course"—he grinned like a boy with his finger in the jampot—"you're so tiny no one else would
ever fit them."
An unexpected warmth blossomed in Merry's chest. Why, he's worried about me, she thought. And doesn't want me to feel I'm taking charity. How sweet it was! And how comically unnecessary. Her
father could buy a hundred velvet gowns and never miss a shilling.
She pressed her glove to her mouth to keep her laugh inside. "Thank you," she said, obliged to turn her twitching face to the window. "You're very kind."
It was beyond foolish, of course, but she found herself wondering just how long she could draw her employment out.
Five
Their days settled into a pattern the return of the servants did not break, since the staff never bothered Nic unless he called them. A motley lot, their presence spoke volumes about his openness of mind.
Merry doubted her mother would have hired even one of them. The butler, whom she'd met, was too rough in appearance for so visible a position. The cook had the interesting habit of preparing what she thought Nic ought to eat rather than what he asked for. The maid was pert, the elderly gardener could barely hobble around, and the newest member of the staff, a gangly teenaged boy, hid his face with a succession of ugly scarves—like a monster from a tale by LeFanu.
Happily, Merry's room was swept and her linens washed without her having to ask. She'd surmised her position was similar to a governess, but hadn't known what protocol required. Either the servants knew
or had gotten their instructions from Nic. He ruled them like a genial if absentminded king. She could
tell they were proud to serve him, as if his standing in society enhanced their own. Certainly, they
viewed the facilitation of his art as their foremost responsibility.
The center of this eccentric little empire, Nic would rap on her door each dawn to catch the light, grumpier than she, even after his morning coffee. She'd pose until darkness fell or his hand grew too
stiff to hold the brush. He spent most of his time doing studies. Esquisse , he called them, after the French. She gathered they were a sort of practice painting in which he worked out color and composition for the real painting to follow. He did them either on canvas or heavy paper coated with white size, depending on how many canvasses he'd prepared the night before. His supply didn't last long, so quick was he to discard some in disgust, often scraping a painting down mere minutes after beginning it. Each time he did, the back of Merry's neck would tighten as if she'd done something wrong.
He didn't like to converse while he worked, but finally she couldn't keep silent anymore. "Why must you destroy these pictures?" she demanded. "Why not save them and choose the best when you're done?"
He raised his brows as if she were simple, but he answered. "I'm not like the old-style painters who start with a dark ground and work toward white. I begin with white and lay progressively darker shades on
top. Because of this, I cannot rework as much as they do. My initial composition must be right."
That may have been true, but Merry knew a half-mad perfectionist when she saw one.
His mood turned increasingly inward as the days progressed, leaving her so stultified with boredom she barely noticed when he had her pose without her drawers. For an active young woman, the job was torture. The only advantage to the monotony was that sometimes she could trick him into answering her questions. Not often, though. Most of the time, his distraction made him curt.
"Where did you grow up?" she'd ask.
"North," would be his surly answer.
"Who sent you that letter this morning?"
"No one," he'd snap, then stride over to adjust her chin.
He kissed her sometimes when he did this, a brusque smack on her lips that left her humming from
head to toe.
She was miffed to discover she could be silenced by a
ever fit them."
An unexpected warmth blossomed in Merry's chest. Why, he's worried about me, she thought. And doesn't want me to feel I'm taking charity. How sweet it was! And how comically unnecessary. Her
father could buy a hundred velvet gowns and never miss a shilling.
She pressed her glove to her mouth to keep her laugh inside. "Thank you," she said, obliged to turn her twitching face to the window. "You're very kind."
It was beyond foolish, of course, but she found herself wondering just how long she could draw her employment out.
Five
Their days settled into a pattern the return of the servants did not break, since the staff never bothered Nic unless he called them. A motley lot, their presence spoke volumes about his openness of mind.
Merry doubted her mother would have hired even one of them. The butler, whom she'd met, was too rough in appearance for so visible a position. The cook had the interesting habit of preparing what she thought Nic ought to eat rather than what he asked for. The maid was pert, the elderly gardener could barely hobble around, and the newest member of the staff, a gangly teenaged boy, hid his face with a succession of ugly scarves—like a monster from a tale by LeFanu.
Happily, Merry's room was swept and her linens washed without her having to ask. She'd surmised her position was similar to a governess, but hadn't known what protocol required. Either the servants knew
or had gotten their instructions from Nic. He ruled them like a genial if absentminded king. She could
tell they were proud to serve him, as if his standing in society enhanced their own. Certainly, they
viewed the facilitation of his art as their foremost responsibility.
The center of this eccentric little empire, Nic would rap on her door each dawn to catch the light, grumpier than she, even after his morning coffee. She'd pose until darkness fell or his hand grew too
stiff to hold the brush. He spent most of his time doing studies. Esquisse , he called them, after the French. She gathered they were a sort of practice painting in which he worked out color and composition for the real painting to follow. He did them either on canvas or heavy paper coated with white size, depending on how many canvasses he'd prepared the night before. His supply didn't last long, so quick was he to discard some in disgust, often scraping a painting down mere minutes after beginning it. Each time he did, the back of Merry's neck would tighten as if she'd done something wrong.
He didn't like to converse while he worked, but finally she couldn't keep silent anymore. "Why must you destroy these pictures?" she demanded. "Why not save them and choose the best when you're done?"
He raised his brows as if she were simple, but he answered. "I'm not like the old-style painters who start with a dark ground and work toward white. I begin with white and lay progressively darker shades on
top. Because of this, I cannot rework as much as they do. My initial composition must be right."
That may have been true, but Merry knew a half-mad perfectionist when she saw one.
His mood turned increasingly inward as the days progressed, leaving her so stultified with boredom she barely noticed when he had her pose without her drawers. For an active young woman, the job was torture. The only advantage to the monotony was that sometimes she could trick him into answering her questions. Not often, though. Most of the time, his distraction made him curt.
"Where did you grow up?" she'd ask.
"North," would be his surly answer.
"Who sent you that letter this morning?"
"No one," he'd snap, then stride over to adjust her chin.
He kissed her sometimes when he did this, a brusque smack on her lips that left her humming from
head to toe.
She was miffed to discover she could be silenced by a
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