Elizabeth Mansfield by Mother's Choice

Author:Mother's Choice
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

For the two days following the encounter in the turret room, Cassie couldn't help but notice that her Lord Lucas was avoiding her. The memory of some of what he'd said that day continued to delight her, but there were other remarks she found troubling. These memories caused her to swing from hope to hopelessness and back again. It was a lonely two days. She often felt like weeping, though she didn't quite understand why. Was he right not to speak to her of love? she wondered. Did she really have to remember what it was? Hadn't her instincts, if not her memory, already taught her what its nature was?

She did not have a private word with him again until they had another accidental encounter, two days later. It was in the upstairs sitting room, where she'd come to read. She'd chosen a book of poetry from the library—Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads—which she'd begun reading the day before and was very much enjoying. But on this day, before settling herself on the sofa with her book, her eye fell on a painting hanging just above the sofa. She was studying it with concentration when Jeremy passed by the open door and spied her. "You're looking at a portrait of one of my... of Inglesby's ancestors," he said, entering the room. "A great, great aunt, I believe. Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes, in some ways," she said, throwing him a quick glance before turning her eyes back to the painting. If she concentrated on the portrait, she thought, he might not notice the palpitations that his presence had, as usual, inspired.

"In what ways, may I ask? That is no ordinary portrait, you know. It was done by Sir Peter Lely, who, I'm told, emerged after the Restoration as one of England's finest artists."

"Indeed? Yes, I can see why. Though it seems to me that the facial expression lacks depth, the composition is very fine, the colors are rich, and the brush technique beautifully rendered."

"The brush technique, eh?" He peered down at her closely. "How can you tell?"

"You can tell from the texture of the silk of her gown. See, here, how sumptuous the—" She paused, her hand freezing in its raised position. Then, lowering it slowly, she turned to him with a surprised, questioning look. "How did I know all that?"

He grinned at her. "You're a painter yourself, I think. The first time I saw you, you had a smear of yellow paint right there, on your cheek. I found it charming. When I asked you about it, you said you'd been painting lemons."

"Really? How odd."

"Not so very odd. You were probably working on a still life. Do you think you'd like to try to paint now?"

"Now?" She threw him an arch glance. "In my state of limbo?"

"Yes. Why not?"

She could see that he was quite serious. "But, my lord, I don't think I..."

"I doubt that the doctor would object, if that's what worries you. We can ask him, of course. And we can ask Lady Schofield if I'm right in my surmise about your being a painter.

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