Page 49 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

One sketch stood out among the others. It depicted an aged cart horse, stocky legged and thick fetlocked, with a pronounced sway in its back. It was standing in a snowy paddock next to a smaller companion—an old hack, boasting a thin mane and a wild tuft of forelock. The two retirees rested, bodies listing toward each other. The larger horse’s muzzle was turned toward the smaller one, though not close enough to touch him.

It was an excellent rendering. True to life in its proportion, and commendable for its use of light and shadow. But that wasn’t where its strength lay. It was in the composition of the scene itself.

The whole of it gave an impression of kinship. Of solidarity against an unkind world. And more than that. There was a shelter nearby, but neither horse was beneath it. They chose instead to gain warmth from each other, despite the promise of protection nearby.

Teddy swallowed hard. “You taught yourself? Is that right?”

“For the most part.” Stella looked at the drawing with him. “Do you think it very amateurish?”

“You know it isn’t.”

“Well, I do feel it’s rather good,” she said. “But I’m not the expert.”

He looked up at her. “You have a rare talent for inspiring emotion. You should engage a drawing master to help you perfect it.”

Stella’s eyes shone. “Truly?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“No, I don’t expect you would.” She accepted her sketchbook back from him, handing him the leather driving reins in return. “I shall see if I can find a tutor when I return to Derbyshire. There must be someone thereabouts who is qualified to teach me.”

Teddy’s stomach clenched on a bewildering twinge of longing. He had the sudden, stupid wish that it might be him.

A ridiculous notion. He wasn’t a drawing master. Nevertheless…

The fragments of a picture formed in his mind. A vision of the two of them sketching together in a studio somewhere. Just he and Stella, in companiable silence. Rather like those two horses.

Shaking off the vexing mirage, Teddy gathered the reins and urged the horse forward. The restless bay walked on through the snow with a bounce in his step, taking them deeper along the edge of the wood. The torches were spaced further apart there, giving a sense of privacy in the moonlit gaps between them.

Stella tucked her sketchbook beside her. She watched him handle the ribbons. “You’re an excellent driver.”

“I don’t know about excellent, but I can manage well enough.”

“Do you drive out often when you’re on your own?”

“Not often, no,” he said. “Not alone. Jennings must accompany me. But I used to drive a good deal.”

“Used to?”

“I wasn’t always in that chair. When I was a lad in Surrey, I drove our little gig all over the village.”

“I’d rather ride than drive,” she said.

Teddy shot her a wry look. “Regrettably, I haven’t that option any longer.”

Her eyes turned thoughtful. “Did you ride? Before?”

“I did.” His brows pulled into a reflective frown. “The truth is, I preferred walking. I was a great walker. I could stroll for hours in the woods, examining the bluebells and the forget-me-nots, hoping to spark a flash of inspiration.”

“For your paintings?”

“Always. Nature provides any number of subjects. All a man must do is keep his eyes open.”

“A bit more difficult now that you paint portraits. You can’t simply walk into the woods any longer. Not if you’re trying to find a lady to pose for you.”

“Nor for any other reason.”

She flinched. “I didn’t mean—”