Silent Melody by Mary Balogh Page B

shrug does you no credit. Appearances do matter, especially in one who is the daughter of an earl and one who is to be a baroness and wife of the head of a family. I have younger sisters, who will look to you as a model of appearance and behavior. I do not believe your deafness can be used as an excuse for such shocking impropriety.”
    Emily frowned in incomprehension. Why was he angry? She looked into his eyes and raised her chin. She did not often feel anger, but she felt it now in response to his. Though she realized that her appearance
was
improper and that after five days it must be a shock to him to see her thus on the sixth. He was speaking hastily, before he had given himself time to digest what he had seen and to react more rationally.
    She watched him draw a deep breath and watched his frown lessen in ferocity. Perhaps he had realized his mistake. Perhaps he would apologize for his hasty and hurtful words, beg her pardon. Perhaps he would smile at her and she at him. Perhaps they would even laugh together. And perhaps she would run back to the house ahead of him and change into more acceptable clothes, and there would be an end to this unfortunate encounter.
    But his eyes had moved beyond her shoulder and focused on her painting. Her first instinct was to move across in front of it, to block it from his view. But she did not do so. It struck her suddenly that through her painting she could communicate with him for the first time beyond smiles and nods. She could show him something of her inner self. She felt terribly afraid and almost breathless in anticipation. She moved to one side and watched his face.
    His brows snapped together again. He gazed at her painting rather as he might at a poisonous snake. He turned to her after he had gazed long and hard.
    â€œYou
did this?” he asked.
    She nodded. Why was he angry?
    â€œBut what
is
it?” His polished manners seemed to have deserted him yet again.
    It was not obvious, then? Her painting was no substitute for words? She lifted her arms and indicated the trees around them. Then she raised her arms to the sky, stretching her fingers tautly upward, and closed her eyes. Then she looked at him again.
    â€œI see no trees or sky in the painting,” he said. “Did his grace not hire a drawing master or a governess capable of teaching watercolors when you were in the schoolroom, Lady Emily?”
    She nodded.
    â€œMy sisters have had the good fortune to enjoy the services of a very superior governess,” he said. “They all paint charmingly. I have paintings of theirs hanging in my study and my bedchamber. They have been taught to create gentle beauty out of the world around them.” She watched him intently. It seemed important to see every word he spoke.
    God
had created gentle beauty. And ferocious beauty too. She had no interest in slavishly copying what had already been done. But perhaps to people who could hear—and talk—it was not so important to be able to speak through a painting. She wondered if he would understand even if she could explain to him. She had the rather alarming notion that he might not. The burden of understanding was always on her.
She
was the odd one, the one who lacked speech and wits. Or so it seemed sometimes. But she was being unfair to Luke and Anna and a few other people.
    â€œThis,” he said, indicating her painting and turning his face to it, “is the ravings of a madwoman.”
    She was not sure if he had meant her to see his lips. But she had. She had been watching intently, and her eyes widened in shock and hurt and anger.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” he said too late, looking again at her. “’Tis not entirely your fault, perhaps. I am beginning to understand that his grace might have been too lenient with you, Lady Emily, because of your affliction.”
    She thought of Luke leaning over her desk as she learned to read, firm and implacable despite her frequent tears and