She leaned her back against the thick door, resting a hand on her heart, feeling it race against her touch. The fire crackled merrily in the corner and she glanced around.
“Oliver?” Her voice echoed into the silence, but there was no sign of Oliver, the Duke’s half-brother and ward.
On any other occasion, Harriet would not have minded the boy’s company, but at that moment, she needed peace and quiet.
“I wish that more parties were library parties,” Harriet murmured as she moved further into the room. “Books are far better company than people.”
She dug around in her reticule as she approached the desk, pulling out a pencil and small sheet of paper. Glancing over her shoulder once more to make sure no one was there, she began to sketch, letting the feelings in her body flow from her pencil to the paper.
Her heart slowed as the sketch took shape, the vice around her chest eased. She drew a rabbit sleeping in the roots of a tree, a crown of daisies on its head. The sight of it all alone made her feel uneasy, so she added brambles, forming a protective barrier for the sleeping creature. She did not sign it; she never did.
“There. That will do nicely.” She smiled and folded the paper, her eyes going to the shelves. “Now all we have to do is find you a home.”
Harriet leafed through the books, trying to remember which she had left sketches in before. She looked at the sleeping rabbit; in the firelight it seemed to breathe. “Do not worry – I will find you a good home, I have been doing this for years in all sorts of places all over the country. I like to make sure all my little drawings have somewhere that feels right. And who knows, someone might find you and you might bring them joy?”
She nodded to the picture in her hand. It felt so much easier talking to these drawings than people. She did not have to worry about her words or that they would think her odd. She just had to be herself.
“What about Shakespeare?” She let her fingers drift across the spines. “Nothing too serious of course, and something with a happy ending.”
Her eyes lingered onA Midsummer Night’s Dream. “This will do nicely.”
She took the book down from the shelf, slipped the sketch inside and replaced it. She let herself imagine someone finding the drawing, trace it with their fingertips and smile at the whimsy. She could almost picture someone studying it, puzzling out the story of the rabbit and the artist who created it.
But that would mean being seen.She could not tell if the thrill within her chest was one of excitement or fear. The fantasy was nice, the idea that her sketches might bring joy to someone else made her smile, but something tugged within her that she pushed to one side.
In the years she had been doing this, no one had bothered to keep her pictures. Perhaps they wanted to keep sharing them with others.More likely, no one feels particularly drawn to them.
She ignored the pang in her chest and swallowed, “I may as well check on the others while I’m here.”
She pulled down a couple of other volumes, expecting to see her sketches, but to her surprise, there was nothing there. Her heart sped up.
“Someone kept them?” Something warm sparked to life, reminding her of moments as a child and finding an unexpected gift from her parents.
A smile spread across her face as she imagined someone finding her sketches and liking them enough to keep them. It made her heart flutter and twist in her chest.
More likely someone threw them away.The thought brought her up short, the smile vanishing instantly. She hastily returned the book to its shelf but in her haste, dislodged another and sent it tumbling to the floor.
“Drat!” Harriet bent to pick it up, and as she did, a bit of paper fell from the volume.
As Harriet unfolded it, she realized that it was one of her sketches. But someone had handled it. There were creases all over it, as though it had been folded and kept in a pocket for months. Not carelessly—there were no stains, and whoever handled it had been careful to fold it in such a way that the drawing would not come to any harm.
Her heart soared at the thought that someone would like something of hers enough to keep it with them. Her mouth went dry as she spotted something else – there was writing on the page.
“If you are the artist, find me.”
She read aloud, her stomach twisting itself into a knot as her blood thundered through her body.
The words were written in a bold, clear, authoritative hand. Though as Harriet peered at them, she could not help but appreciate a certain beauty in the penmanship. She turned the page over, but there was nothing else written on it.
“Rather hard to find you if you will not leave me an address.” Harriet frowned. “More to the point, why do you wish to find me?”
Her mind filled with the image of a man – only a man, and a powerful one at that, would write such a command to a perfect stranger, – writing this note to her, so enraptured was he by her art. She squashed down her imagination hard.
“This is not some silly novel, this is the real world,” she reminded herself, but she could not help but pick up the book the page had been in and flick through it, hoping for some other clue as to where she might find this mystery person.
“Hettie?” a voice behind her made Harriet jump, hastily closing her hand around the book and drawing, as she turned to face Fiona and Catherine. “What have you got there?”
“Nothing.” Harriet winced at how high her voice was. “I mean… it is just a book.”
