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Which was why, after completing a fairly complex pattern on her glass, Isleen put down her brush and turned in her chair to face him. “Have you a wish to paint a lantern, Mr. Childwick?”
The others at the table quieted, and Lady Josephine added her voice to Isleen’s. “Indeed, cousin. If you would like to practice your artistic abilities, we would not deny you the pleasure.”
“I would not mind a turn with a brush,” he admitted, “but nor do I wish to deprive any of you ladies of your entertainment.”
Isleen motioned to the empty place beside her. “Bring a chair, sir. You are most welcome.”
He found a chair that would fit, and the ladies had lantern, paint, and brush settled in the spot before he sat down to it. He went immediately to work, creating a frame of white upon the glass. The talking about the table resumed, and only then did Mr. Childwick speak in a softer voice to Isleen.
“It is good of you to entertain me in Farleigh’s absence.”
“Are you and your cousin close?” she asked as she painted dots of white on another lantern, then added a lattice along the edge.
Mr. Childwick shrugged one shoulder, and the corner of his mouth came up with it. “For many years, when our families would come together, Simon and I would run off together, usually with Sir Andrew after we were old enough to attend school. He is a good friend to me, even though we haven’t seen one another for some time.”
“How wonderful that you could come for Christmas.”
“Indeed. I am grateful he invited me. My own family has been difficult to be around of late.” He looked up from an intricate holly berry design he had created in next to no time. “Everyone but me is either married or actively pursuing a career, you see.”
“Ah, that would make some conversations uncomfortable, I imagine.” Isleen hummed sympathetically. The women she had gone to school with, as young girls, had all married. It made coming together with them awkward, at times. When all they had to speak on were babies and husbands, Isleen related to them but little.
“Indeed.” Mr. Childwick added a sparkle of frost on his holly berry. “Farleigh offered me a respite. We have spoken of many things in the four days I have been here. I find he has a favorite topic of conversation, however, that he returns to again and again.”
Isleen had to nod. “His responsibilities as heir?”
The man shook his head, and then he studied her through narrowed eyes. “Is that what he talks to you about, Miss Frost?”
“Sometimes. We also discuss books. And riding. I suppose we mostly discussed history during our conversation last evening, after dinner.” She tried to think on what else they had argued about in the last several days. “And then there was the conversation regarding European dances, and whether thewaltzought to be named thus, since that is what they call nearly all dances in Prussia.”
“Ah. Is that why he demonstrated that odd dance two nights ago? What did he call it. An Irish-something-or-other.”
Isleen tried to hide her smile by ducking closer to her lantern. “I am afraid that was something of a dare I issued to him.”
“I see.” Mr. Childwick studied his lantern, then turned it to paint the opposite side. “My cousin has not visited so many topics with me. Indeed, most often, what he cares to discuss isyou, Miss Frost.”
Her paintbrush slipped, creating a long, thin line that nearly bisected her depiction of a dove. She laid the brush down and picked up the small cloth used for correcting errors on the glass. “He has discussed me?”
“Indeed.”
“Oh dear.” Imagining what Simon might say about her to others disconcerted Isleen. Immensely. She had thought they were getting along quite well of late. In fact, she had noticed a new warmth in his eyes when they spoke to one another. And she tried, with all her might, not to read into the situation.
Even if Simon’s mother seemed to like Isleen, she couldn’t hope for more than friendship. Not at the moment. Maybe never. Drat. What was he saying to others about her? She nearly asked. But she clamped her mouth shut instead.
Mr. Childwick took pity on her. That was the only explanation for his next words. “I have never heard my cousin speak with such admiration for a woman, Miss Frost. I think he sincerely likes you.”
She nearly said “oh dear” again but swallowed back the words and hastily looked around. After she made certain the others were too busy with their conversation on the subject of their gowns for the ball, she glanced at Mr. Childwick from the corner of her eye.
He grinned, then pointedly bent back toward his lantern.
When Isleen saw his work, she gasped aloud. “Mr. Childwick, you are an artist!” He had painted a scene with trees on a hill, snow falling round about, a star in the heavens, and deer walking across the bottom of it all, antlered heads bent as though they gazed upward.
“I enjoy painting,” he admitted. “It is a favorite past-time of mine.”
Her berries and snowflakes seemed like children’s drawings next to his work. “How did you manage all that with one color of paint? And without sketching it out beforehand?”
He shrugged. “I saw it in my mind’s eye, and that was enough.”
“I envy your skill, though I imagine I wouldn’t wish to devote the hours to practice that you must have. I paint only for personal enjoyment, and on rare occasions at that.” She cleaned her brush. “It must give you joy, to have an artist’s talent.”
