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eagerly.
    “Just outside of Washington, near Virginia. The plantation borders the eastern coast of America, so it is a fairly easy trip. I do not have to bushwhack my way across the frontier, or forage through the wilderness.”
    She laughed and almost hit his arm reprovingly in jest, but stopped herself before she did something so familiar. It was for the best this man was leaving. She was beginning to feel dangerously attracted to him and his easy ways.
    “I would love to see America one day,” she said longingly.
    “Perhaps you shall.” He turned and looked at her. Their eyes met and she trembled slightly with anticipation. For what, she knew not. He swallowed and continued, “But today, we shall see more of Bath.” He began walking again. “Is there anywhere to procure an ice in Bath?
    By the time they made it back down the path into the town, dark clouds were forming and the wind was beginning to howl.
    “Are you sure you want an ice, Mr. Abbott?” she asked doubtfully.
    “At this point, I will be happy to escape a soaking. Do you know anywhere we may take shelter quickly?”
    Her bonnet blew off and she barely caught it. But when Mr. Abbott looked at her, with a look she could not name, his mouth was gaping at her riot of curls tumbling about her. She had done her best with it that morning, but having had to wash the oil out from the ball meant it was at its wildest. She had no team of maids to dress her hair every day. She hastily tried to re-pin it and nodded towards the nearest shop she was certain of welcome. Mr. Abbott led her into the colourist’s shop, where she used to spend hours carefully selecting canvas, brushes and colour. It would be torture being there, seeing the pity on old Mr. Scott's face. Were it only herself, she would have rather braved the storm and returned home.
    ***
    “Miss Lambert, is that you?” The hair always gave her away. She turned to see Mr. Scott, her old friend and painting teacher, was now an old man.  
    “Mr. Scott, it is I. How are you?”   She held out her hands and greeted him.
    “It has been too long, my dear.” His face filled with sadness.
    “It has.” They need not speak about why, for they both knew.
    Remembering Mr. Abbott’s presence, “Forgive me. I was trapped in nostalgia. May I present my friend, Mr. Abbott—Mr. Scott.”
    “A pleasure.” Mr. Abbott made a courteous bow. “It is a shame Miss Lambert has given up painting. Her talent is rare.”  
    “Aye. Many people fancy themselves masters, but hers is real talent. I still keep some of her work in my studio.”
    “You do?” She could not remember any of her works that would be worth keeping that had not already been sold.
    “May I see?” Mr. Abbott asked eagerly.
    “Of course, right this way.”  
    There in his own studio, where he taught lessons on occasion, were two of her early works. One, a still life, the other was of a horse grazing in a pasture.
    “Those were my first paintings,” she exclaimed as she walked over to them.
    “Yes, but you showed great promise even then. I use them to instruct my current pupils.”  
    “They are lovely, but I confess the landscape to be my favourite,” Mr. Abbott said thoughtfully as he looked them over.
    “Perhaps because I enjoy landscapes most. I have always thought heart shows through an artist’s work.”
    “I wish I still had the landscapes,” Mr. Scott said regretfully.
    “Mr. Scott was kind enough to sell some of them for me.”
    “My offer still stands if you ever decide to paint again.”
    She shook her head. “You are most kind. But I have no time. I cannot leave my mother for so long.” She looked out the window. “And it looks as if the storm has let up. It was lovely to see you again, Mr. Scott. Thank you for the shelter.”
    They walked quietly up the rain soaked hill to her rooms.
    Mr. Abbott spoke: “What other landscapes have you painted?”
    “Most were down by the Avon near the Pulteney Bridge—I especially