The Bride of Time by Dawn Thompson Page A

on your first day.”
    Tessa didn’t answer, and he frowned. There was a wide-eyed look of apprehension on her face, reminding him of a roe deer he’d caught in his sites, staring down the barrel of his musket last season. He frowned. He’d hoped he’d put her at ease; that was why he’d left the solarium door open. Evidently he’d failed. The look on that face was pure fright. It simply wouldn’t do.

    “We must do something about that startled expression,” he said. “I cannot paint that. Perhaps a little pleasant conversation, while I work. It occurred to me earlier that you have my tale entire, whilst I know next to naught about you. Where do you come from…where is your home?”
    Again she hesitated. Zeus! Perhaps drawing her out wasn’t a good idea after all. She’d suddenly lost what color she had, her posture had clenched, and the frightened doe look in those magnificent eyes had intensified tenfold.
    “London,” she said.
    Giles stopped painting mid-stroke. “Oh, yes. Still, my advertisement for a governess reached London? ” he said, incredulous. “I don’t recall sending word—”
    “You didn’t,” she interrupted him. “I…I’m here in Cornwall on holiday. I heard of the position…from one of the locals.”
    Giles resumed painting. “Were you employed as a governess in Town? Things happened so quickly, I didn’t even ask to see references. Not that it matters any longer.”
    “I…I lived with my aunt until she passed,” Tessa said.
    “Why Cornwall…so far from Town?”
    “I wanted to get away from Town for a bit before going into service. I always wanted to see Cornwall. I fell in love with a painting I saw once of the Cornish moors…in a little gallery near Threadneedle Street. I wanted to see it for myself.”
    “No suitors…no beaux?”
    “No,” she said.
    That was a relief. Giles had feared she might be spoken for. She seemed a bit more relaxed, but there was still something in those limpid eyes that trembled with fear. His artist’s eye was infallible when seeking out thecomplexities of his subjects. That talent gave his portraits much greater depth. He was seeing something now that puzzled him. The girl was an enigma. It was almost as if she’d built a wall around herself, like the stacked stone walls hemming the lanes that sidled through the hills. She was a challenge, and he’d always met a challenge head-on.
    “Are you tiring?” he asked. “You look a bit…strained.”
    “Not really.”
    He glanced toward the glass roof. “We won’t have much more light,” he observed. “Twilight comes early in Cornwall this time of the year. If you are willing, I would like to take advantage of it.”
    Tessa nodded. “That would be fine,” she murmured.
    “Good! We always count ourselves fortunate when we have the sun. It so often rains hereabouts, or the dampness conjures belching fogs that have us lighting lamps and candles by mid-afternoon. Sometimes, what the old folk call flaws —fearsome gales—set in and linger for days on end, bringing horizontal rain and flesh-tearing winds that would flay the hairs right off your head. During those cyclones, the candles are lit night and day, and the hearths as well, winter and summer. Artificial light is quite different when one is painting. The values are all wrong.”
    “Then it must be difficult when you continue on into the night,” Tessa said.
    “Oh, it is,” Giles assured her. “But when the muse beckons, one must heed the call.”
    “Have you found a body model yet?” she queried.
    Taken aback, Giles stared. He’d forgotten about that, and almost laughed at the look of her then. The apples of her cheeks had suddenly taken on color. It was clear that curiosity had gotten the better of her. She bit her lip, and color rushed there.

    “That’s it!” he cried. “Wet your lips. I want to place the highlights.”
    She was hesitant at first. Her lips parted once, twice, but still she hesitated.
    “Like