were very still, she would not be noticed. She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes as she listened to the sound of boots thumping through the cottage.
Marcus Dobney peered into all the rooms in the cottage and was about to lock the door and leave when he heard a small, muffled sneeze from the sitting room. He shook his head. He had looked in that room and seen no one. Another sneeze. Ah, the chair by the fireplace! How had he neglected to check there?
He crept into the room, coming up behind the chair. “I heard you sneeze,” he said as he stood behind the chair and looked down at the occupant. “Miss Lydia?” he asked in surprise as she squealed and shot to her feet.
She whirled on him. “That was not nice. You frightened me half to death.” She placed her hands on her hips and glared at the intruder, who looked oddly familiar. “How do you know my name?”
He chuckled and leaned on the back of the chair. “It is also not nice to be stealing into cottages that do not belong to you.” He tipped his head and smirked as her eyes narrowed. She looked as defiant now as she had last evening when they had been introduced. “You do not remember me?”
[from So Very Unexpected, Willow Hall, book 3]
I love that painting and yes it’s perfect for the story. I reread The Willow Hall series just before Christmas. Love it, especially this version of Bingley!
Oh, he is my favorite Bingley! And I’m glad you liked him and the series, too.