Page 62 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

There was no question, nothing really to be answered, but all the same, Constantia said, “You may tell her ladyship that the painting will be done.”

It would be a bit of a stretch, requiring another long night in the studio, but she was glad to have the occupation. It kept her mind from wandering to other things, even when the subject of the portrait was Alistair himself.

She had trained herself to focus on lines and angles and brushstrokes when she painted, just as she had been trying to explain to the girls.

“Now, as I was saying . . .” She turned her attention again to her pupils, who were looking eagerly at one another, and then pointed at her sketchbook. “The portraitist must exert great control over his pencil as well as his brush, attending to the smallest detail in order to avoid making a flaw where there wasn’t one, or emphasizing an existing flaw better left omitted.”

No one was listening. The four sisters had all begun chattering animatedly to one another the moment the servant had left the room.

“A party? Here?”

“Not like Aunt Josephine to—”

“Seems to me an awful lot of fuss over a picture of Alistair.”

Constantia rapped her pencil against the table to call for quiet, which fell only when Danielle gave an emphatic “Shush!”

“You’ll come, won’t you, miss?” That was Frederica, and the question caught Constantia off guard.

“Your aunt’s message was not meant to be an invitation, I’m sure,” she explained. “Merely a polite way of informing me”—Danielle coughed at the suggestion her aunt was capable of politeness—“when she expects the portrait to be done.”

“But you’re the artist,” Harriet countered in an insistent tone. “The guest of honor.”

Constantia scoffed but Georgiana said, “Why else would anyone throw a party to look at our brother?”

Heat prickled Constantia’s cheeks as she recalled just how hungrily she had studied every detail of the man’s body. “I believe you’re forgetting that the entire purpose of the portrait is—”

“To show him off to girls with wealthy papas. Yes, yes.” Georgiana somehow sounded both bored by the explanation and aghast at the prospect.

“I was going to say ‘to highlight your brother’s many appealing qualities,’” Constantia finished, raising one brow.

Harriet tried and failed to stifle a giggle. “Many appealing qualities?” she repeated, sounding incredulous. “Can you really do all that? For Alistair? I can’t wait to see it. Oh, miss, you must come!”

Constantia felt her resolve weakening, but she managed to shake her head. “I have nothing to wear appropriate for a celebration, small or otherwise, in the home of the Earl of Ryland.”

For a moment, that restored a thoughtful hush to the room. Then Danielle said, “I have a dress you can borrow. It’s two seasons old, but I doubt that will matter.”

It was at once an extraordinarily generous gesture and a reminder of Constantia’s place. She dipped into a shallow, stiff curtsy. “Thank you.”

She hadn’t intended to accept the offer, but Georgiana and Frederica immediately seized upon it and chimed in with, “We can arrange your hair.”

“And I’ll loan you my pumice stone,” said Harriet, with a sheepish smile. Ink- and charcoal-stained fingertips were an affliction they shared.

Constantia parted her lips, on the point of giving in to the pleas—and her own wishes—when Edwina burst into the room. Her normally neat coiffure was disordered and damp. Breathless, she collapsed onto the farthest chair.

“Eddie!” Danielle gasped. “What happened?”

Edwina gave a feeble wave to indicate that answering questions was presently beyond her.

Constantia stepped into her room and poured clean water from the pitcher on the washstand into a tumbler. Parting the sea of sisters, she offered it to Edwina. “Drink this.”

While Edwina alternated between sips of water and deep, shaky breaths, the others all had a chance to examine her appearance. Her hems were muddy, which was only to be expected if she’d had a long walk. But her skirts were also torn in two places, and the palms of her gloves were scuffed and stained with something that might have been blood.

Constantia recognized all the indications that Edwina had fallen, or been pushed, onto her hands and knees.

“Tell us what happened,” Danielle urged again when her sister’s breathing had slowed a little.

“I—I was returning from the village and decided to take the shortcut across the moor, rather than be late for our lesson.” She sent Constantia an apologetic glance that pierced her to the quick. “I was almost halfway here when a t-tall man stepped out from behind a cairn and spoke to me. His voice was strange. He was strange. I started to tell him that I had nothing for him, that my basket was empty, when he reached out and grabbed me by the arm.” A collective cry rose from her audience. “My hood fell back and he looked right into my face. Oh! I shall never forget that scowl. He said something more, but by that time I was too frantic to catch the words. My basket was in my other hand, so I swung it at his head and that startled him enough that he let me go. I fled, but I stumbled, twice,” she said, plucking at the rents in her skirt, “and fell down. I raced all the way home.”