Page 24 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Another line, and another. She tried to imagine how the altar would look with more light, on a day that the sun shone through the windows. Her gaze wandered leftward once more, while with the tip of her middle finger, she rubbed a shadow into place.

Charcoals would certainly be a suitable medium for depicting the gloomy churchyard. The cloudy sky and gray granite stones. The human figures in the foreground, a stark contrast to the moribund scene.

Instinctively, her hand shifted to a blank space on the left side of the paper.

Four hasty lines established the window frame. The charcoal slid so smoothly across the paper she was hardly aware of making them. A smudge on the horizon, to convey the lowering clouds. Then a collection of curves and angles to suggest the stones in the churchyard—so many of them, clustered so tightly together, that she wondered whether there had been some long-ago epidemic. How had the little village weathered so many losses?

Of course she must include Mr. Tolliver, too, in his drab, practical attire. He was as necessary to the picture as the graves that he—and his father, and his father’s father—had dug.

Once she had placed the sexton in the scene, she paused to assess her work. Not her finest effort, but passable, given how little recent practice she had had in either the medium or the style.

Of course, the composition would be improved, more balanced, if she included Lord Ryland. The charcoal would work exceptionally well to capture his not-quite-black hair. And the slight stoop of the sexton’s shoulders—a natural consequence of the man’s melancholy trade, she supposed—would be better set off by contrast with the earl’s always erect posture.

Were her wayward fingers looking for an excuse to trace his shape?

That desire in itself was reason enough not to do it, though she had ample experience in making pictures that reflected nothing of her own feelings toward the subject. Art was the trade she had learned to ply to ruthlessly practical ends, no different from laying stone. Or digging graves.

Still, it would be far better if she were never caught drawing Lord Ryland again.

With a sharp breath, she dragged her attention away from the window and devoted herself to adding more details to the sketch of the altar. The perspective forced by the pillar made the space disjointed. Interesting, she told herself as she forced herself to focus on the picture she was expected to make.

She succeeded well enough that when a droplet of water splashed onto the sketch, she started. Looking up, she found Lord Ryland leaning slightly over her shoulder; she had not heard him approach.

“Forgive me,” he said as she flicked the moisture away before it could soak into the heavy paper. “I only wanted to watch you work.”

Rivulets of rainwater traced the sharply hewn edges of his cheekbones and jaw and carved unexpected waves into his dark hair. At the end of every curved lock, a droplet swelled and sparkled.

Clearly, he had been standing there long enough for one of those droplets to slip free.

“Did I spoil your drawing?” Worry shadowed his charcoal-black eyes.

She shook her head.

But he had. Or rather his absence had. The place in the sketch of the churchyard where he should have been, the space she had left empty, stared up at her now, stark as a gaping wound.

She had not fully understood something until that moment: What an artist chose not to include could sometimes reveal as much as what she drew.

“It’s quite remarkable,” he said, looking between her and the picture, “how a bit of charred wood can become the perfect implement to capture stone—in the right hands, of course.” His gaze traveled up the pillar then out across the nave. “I would not have thought this a promising vantage point. But you have made me see it all differently.”

She ought to have some reply at the ready for such remarks. She wanted, perversely, to point out to him all the things she’d done wrong. The hesitations and misplaced lines. The smears.

But no words came. The best she could do was incline her head, half in acknowledgment and half in demurral, a gesture of modesty he no doubt thought false.

After returning the charcoal to the box and closing the lid, she tucked the picture away between two other sheets and handed the whole to him to stow inside his greatcoat. Rising, she thanked Mr. Tolliver for the opportunity. Lord Ryland likewise expressed his gratitude and followed her out.

The rain had, for the moment at least, stopped. Across the street stood a shop selling all manner of goods—Price’s Mercantile, the window proclaimed. Was that where Lord Ryland had made his purchase earlier that morning? She stepped almost involuntarily toward it.

The interior of the shop was warmer and drier than the church, the gray midmorning light assisted by several highly polished lamps.

“Back again, sir?” a girl called as she bustled forward from the rear, confirming Constantia’s suspicion.

“You must be the one who told my husband about the church. Thank you.” Constantia dipped into a shallow curtsy. She took care not to falter in the lie about their relationship, a quiet reprimand of Lord Ryland, who had stopped a pace behind her.

“Oh, you’re the artist. I’m sorry we haven’t anything more in the painting and drawing line.” The girl looked around the shop, as if hoping something might materialize. “Might there be something else I can get for you?”

“As it happens, I could use a great many things,” Constantia said, trying to sound airy. “We’re on our honeymoon”—best to keep the story consistent throughout the village—“and our carriage broke a wheel.”

“Oh, dear,” said the girl, looking her up and down, lingering over the bruised cheek and rather battered pelisse. “And some of your things were spoiled in the accident, I suppose.”