removed his waistcoat and shirt, he looked again at the dark outline of the beech trees against the night sky. Ignoring the promptings of conscience and common sense, William reached for his sketchbook and picked up the pencil again. He sat down at the table by the window and placed the open sketchbook so it took advantage of the candle and the rising moon. He began to draw quickly and as he drew, he forgot his aching limbs and the nagging pain in the small of his back, aggravated by hours spent scything long grass. He forgot everything. All he remembered was the face he now drew: the silky hair in disarray; the thick, arched brows; the curve of dark lashes on her pale cheek. He hesitated to draw her mouth, not because it was challenging, nor because he’d forgotten it. To draw her mouth accurately, as he had seen it, her lips parted slightly as she slept, the upper lip drawn up so he could see her small white teeth, to record such a thing seemed intimate and intrusive, so he hesitated for a moment, then, grasping the pencil firmly, he completed his sketch.
He put the pencil down and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again he examined his drawing by the light of the guttering candle. It was a good likeness. Very good. It was a knack he had, not just to draw, but to be able to draw from memory. Once he’d seen something, he could always remember it. A list of Latin plant names, a building, a face. As a boy he’d seen a child crushed by barrels falling from an overturned dray. He could see it still – the small, twisted limbs and the blood running in the gutter. Having a good memory could be a curse.
William’s sketchbooks were repositories for his memories. He didn’t draw to record. His brain did that. He drew for the pleasure of re-living an experience. It was over now, but while he’d been drawing her, with the breeze from the window cooling his damp skin, he had felt almost as if he were with her again, in the wood, standing guard, watching and keeping her safe, as if she were a sleeping princess in a fairy tale and he her faithful servant.
He dated the sketch but didn’t sign it, nor did he write her name, but he said it softly before he fell asleep: “Miss Hester Mordaunt.”
HESTER
June 16 th , 1914
William Hatherwick has been as good as his word! I have by my side a copy of Mr Wilson’s book, A Naturalist in Western China, with Vasculum, Camera, and Gun: Being Some Account of Eleven Years' Travel, Exploration, and Observation in the More Remote Parts of the Flowery Kingdom.
I do believe I was more thrilled to receive this book than Walter’s proposal.
June 21 st
Our musical evenings are now augmented by another fiddle player and Mother is delighted that we can expand our repertoire. Walter plays the violin and so our piano quartet occasionally becomes a quintet. Mother plays piano, Arthur the ’cello and Eddie the violin, very badly. Although I play the viola, I am more comfortable physically with the violin. However I much prefer the sound of the viola. Years of listening to Eddie torture his E string dulled my enthusiasm for the fiddle.
Mother has insisted we learn some new music to play together. This has annoyed my wretched brothers. They have welcomed Walter into the family, but would rather he play billiards than music. I for one am grateful for our soirées . They relieve me of the obligation to make small talk. Walter is a dear, kind man, but inclined to be taciturn. I believe he is aware of the defect because he smiles and nods eagerly when others speak, but this only serves to make him look slightly foolish. I suspect Walter finds Mother intimidating. She does little to put him at his ease, even though she admires his playing.
Undoubtedly Mother is the best musician in the family and undoubtedly Mother knows it. As she plays, she affects a martyred expression, as if conscious she casts musical pearls before swine. Father does not play and Mother claims, when out of his
He put the pencil down and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again he examined his drawing by the light of the guttering candle. It was a good likeness. Very good. It was a knack he had, not just to draw, but to be able to draw from memory. Once he’d seen something, he could always remember it. A list of Latin plant names, a building, a face. As a boy he’d seen a child crushed by barrels falling from an overturned dray. He could see it still – the small, twisted limbs and the blood running in the gutter. Having a good memory could be a curse.
William’s sketchbooks were repositories for his memories. He didn’t draw to record. His brain did that. He drew for the pleasure of re-living an experience. It was over now, but while he’d been drawing her, with the breeze from the window cooling his damp skin, he had felt almost as if he were with her again, in the wood, standing guard, watching and keeping her safe, as if she were a sleeping princess in a fairy tale and he her faithful servant.
He dated the sketch but didn’t sign it, nor did he write her name, but he said it softly before he fell asleep: “Miss Hester Mordaunt.”
HESTER
June 16 th , 1914
William Hatherwick has been as good as his word! I have by my side a copy of Mr Wilson’s book, A Naturalist in Western China, with Vasculum, Camera, and Gun: Being Some Account of Eleven Years' Travel, Exploration, and Observation in the More Remote Parts of the Flowery Kingdom.
I do believe I was more thrilled to receive this book than Walter’s proposal.
June 21 st
Our musical evenings are now augmented by another fiddle player and Mother is delighted that we can expand our repertoire. Walter plays the violin and so our piano quartet occasionally becomes a quintet. Mother plays piano, Arthur the ’cello and Eddie the violin, very badly. Although I play the viola, I am more comfortable physically with the violin. However I much prefer the sound of the viola. Years of listening to Eddie torture his E string dulled my enthusiasm for the fiddle.
Mother has insisted we learn some new music to play together. This has annoyed my wretched brothers. They have welcomed Walter into the family, but would rather he play billiards than music. I for one am grateful for our soirées . They relieve me of the obligation to make small talk. Walter is a dear, kind man, but inclined to be taciturn. I believe he is aware of the defect because he smiles and nods eagerly when others speak, but this only serves to make him look slightly foolish. I suspect Walter finds Mother intimidating. She does little to put him at his ease, even though she admires his playing.
Undoubtedly Mother is the best musician in the family and undoubtedly Mother knows it. As she plays, she affects a martyred expression, as if conscious she casts musical pearls before swine. Father does not play and Mother claims, when out of his
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