Page 29 of The Winter Companion

“Don’t.” Mr. Hayes applied a careful brushstroke to his canvas. “In case you’ve failed to notice, my aunt and Mr. Boothroyd are rapidly developing an affinity for each other.”

Clara hadn’t noticed. Or, rather, she had, but she hadn’t considered it anything more than a certain civility between two people of a similar age. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

He shrugged. “I observe things.”

“How ominous.” She forced herself to smile. “I shudder to think what you’ve observed about me, Mr. Hayes.”

His mouth quirked. “Do call me Teddy. Everyone does.”

“Very well,” she said. “But you must call me Clara.”

“Done.” He lowered his brush. “I suppose you’re going out with all the rest of them to gather Christmas greenery.”

“Would you like to go?”

“Not especially. It’s too much trouble in my condition. And I despise making a spectacle of myself.” His smile turned wry. “You disapprove?”

“I merely think you shouldn’t deprive yourself of the joy of the season.”

“Is it joyful to flounder about in the mud with my chair? Or to have my manservant carry me through the woods like a babe? You and I must have a very different definition of joy.” He dabbed his brush into his palette, deftly mixing shades of blue and yellow. “Tell me, what do you think of the way I’ve rendered the light?”

She went to stand at his side. What she saw on his canvas made her catch her breath.

He’d painted the sea—the water as it rose up over the jagged rocks beneath the cliffs. The sky above was a shadowed purple gray, out of which diffuse rays of sunlight appeared to shine down, illuminating patches of water in stormy blues and greens.

“Goodness,” she murmured. “It’s quite violent.”

“Like Turner.” A hint of pride echoed in his words.

“I’m not familiar with all of Mr. Turner’s work, but…yes, I can see the similarity. Though this seems altogether different somehow. It’s the light. The way it seeps through the storm clouds.”

“Yes.” Teddy nodded eagerly. “Yes, exactly.”

She drew back to look at him. He was just a boy, really. So earnest and passionate. “You’re very talented.”

He didn’t deny it. “Alex says there are painters in France who are experimenting with light the way I am. He means to find one who’ll teach me.” He laid down another brushstroke. “You were a teacher, weren’t you?”

She went still. “Excuse me?”

“You said so the evening we arrived. When you were talking with Tom Finchley.” He glanced up at her. “You never said so before.”

“It hardly seemed relevant. Besides, I wasn’t an art teacher.”

“Even so, I’m surprised you abandoned the profession to be a companion to elderly ladies like my aunt. You don’t seem suited for it.”

“You speak with some authority.” Clara made her voice light. As if the subject hadn’t rattled her. Hadn’t caused her pain. “Have you met many ladies’ companions?”

“No, but—”

“We’re not all alike, you know. Only consider Mrs. Finchley.”

“Yes, I daresay you’re right. Still, I think you’d have done better to remain a teacher. Who wants to be trailing after old women all day, catering to their megrims? And what’s that in your hand? Waverley? Good lord. I suppose Aunt Charlotte asked you to read it to her?”

“I don’t mind.”

“So you claim. And yet…I have the funniest suspicion that you do mind.”

Clara felt as if he’d shone a harsh light on her. As if he’d exposed her secrets to the world. Ridiculous, really. Teddy Hayes didn’t know the first thing about her. “If I’ve done something to indicate I’m displeased with my position—”