Page 92 of Souvenir Heart

“You do fine work.”

He waited to see if she’d add, for a forger. When she did not, he shrugged, “For a draftsman. It keeps me entertained.” It keeps the demons at bay.

“Judging by your sketchbook, it appears you find a great deal to keep you entertained. You have quite the eye for detail. And people.”

An outsider looking in.

“Though, you might consider loosening up your lines, being a bit freer with them.”

“My work isn’t in a class with yours.” He wished he could have saved more of her paintings. “Not even close. You are a true genius.”

Her winged brows drew together. “Now, I know you’re mocking me.”

“Not at all.”

She cocked her head. “Flattering me?”

“Do I seem like a flatterer to you?”

She laughed, the sound as delicate and golden as the light surrounding them. “Indeed, it does not appear to be your forté.”

“I leave that to Andre.”

Her laughter was infectious, and he couldn’t help laughing, too. The sound echoing off the limestone walls of the quarry and vanishing into the darkness. When was the last time he’d laughed with a woman?

“I’d hoped to display my work at the Louvre,” she said, hugging her knees. “The Revolutionary government changed the rules two years ago; women are now allowed to compete to show their work there. Then, my husband fell ill, so I had no time to prepare last year. But this year….” her voice wavered; she hugged her knees more tightly.

“You can still show your work. In London. At the Royal Academy. You’re every bit as good as Maria Cosway. Better.”

“I can’t.”

“Because your hands shake when you try to draw?”

She looked at him, frowning. “How do you know about that?”

“It will pass. You just need to go slowly, to give yourself time.”

“Time?” Her laugh was bitter, acid infusing the gold. “You’ve agreed to return me to my father, have you not? I saw the sum he’s offered in your sketch book. It’s enough to tempt any man.”

Even you. She left the words unspoken, the disappointment that he was not a better man.

“My father will never allow me to do something so vulgar as painting professionally. Displaying my work publicly. Even if he thought I had a talent for it. Which he does not. In his mind, women should only paint as private amusement, and then only watercolors of flowers.”

“What about Madame Vigée le Brun?”

“The height of vulgarity. Only admitted to the Louvre Salon because the Queen made the King order it—his words, not mine.”

“Madame Labille-Guiard?”

“You know her work? I studied with her.” Marguerite shook her head. “I’d have to start over.”

“Not entirely…”

“Not entirely?” She repeated, voice rising in disbelief. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to produce the work you saw in my studio?”

“I do.” It was why he’d felt compelled to take her paintings with him. David had concealed them in one of the coach’s secret compartments beneath the coach’s benches.

“Then, how can you say…”