Could she in fact be The Witness?
Many would say that women could not draw such horrors, their temperaments too delicate. But he’d been a soldier, seen women bury their menfolk with mattock and tears and courage, watched camp followers hold down writhing men while the surgeon’s saw did its grisly job. He’d witnessed the hardship that war had wrought upon the womenfolk of many a town… Yet stillthey endured, fended for their families, with no time for delicate temperament.
“Angel knows ’bout plants too.”
Miles snapped the chair forward. “How do you mean?”
“I were in a pretty bad way during m’first stint in hospital, and I were rambling about my childhood in Essex. Ever so patient, she were, at listening. I said how I longed to see an English bluebell before I cocked m’toes, so she drew me one. Here, open that drawer. I still keep it close. Reminds me of m’parents, gawd bless their souls.”
Miles realised his hand was trembling as he reached for the drawer, his emotions in turmoil but his mind oddly sharp.
The drawing was torn from a notebook – a perfect bluebell.
Dempster leaned over. “Next time she came, even brought some pastels with her and coloured it fer me. Good, innit?”
“Yes,” he barely managed to rasp. “It’s perfect.” Magical and lifelike, as though you could lift it from the page and smell its scent.
An everlasting flower captured upon paper.
And he would know the artist anywhere.
17
“ALL FALSE PRETENCES, LIKE FLOWERS, FALL TO THE GROUND.”
(MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO)
Verity stilled upon the sofa and listened as Jenkins the butler buttled down the hall to answer the knock of a caller.
Her cousin was paying an afternoon visit to the Duchess of Somersby, the two of them having found much in common at the art exhibition as regards fabrics and fashion. Verity, however, was behind schedule with Lady Rentree’s feline portrait and so had remained at home in order to varnish it. With the canvas set aside to dry in her studio, she had brought her pastels and notepad to the parlour.
Alas, her muse had been most uncooperative.
A fictitious landscape had been her intention, of rolling hills sheltering a verdant valley, yet nothing had felt right, her fingers clumsy as though the pastel stick was an object foreign to her.
She heard the front door open.
“May I call upon Miss Seymour, if she is at home?”
At Miles’ voice, she gulped. He’d never called before.
Why was he here?
To question her further? She glanced down at herself.
Then jumped to her feet, threw off her smock, dashed to the chest, shoved it in a drawer, hurried back to the sofa, grabbed her notepad and pastels, thrust them into a basket. Then rammed that into a cabinet.
She raced to the mirror, noted a splodge of burnt umber pastel upon her cheek and frantically rubbed at it with her sleeve. Then rubbed at her sleeve with a handkerchief.
Having grabbed a book from the shelf, she flung herself into the sofa cushions, breathed deep, patted her hair smooth and began to read.
Cecily licked her dry lips and the Count’s expression darkened with diabolical intent…
Oh lud.
The door opened and she nonchalantly peered over one shoulder. “Yes, Jenkins?”
“Lord Stonewold to call upon you, Miss Seymour.”
