The dressmaker had scolded that her stitches weren’t suitably petite. A family had stated her mathematics weren’t sufficient to teach their child offour years, and a housekeeper had taken one glance at her soft white gentlewoman’s hands and laughed.
Clumsy, foolish, chubby Lowdy.
She lowered her lashes, veiling him from her thirsty sight. She didn’t deserve Oliver Miggens.
“I’ve no need of any refreshment.” And she turned her back, just as she had on the beach.
Yet the clink of glasses sounded, the pouring of lemonade, and a clunk as he placed it on the ground beside her. He stood behind, close, and she denied the quiver of delight as his voice rasped, breath disturbing her nape.
“Your painting lacks emotion, Lowdy, because you do not allow emotion in yourself.”
Footsteps departed.
“Upon my word, Miss Roskruge, your depiction of the turret is magnificent,” Jack flattered, squinting.
The lady in question preened. “I’m so glad you noticed, my lord. My work, you understand, explores the relationship between Botticelli’s awareness and Bernini’s form. My art metamorphosises, created from both viewed and detected meanings.”
“Succinctly put.” And he hurriedly moved on to the next artist, glad to stretch his legs after the Ladies League had tied him in hitch knots.
Lady Coon’s offering appeared somewhat lacking in castle, so he meandered to Tamsyn who’d removed her apron and stood eating white grapes.
He peered at her canvas.
Then peered closer.
“Is that a tree?”
Tamsyn scrunched her nose. “It’s you.”
“Ah.”
“Mr Turner pronounced my painting style…loose.”
“Turner?” Jack’s eyes widened; the League’s reputation must have travelled far and wide.
“Vulgar little fellow,” shrieked Lady Bawden. “Vastly ill-bred, but I suppose he paints well enough.”
Tamsyn smiled. “I liked him,” she whispered. “He seemed shy. Came here four years ago with his sketch pads and that was when the League was initiated. We auction our offerings for the Fishermen’s Widows Society in Helston. And before you ask, Father bids for mine.”
“I shall purchase one, and upon my return to London, display it in my study.” But the statement caused a pall. Tamsyn’s brow furrowed, and a cloud dangled over this beautiful scene. He sought to banish it. “Mr Sewell is sketching a Giant’s Hand apparently. Would you care to show me the site, Miss Penrose?”
He sensed a dozen eyebrows rise but looked wholly to Tamsyn.
Blue eyes lit with pleasure, the cloud vanishing in the warmth. “Certainly.” And she took his arm.
They tramped over the rocky ground, avoiding prickly gorse and the picturesque but bored-looking sheep.
“I like this place very much,” Jack said, frowning. And he didn’t just mean this barren hill with its strange castle, but Cornwall – its people and land.
Today had been thoroughly enjoyable, relaxed yet amusing, and he’d relished watching Tamsyn paint, chewing her lip in concentration and splodging colour with no seeming relevance to reality. That tempting green choker had haunted his thoughts – even now he wished to hook a finger within it, tug, bring her near…
But the beady eye of Mrs Pencally tracked their every step closer than a fortune hunter did an heiress.
After backtracking and a bit of clambering, they found the research assistant squinting at a boulder that did indeed resemble…a boulder.
“Legends claim,” stated Mr Sewell as he finely sketched the cracks, “there was a fierce battle between two giants until a stone struck John of Gaunt and killed him. The remaining giant hurled more stones and buried his enemy’s body till only the hand remained visible.”
“Touch macabre,” remarked Jack.
