But he had never wanted to paint such a sky. In all those years, he had never painted the cabin, or the forest in winter, or the children barefoot at play.
He had never painted Ruth.
He told himself it was because paints were harder to come by. But had he mentioned one word of it to Blayney, the man would have returned from another one of his trading ventures with a tin paint box of oils in tow.
Why had Simon never captured the life he loved so much? Why had his paintbrushes only stroked his world here in England? Did he paint of discontent? Had he been too happy for such nonsense in America?
He did not understand himself.
Just that tonight…
He swallowed, rubbed his face. He should not think this way. He should not allow his mind—his foolish, betraying mind—to take him back to dancing in a stuffy drawing room surrounded by people who annoyed him. Everything bothered him. The grating music. The gaudy furniture. The giggling, matrimonial-minded ladies.
Everything but Miss Whitmore.
In a world where everything seemed threatening, she was earnest, kind, light, beautiful, true. She was the one thing he wanted to paint. When everything was over, when he was back in the forest and fields of home, when he knew he would never see her again.
When he knew he was in no danger of making a mistake.
“You know, of course, what it is that makes a man wander to such dark isolation, do you not?”
Simon turned to the voice, removing his hands from his pockets.
Miss Oswald’s shadowy silhouette emerged from the entrance door, and she leaned back against one of the white porch pillars, her poise relaxed and confident. “It means, in his subtle attempt to prove he wishes to be alone, he most adamantly does not.”
“You should go in.”
“Do you want me to?”
He turned for the door—
Her hand, cool and gloveless, snatched his own. “Your eyes have followed me all evening, Mr. Fancourt. Do not be so pious as to deny your temptation opportunity.”
“Very well.” He faced her, but untangled his hand. “I admit to my scrutiny of you.”
“You are not very artful. It is your duty to keep me in suspense.”
“I could not help wondering at your involvement with Patrick Brownlow.”
Her body flinched, as if he had stung her cheek with a blow. “Who told you?”
“I found one of your letters.”
“Where?”
“His town house.”
“Oh. I see.” She turned her back to him, stepped away, though a quiet laugh came trilling out. “You could have no possible way of knowing how amusing that is to me. After everything that has been done to prevent and conceal such a match, that one of those old letters should resurface is inconceivable.”
“His place was in ramshackle.”
“I have read the columns, Mr. Fancourt.”
“Someone wanted him—”
“He is gone. It little matters what anyone wants or wanted, because we seldom gain what we desire.” She faced him again, eyes luminous in the dark. “He is gone,” she breathed again. “We are not.”
“I overheard your brother speaking to him in the corridor. The day of the picnic.”
