I coughed and got back to business.
It seemed an eternity, but it was probably mere moments before the switch was complete. I tapped the last nail into place and righted the crate exactly where I had found it. Then I eased back, letting my hammering heart drop to a slow thud.
It was done. And if I could retrace my steps up to the next floor without raising anyone’s suspicions, all would be well.
I smoothed down the front of my waistcoat, forced a few slower breaths, and straightened, the hamper under my arm. A quick dash through the housekeeper’s rooms, and I was back outside, ready to look as if I were bored. Waiting for Elizabeth.
Except… there was Elizabeth now. She was slipping down the stairs faster than her feet could carry her, only keeping upright because she had a death grip on the railing. She was looking around frantically, and when her eyes landed on me, she moved even faster.
“Elizabeth? Was your sculpture work that bad already?”
She waved for silence. “We must not be seen! Can we hide in there?” she whisper-shouted at me.
“In here? This is the last place we should… wait, hide? What do you mean, hide? We can do no better than to stroll casually away as if nothing were amiss.”
Her head jerked to the side, and I saw her staring down the center of the spiral stairs. Her hand went to her mouth. That was when I realized the voices outside had grown from the random echo of conversation to shouts and excitement. Elizabeth ran to me and closed the door of the housekeeper’s apartments. “We must hide now!”
“What is happening? Do not be silly, I—”
“Oh, will you stop arguing, William? The Prince is here! Now! And he’s coming up to the Antiquities Academy!”
Twenty
Elizabeth
Iwasnotlyingwhen I told William—that is, Mr. Darcy—that I didn’t know the first thing about crafting clay. I had watched my father for years, but never from start to finish on any one project. And besides, Papa made vases, which I fancy must be very different to busts.
How was I even to make a pretense at this? Should I wet the clay some more? Or pinch it into eye sockets and a rough nose-shape? I could probably manage that. Where would a real sculptor begin?
But Mr. Cunningham received me graciously. It was like he didn’t even know I was hyperventilating with panic. He showed me the place I was to work, the tools laid out for me, and then presented me with two sketches of a man’s portrait. “These are the drawings Mr. Chantrey would like you to work from. As you see, there is a sketch of the front and profile. Is there anything else you require to make your beginning?”
“Oh, no,” I replied airily. “I like to pass a few moments in silent contemplation before I begin. It… ah… centers my thoughts.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Very good. Mr. Chantrey will look in on you in half an hour. Will that suit?”
I smiled. They were leaving me alone? Well… alone in a room of about a dozen male students. But I didn’t have to carry out this ruse in front of the men who would look at my work?Perfect.“Thank you, Mr. Cunningham.”
The door closed, and I drank in a long sigh. William would be finished before I could do much damage here. But I should at least look busy, because the males in the room kept glancing at me. Let me see, now… I examined the sketches and held them up before the lump of clay I had been given. This couldn’t be that hard. It was the face of some older man, no one I would recognize. Where should I start?
Well, should I pick up that knife-looking tool there and start drawing hair on the thing? A little cut here, a cut there… I stood back to evaluate the effect. Not… conventionally accurate. Certainly not Grecian curls at the forehead like the drawing, but if one closed one eye, and used a little imagination, that sort of looked like hair.
I peeked through the corner of my eye and saw one man sweeping his thumbs over the cheeks of the bust he was creating, smoothing and sculpting it to perfection. Well, I had fingers too. I could push some clay from the sides of the lump forward… there. That was almost oblong now, like cheekbones and a nose. I tilted my head and squinted. A verybignose.
That would not do. I squashed it back where it was before—roughly—and tried to re-shape it. But the more I played with it, the less pliable the clay felt. I frowned, then snapped my fingers. Water! Papa used more water when he did not like the feel of his clay.
But not that much.
Oh, dear.
How long does it take for clay to dry back out after it has been saturated into slime? I bit my lip and cringed as I evaluated the mess I’d made. At least the hair looked… smoother. Ahem.
I stuck my tongue out and closed one eye as I worked to slick the ooze off the face of the bust and find the drier clay beneath. The man in the drawing had thin cheeks, anyway. It was a good thing I wore that work gown, because I would have ruined my own by now. As it was, my arms were coated with glop up to my elbows, and I couldn’t distinguish one finger from the other any longer.
Oh, and everyone kept looking at me. Perhaps it was because I was the only female, or perhaps it was because there was a clay-tinted puddle dripping on the floor at my feet. But I felt like I was actually making progress. A little practice and I might become a true proficient at this.
That was when the shouting began.
My heart stopped. Had William been discovered? I froze in place, my hands still dripping with sludge and my eyes darting from one door to the next as more men began racing through the room. I couldn’t make sense of anything they said until I heard Chantrey himself slamming through the doors and barking orders at people.
