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Yes, that would mostcertainly be true. He might have agreed to have her model for his work, but surely, he would have no more interest in her than that. A pretty face for his newest sculpture, which would be all Hetty Smith was to him. And that was all for the best.
And yet, I daresay getting to know His Lordship might be more difficult than I expected, if he is always this brusque.
* * *
Daniel shut the door on his visitor, then turned and strode toward his workroom, his mind afire. Only minutes ago, he had bemoaned his lack of inspiration...only to have his prayer answered in the most exquisite fashion!
The rough, unfinished marble rose up out of the dimness of the room, but already to his eyes it looked different. No longer a symbol of frustration, now only a rough beginning, awaiting the touch of his muse to form it into polished perfection.
He moved forward, studying the stone, brushing his fingers across the surfaces as he mapped out the face that had only just left his home—but not his mind.
Hetty Smith. By the stars, I asked for inspiration and she is perfect. The marble, it needs only a little work to display her likeness, and she has a figure well-suited for subtle curves and the lines of sculpture. Indeed, the stone is almost the same alabaster shade as her skin. All the better for matching art to life.
His hand traced the planes in contemplation.There is no method by which the stone can capture the blueness of her eyes or the hues of her hair, but a simple style and an open, contemplative expression, with a Grecian style drape that invites the eyes but discloses only hints. Her figure is well suited for it. Yes, such an image...the marble will take such an image, and they will make each other radiant: the marble’s pale hues melded to such slender beauty.
Yes! He could see it in his mind and had no doubt of the wonder he could craft when the living model was before him. His hands itched to take up chisel and file and get to work at once.
Instead, he forced himself to turn away, to remove the heavy working smock and lay it aside, straightening his shirt sleeves and collecting his outer garments. Once he was collected, he removed himself from the room, signaling Danvers that he was ready to retire to his bed.
He longed to commence work at once, but he knew from sustained experience that patience was required. Better to wait for the quality of light offered by the morning and for the return of his inspiration. Rather, the source of it. His art would proceed more swiftly with the young woman to use as a visible reference, and the natural light offered by the day would suit his needs far more than gas and candlelight. Though candlelight...there were intriguing possibilities there. The way it might refract off her skin, her hair, the subtle curve of her bosom—
No, he would not think such thoughts. The young woman had come to him for employment, and he would do honorably by her. It was enough to have her presence in his studio for however long it took for him to complete his labors. He did not need to entertain any further imaginings.
Daniel readied himself for bed, finishing the still-warm milk that Danvers had silently provided for him and making a perfunctory effort at washing away the dust of his work, before sinking into his pillows with a sigh of satisfaction. As the dark overtook his senses, his thoughts returned to his newest muse.
Hetty Smith. Inspiration indeed. I think I shall be quite pleased, and more than inspired, if she looks half as well by daylight as she did in my front receiving room this evening.
CHAPTERFOUR
Blood. Blood and dirt. The stench filled the air, one of blood and mud and fire. The world was red with blood and fire, and blackish-brown with churned-up earth and smoke. Enough to choke a man, thick and clinging so that a man might see that he breathed air and feel as though he breathed nothing but ash and his own blood.
He strove to find some place of safety, some place of light and perhaps a bit of blue sky, but there was nothing. Only leaden clouds and clouds of smoke and blood-rinsed ground.
And screams. Screams of the desperate, of the wounded and the dying and the despairing men who yet walked but no longer had any hope to drive them, only the clawing urgency of wounded animals striving to survive the monstrous environs of the battlefield for one more minute, one more hour, one more day.
A shadowed figure, dark and barely distinguishable from the surroundings, lurched at him, and he flung up his blade to meet it. Too close-quarters for any other weapon than knives, though he clutched his pistol in one white-knuckled and bloodied fist, his gloves long since worn to tatters and more encumbering than a protection.
Weapons clashed, red streamed, hot and bright and ugly in his darkening vision, and pain sliced up from his side as his shadowed opponent got past his guard. He screamed and stumbled back and fired his pistol and the figure fell, and both their screams mingled in the ash-choked air.
Daniel shot upright in his bed, chestheaving. Outside the curtained windows, he detected the faintest lights of sunrise. Damnably early then. He rubbed one hand over his face, then down to absentmindedly press against the side of his ribs.
There was a scar there, he well knew. He remembered receiving that wound, and far too many just like it in his nightly revisiting of the battlefield.
And he would be far happier if he could stop remembering that day and others just like it during his nightly rest. Living through the battles had been hellish enough the first time.
With a grunt, he flung the covers aside and rang for the servants to ready his bath and lay out his clothing. There was no point in seeking more rest, for he’d find none. He knew that well enough from experience. Danvers appeared a short time later, and he requested informal clothing, one of his working suits, and a light breakfast with strong coffee. Danvers only nodded, having become accustomed to mornings such as this in the months since he’d arrived.
As well he should.
When was the last time I slept a night through, or slept in? At least without poppy in my nightly drink? I cannot remember. No more than I can remember dreams that were not full of memories I should rather forget.He shook his head irritably.I had hoped that inspiration would find me pleasanter dreams as well as a source of beauty for my work.
He tended to his toilette in a desultory fashion, bothering with washing up and a shave only for appearances’ sake, for he’d rather have forgone the effort. Still, it would not do to show a guest, no matter that she was a working girl temporarily in his employ, a slovenly face or fashion. God only knew what ideas she might get about him, and what rumors might spread if he showed himself to her in a less than presentable state two appearances in a row.
Thoughts of his newest muse, his newly-employed model, occupied his mind through breakfast, a topic of thought he much preferred to the musings of his usual mornings, especially the ones that followed such vivid memories of his nightmares.
Danvers brought him a collection of papers opened to their society pages, but he set them aside without bothering to read them. He had no desire to spend time this morning reading about pretty, vapid little ladies flitting about in their gowns and powders, or gentlemen doing the rounds of business and political niceties, acting as if these were matters of import when there were men on the Continent tearing each other apart with a savagery that would make a starving wolf pack look tame by comparison.
He set aside the remainder of his breakfast, appetite gone, and rose from his seat. He rang the servants to clear the table and made his way to his studio, informing Danvers along the way to turn away any guests that might happen by, save for Miss Hetty Smith.
