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The morning light was just entering the room when stepped inside, highlighting the marble in the pale golden light. He stared at it, imagining the work in his mind, the shape it would take. It would be a standing pose; the marble block was too tall for the proportions to come out right for anything else.
His fingers brushed across the surface as the details sketched themselves in his mind.
Yes, a standing pose. Something to capture the gentle shyness of a feminine spirit, and at the same time, the flash of boldness and spirit Hetty had shown last night with her impish remark. A small smile quirked his mouth for the first time that morning, remembering the forthright declaration she’d made. He had made a proper fool of himself, choking on his milk like an overeager boy, but it had been almost worth it for the explanation that had followed.
Indeed, he could see it. And the idea of bringing the vision to life, capturing it in the marble to exist for centuries to come...he would relish the work. Just thinking of it lightened his mood, thoughts of his inspiration banishing his ill dreams to the shadows.
A glance at his pocket watch almost made him groan with frustration. Over two hours remained before the designated time of Hetty Smith’s arrival. While it would certainly be possible to begin without her, he did not want to risk anything that might later mar the image, should further inspiration come to him when she was in his presence.
He should have asked her to come earlier. But no, the light would be better by the time she arrived, better able to supply the natural shadowing that he favored. And had she not mentioned a family to provide for? Surely, she would need some time to see to whatever matters occupied her mornings in her usual schedule.
Ten o’clock he had requested, and it was by far the earliest he could politely ask for her presence. Even being her employer did not excuse him from the rules of propriety and courtesy. In any case, she must also drive up from London, and that was no short drive.
He needed something to occupy his time and his mind until her arrival. He was glancing around his studio, wondering if there was a small project which might hold his interest when realization washed over him.
He had pictured Hetty in a simple drape of fabric, rather like a Grecian style of dress, but there was no chance the young woman would arrive clad in the attire his inspiration had suggested for her. Therefore, arrangements would have to be made for her to change. One might suppose a model to have a limited amount of modesty, but limited was not the same as nonexistent. It would no doubt be scandalous enough for her to be in his presence without any sort of chaperon dressed in the style he had pictured for her, but it was entirely unthinkable that he should have her changing her clothing in front of him.
Nor did he have any desire to have her wandering the halls of his home in such a state of dress. Her reputation and his would both suffer if he happened to have another unexpected visitor who chanced upon her in that state. The ton and their gossip columns would whip themselves into a frenzy of speculation and sordid imaginings.
He shook away his meandering thoughts and considered the arrangements he needed to make: a changing screen, a clean cloth for the drape he wished her to wear, perhaps some ribbons for her hair, to arrange it in a style appropriate to the image.
At that, he’d need to clear a corner for her. He was by no means untidy in his work, could not stand to be, but every corner of the studio had long since been appropriated for his work in some form or fashion.
He sighed and rang for two of the servants. A manservant to assist with moving things about, and a maid to see to laying out those things a young woman might need for dressing and undressing.
By the time the arrangements had concluded, it was approaching ten o’clock with only a few minutes left to the hour. Daniel smoothed his hair from the slightly disordered state it had fallen into while rearranging the studio, and he brushed some marble dust from his shirt and cuffs. A quick examination in the mirror assured him that he was presentable.
He was also eager to begin. He had not felt so inspired or invigorated in quite some time, and as the hour struck, it took all of his considerable and hard-learned discipline to keep from pacing or otherwise demonstrating his impatience.
The chimes of the hour counted off...and there was no sign of Miss Hetty Smith. Anticipation soured and churned in his gut. Had he not warned her to be prompt and punctual?
What if she had found other employment more to her taste? Unlikely, given the few hours between their first encounter and now, but not necessarily impossible.
Had some member of her family objected to her plans? That was quite possible. He was a well-known recluse and, aside from Jackson, there were few people who knew him well enough to trust him unchaperoned with a young woman.
Yes, perhaps Miss Hetty Smith had rethought her decision to seek employment with him.
By the time the clock chimed the quarter-hour, he was almost ready to retreat to his studio and begin work, with or without his model, and let the features shape themselves as they would. He had managed before; no doubt he would again.
He was about to turn away from the window when movement at the farthest end of the drive caught his eye. He stopped.
Hetty Smith was hastily crossing the expanse of the front lawn, near running as she approached the house. Her hair was in wild disarray, blowing in the wind, and her face was flushed, both clear indications of extreme haste. In fact, she looked as if she had run the entire distance from London, or at least from wherever her carriage had deposited her.
Windblown and flushed with exertion, she was still the most enchanting woman he had ever laid eyes on.
The black mood that had stirred for her tardiness vanished like campfire smoke on the wind. How could he be unhappy when faced with such loveliness?
He made his way to the door, arriving just as Danvers opened it to reveal Miss Smith breathing heavily on his front step. “Miss Smith.”
The young woman looked at him, attempting to gather her hair back into some sense of order before she dipped him a curtsy. He caught a glimpse of a renewed flush on her countenance as she lowered her eyes. “Lord Salisbury! I—”
“I believe I told you to be punctual.” He restrained the urge to smirk at her discomfort. “In fact, I specifically commanded you not to be late.”
* * *
Henrietta woke still somewhat tired from the long night. But otherwise, she could not remember the last time she had approached a day with such anticipation. Today would see her second meeting with the Marquess of Salisbury, and she had spent nearly the entire drive home considering methods by which she might learn his preferences and his interests. So long as he was not one of those artists who insisted that their models be silent and still as the artwork they posed for, she would have plenty of opportunity.
Her nerves were thrumming with delighted anticipation as she made her way down to the breakfast table, joining her family for their morning meal at exactly half-past seven as she did every morning. The rest of her family had already settled at the table when she arrived. Her father was reading the news, her mother was engrossed in some journal or other, and her brother Andrew was cheerfully tucking into his meal. He glanced up when she entered. “Henrietta! You’re looking cheerful today.”
