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‘This is lovely.’ The church was full of light, clean, in good repair. Slender columns lifted towards the high roof and the air was full of the scent of incense.
‘It is, isn’t it? Do you want to sketch? I’ll get our things.’
Theo was gone before she could respond, leaving her to wander about the wide side aisles. Light streaming in illuminated an ancient stone statue of a saint in a niche. It might have been old and battered, but it was obviously much loved. A bunch of wild flowers had been placed in a jar on its plinth and many candles had burned out in the stand at the foot of the column.
Elinor found a stool and dragged it across to a position where she had a good view. Footsteps behind her announced Theo’s return. ‘A good subject. May I use it too?’
‘Of course.’ She let him set up her easel while she emptied her satchel and found her watercolours. Mainly pencil, she decided. Soft greys with a little white chalk and colour just for the flowers, a splash of poppy red and the deep, singing blue of a wild delphinium.
Beside her Theo was humming under his breath while he flipped open a camp stool and spread a large sketchbook on his knee. There were pencils stuck behind his ear, a long thin brush in his teeth and he looked at the statue through narrowed eyes while his hands unscrewed the top of his water pot. He was definitely an artist, Elinor realised, recognising the concentration and seeing the well-worn tools. She just hoped he would not find her efforts laughable.
It was strange sitting sketching next to someone else. Theo had not done so since his tutor had given him his first drawing lessons and he was surprised to find it so companionable. He rinsed his brush and sat back, biting the end of it while he studied the results of an hour’s work. Not bad. A little overworked, if anything. The habit of producing precise drawings to show to possible clients was too engrained now to easily throw off.
His eyes slid sideways to where Elinor was also sitting back, her head on one side as she frowned at the sketchbook propped on her easel. It was turned so he could not see her work; instead he looked at her profile, puzzling over his rediscovered cousin.
She was tall for a woman, slender, as far as one could tell from that badly cut gown. There had been softness, but also firmness against his outstretched arm when he had checked her fall. Her hair, which ought to be her crowning glory, was bundled ruthlessly into a thick net at her nape, presumably to disguise it as much as possible. Doubtless she had grown up being made to feel it was a handicap. His own sisters, Jane and Augusta, had escaped the family hair, and left him in no doubt about what a tragedy it would have been if they had not.
Her hands, unprotected by gloves, were long fingered, strong and ink-stained, her walk a stride that easily kept up with his. He suspected she was unused to gentlemen paying her much attention and found that rather endearing. But why on earth did she dress as though determined to appear a frump? The hair he could understand, even though he deplored it. But why sludge brown and slate-grey gowns that seemed to have been badly altered from ones made for a larger woman?
She tipped her head on one side, her lower lip caught in her teeth, then leaned forwards and touched her brush to the paper once more. ‘There. Finished.’
‘May I see?’ Jane or Augusta would have blushed and dimpled, pretending to be too modest to let a gentleman look at their work, while all the time waiting for praise. Elinor merely leaned forwards and turned her easel so he could look. ‘That’s incredible.’
‘It is?’ She was rather pleased with it herself, but she did not expect such praise.
‘You handle the
drawing with such freedom. And the way you have so simply touched in the flowers with colour lifts the entire composition. I am envious of your talent.’
‘Thank you.’ She could not think of what else to say. She was unused to being praised and thought her work merely competent. ‘Recently I have been experimenting with a looser style. I must admit to being influenced by Mr Turner. He is very controversial, of course. It does not do for the sketches of record for Mama, of course, but I am enjoying experimenting. May I see what you have done?’
Wordlessly Theo handed her his sketchbook. The drawing was precise, focused, full of tiny detail she had not noticed. It should have been cold, yet he had changed the position of the flowers so they wreathed the ancient figure with a tender beauty.
‘But that is lovely. You saw things that I never knew were there.’
‘I am used to having to be very precise.’ He shrugged and she realised she was embarrassing him.
‘I can see that. No, I mean the way you have used the flowers to echo the curve of the mantle and highlight the sweetness of her smile.’ She handed the book back. ‘I shall look more carefully in future for the emotion in what I am drawing.’
Now she had really done it. Men did not enjoy being accused of emotion, she knew that. Theo was packing away his things somewhat briskly, but he looked up and his eyes smiled. ‘Perhaps we can learn from each other.’
I expect to be in the area for some days. A week or two perhaps, he had said. They could go sketching together again.
‘I am sure we can, if you have the time.’
‘I hope so. My plans are uncertain.’ Theo folded her easel and his own stool. ‘Shall we explore some more?’
They wandered through the church, peering into corners, admiring carvings. ‘Is your mother interested in domestic architecture as well?’ Theo asked.
‘Yes, although she has not made such a study of it. Why do you ask?’ Elinor moved a moth-eaten hanging to one side and sneezed as she disturbed a cloud of dust.
‘There is a very fine and ancient chateau in the village of St Martin, beyond St Père. I have…business with the count. Perhaps she would care to visit with me when I call. I would not be surprised if he did not invite us all to stay.’
‘Really?’ Elinor had clambered up on to a rush-seated chair to study the stained glass more closely. ‘Staying in a chateau sounds fascinating, but why should he ask us?’
‘Count Leon spent much of his life in England with his father during the French wars. They were refugees. I am sure he would welcome English visitors.’
‘You must mention it to Mama,’—who would not have the slightest qualms about moving into a chateau full of complete strangers if it interested her, Elinor knew full well. ‘Have you—?’ The ancient rush work sagged beneath her feet, then began to give way. ‘Theo!’
