“I am.” He grinned, bright and happy, and she desired nothing more than to run her fingers through his curls.
He was handsome, too. And fun. A talented artist, of course. And, oh, he may not own a single serious bone in his entire body, but when he looked at her, no matter how many others looked on as well, the rest of the world melted away. When he stared at her, with secrets in his eyes and laughter on his lips, she stopped being a butterfly pinned to a tree and became a bird freed from its cage. If only he could free her from the cage of her parents’ debt.
Chapter 13
The sun had arched across the sky and night crept up behind it when Maggie gave her first yawn. She did look a picture up there all alone, outlined by the growing dusk. If Tobias could paint such a scene—and he couldn’t—he’d title itExhaustion in the Evening.Ah, alliteration. Always appropriate.
He liked it almost as much as he liked Maggie. Cold Maggie. Tired-and-hungry Maggie. She couldn’t stay up there much longer. He’d not allow it. He’d already convinced her to sit several times and received glares from the marchioness for his success. She could glare all she wanted. Maggie’s feet ached and shoulders drooped, and he wanted her to sit if she wouldn’t leave her post. And she wouldn’t. Stubborn woman.
“Come down from there,” he urged once more, leaning against the pedestal. “It’s time.”
She hid another yawn behind her hand. “How can I tell?” She swept an arm about the garden. “They’re all still working. Diligently. They’ve not taken a break. Neither should I.”
“You’re all of questionable intellect, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I can’t leave until they’re done.”
“And when is that?”
“When there is a winner.”
“Fine. I’ll find a winner.”
She perked up. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“My father chooses the winner every year.”
“Not this year.” He pushed off the pedestal and made for the far end of the garden. He’d make an ordered survey of the garden and all the art therein.
“Tobias!” she hissed. “Mr. Blake!” she cried louder.
But he kept to his purpose. She needed rescue, and he’d ever been a fool for a woman in need. Clasping his hands behind his back, he strolled through the garden. It would be best to start with the artist closest to his current side and circle around until he came to Maggie’s other side. He approached a woman wearing a feathered bonnet and sitting in a lawn chair. A box of chalks sat next to her in complete disarray. Tobias kept his distance, whistling at the sky as he rounded her side and strode behind her.Nothing to see here, just stretching my legs. He needn’t have worried she’d notice and take exception to his perusal of her work. Her eyes flicked urgently between the page she worked on and Maggie’s figure on the pedestal.
Tobias peered at her work from behind her shoulder. Sweeping shapes in bold colors crossed the page, melting into one another in what seemed an approximation of the garden scene before them if it were painted by a two-year-old with his fingers. No, not quite. The lady artist exhibited more talent than that. The composition of color and shape had a pleasing balance. Perhaps it was more aboutthatthan about verisimilitude.
Tobias strolled on to the next artist. She had a small stack of blank, white porcelain teacups to her left and a larger stack of painted porcelain teacups to her right. He squinted to see the design she’d painted on the cups. It appeared to be a profile, Maggie’s profile, surrounded by intricately designed flowers. Huh. Quite lovely, actually. And she’d created something not only beautiful, but useful. He should give the prize to her and call the contest immediately.
He looked up at Maggie and waited until she looked back. He didn’t wait long. She seemed to be darting anxious glances at him regularly. When she did peer his way, he opened his eyes wide, nodded his head enthusiastically, raised his arm high, and pointed down at the teacup painter, mouthing the words,We have a winner!
Maggie shook her head almost infinitesimally, narrowing her eyes, then sweeping her head to take in all the remaining artists.
Sigh. She’d insist on a fair evaluation of all, then. Fine. He could pretend to evaluate the rest quickly, jump atop the podium to announce the winner, then sweep Maggie away for a good rest, warm cup of tea, and as many biscuits as she desired.
He covertly surveyed artist after artist. The most intense never noticed him hovering over their shoulders. The most anxious shooed him away, hiding their work behind puffed out chests and mighty scowls. One particularly buxom lady poked him in the chest and ordered him to mind his own business with a heavy Scottish accent.
Tobias stumbled away, realizing the next artist in his sights was Robert Lockham, his clothes free from wine stains. Pity Tobias held no tea to drench him with this evening. Curiosity surged through Tobias, and he inched closer. Lockham growled loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to startle and stare at him wide-eyed. Undeterred, Tobias crept even closer. Lockham ripped the page he’d been working on from his sketchbook, crumpled it up, and threw it to the ground. He fixed his eyes on Maggie, whose eyes were fixed on Tobias, and set pencil to paper once more.
When close enough, Tobias knelt and picked up the wad of discarded paper. He uncrumpled it and smoothed it on his thigh as best he could before standing and inspecting it in further detail. What he found there accelerated his heart. The sketch was almost complete. The garden, the central figure on the pedestal, all shaded in thicker or thinner, lighter or darker pencil lines making a pattern of crosses across the page. Yet the drawing remained incomplete. A second figure remained only partially sketched, a ghost in the garden tilting its head up at the figure atop the pedestal.
Lockham had sketched both Maggie and Tobias. And with great skill. Annoying, that. One didn’t wish to admire someone so annoying. But Lockham had caught the regal length of Maggie’s neck, the stubborn set of her shoulders, and the playful amusement in her eyes as she gazed down at her ghost, at Tobias. The unfinished figure washim, slightly swaying toward the goddess atop the pedestal, face lifted toward her, every muscle of his posture speaking of … what? Though Lockham had not given the ghost Tobias an expression, emotion rolled off the figure’s posture, off the lifted face.
Tobias frowned at sketch, folded it, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
He strode away from Lockham, heedless of direction until he banged his shin against a low stone bench. “Ouch! Bloo—”
“Tobias!” Henrietta’s alarmed voice woke him. She sat on the bench, and he sat beside her, rubbing his smarting shin. “What are you doing?” she asked.
