Sunset Ridge by Nicole Alexander Page B

a one-dimensional figure of sparse, curving lines; a saucepan was the only truly recognisable feature. ‘I don’t think Father would like them. Mother might.’
    At the mention of his mother, Miss Waites looked away for just a second. There was the slightest drop of her chin, before her attention returned to the sketchbook. ‘Artists are experimenting in many different ways these days. Would ye like me to find ye some books on the subject?’
    â€˜You mean there are other people doing things like this?’
    â€˜Yes. There is an artist in Paris who is quite well known.’ Her teeth chewed softly on her bottom lip. ‘Oh, his name eludes me at the moment, however he is quite modern in style. I recall seeing a reproduction of a nude woman he drew and . . . oh, but you’re blushing. Artists quite often draw the male and female form in an effort to understand anatomy, David. It is not lewd in any way, I assure ye, despite what the less educated and the prudish would have us believe.’ She patted his hand. ‘Where was I? Yes, the drawing of the woman. It is a sketch yet quite absolute in expressive force. Everything in the drawing is flat, like the canvas it was created on. There is no depth to the work yet it is strangely compelling. This is what I see in your work, David. Instead of reproducing visible reality, ye have altered it.’
    â€˜Huh?’
    â€˜Well, look at your chair. It’s a chair, but it’s not a chair. It is as if we are looking at it from multiple viewpoints. Ye have reassembled it and created something totally different, yet your drawing is a recognisable object. I really dinna understand enough on the subject, but this work seems quite unique to me.’ Her fingers drifted across the angular black lines. ‘I will write away and order some of the latest art journals for ye. In the meantime, to keep the tip of your charcoal pointed and to stop it from crumbling, ye must rotate it constantly.’ She picked up the piece of charcoal and pressed it against a corner of the page. ‘Ye see?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Dave was drawn to the care lines at the corner of the young woman’s eyes. As he took the charcoal from her hand, their skin touched. Air caught in the back of his throat.
    The moment was ruined by the arrival of Rodger. The station hand was at the back gate, a stockwhip looped across his shoulder. ‘I heard that you’d been crook. How are you feeling?’
    Dave took back the sketchpad, flipping it shut. ‘Better, thanks.’ If his father were at home, Rodger wouldn’t dare to come anywhere near the homestead. Fraternising was strictly forbidden between the domestics and those employed beyond the back gate.
    â€˜What tomfoolery is going on out here?’ Cook appeared as Rodger walked down the path. ‘Get away, you young buck. You know the rules.’
    Rodger turned smartly and hurdled the garden fence.
    â€˜He only came to see how David was recovering from his illness,’ the governess replied tightly as Rodger waved his hat from the safety of the chicken coop.
    â€˜Shouldn’t you be in the schoolroom?’ A saucepan stuck out at a right angle from where Cook’s hand rested knuckle-in on her hip.
    â€˜Shouldn’t ye be in the kitchen?’ Miss Waites replied.
    â€˜What on earth is going on?’ Lily Harrow asked from the front door; their maid, Henrietta, stood on tiptoe to peer from behind. ‘I could hear you at the other end of the house.’
    â€˜Rodger came to visit David,’ Miss Waites explained, ‘and Cook took exception.’
    â€˜Well, there are rules for a reason.’ Lily gave the governess a cursory glance. ‘You should be in the schoolroom.’
    â€˜Yes,’ the governess agreed, stepping from the veranda, ‘I should.’
    Â 
    Three weeks later Dave was unsure how he came to be standing in the sitting room at nine