With that, he turned and began walking back toward the house.
Eliza sat for a long while after, her fingers moving more freely across the page. She finished the flowers, shaded the stems, and added the turn of leaves. Her chest felt lighter, and she grew more hopeful. Perhaps there may be a chance for her here after all. If Tristan would just talk to her.
Suddenly, a strange sense came over her and broke into her thoughts. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Her hand stilled on the canvas, and she turned around slowly, lifting her head. At a tall window above, she saw him.
Tristan.
His face was half-shadowed, but his eyes were clear and fixed on her. There was no disdain there. No sign of objection. Only curiosity, or what seemed to be curiosity anyway. It was hard to read his face.
Her eyes met his, and her breath caught. For the next few moments, neither of them moved. At last, when it seemed clear she would not look away, he gave a small nod and turned away from the window.
Just like that, he was gone.
Alone again, she set her charcoal down and felt her hands tremble faintly for no reason.
Chapter 7
Tristan stood in his study, tall at the window with his hands buried deep in his pockets. From that high place, he could see the gardens spread out before him. He could also see how the morning sun shone on everything, displaying them in a rather clear light. It caught the flowers, the hedges, and the trees.
It also caught the bench where his new wife sat.
She was bent slightly forward, a sketchbook open in her lap, and her hand moving with calm steadiness. He watched the way she paused, then marked the page again, her face narrowed in concentration.
He had not expected this. He had thought her quiet, reserved to the point of being cold. Yet here she was, alive in a way he had not seen in the carriage or at their first dinner.
He remembered seeing Gideon walk to her earlier. They had spoken, and he had found himself almost amused by the thought. What could Gideon, the hardened soldier that he was, possibly have to say to this young woman with her gentle, careful hands? He had turned back to his work then, but his eyes kept returning to the garden, drawn against his will.
The door opened behind him.
“My lord,” Stanley greeted with a soft bow. “Lady Howard has arrived.”
Tristan turned his head just slightly. “Show her in.”
Stanley bowed again. “Yes, my lord.”
A moment later, Evelyn swept in, dressed in a soft lavender gown, and her gloved hands folded neatly over one another. Her smile was easy, almost like she didn’t even know it was there.
“Oh, my sweet boy,” she said at once, her tone both fond and teasing. “What are you doing by the window? Trying to burn a hole through the gardens with those sharp eyes of yours?”
Tristan did not respond. Instead, he returned his gaze to the figure below and continued to watch the small movement of her hand as she drew.
Evelyn walked closer, the rustle of her dress filling the silence. She leaned closer to the glass panes and followed his line of sight.
“Ah,” she said with a knowing hum. “A lady who draws. Perhaps if I stand here beside you, we can burn a hole together. Though in her sketchbook rather than her gown.”
Tristan exhaled slowly, his hands curled into fists in his pockets. He eventually turned to Evelyn, his face devoid of any kind of laughter, and when he spoke again, his voice was even.
“Did you know my mother also painted?”
Evelyn’s head turned at once, her eyes wide. “What? Josephine? You cannot mean it.”
He nodded. “Yes. She loved to paint, and architecture was her delight. When she traveled with my father, she would sketch buildings, village centers, halls, and arches. And when they returned, she would lock herself away in the observatory.
My father refused to build her a proper atelier, so she took the observatory as her own. She would be in there for hours, drawing everything she remembered.”
He paused, the image of his mother hunched over a table with ink and charcoal staining her fingertips settling into his mind. He could even almost see the rare and satisfied smile on her lips.
“Of course, it vexed my father endlessly,” he continued anyway when he realized Evelyn wouldn’t say anything. It was one of those rare occasions when his aunt was lost for words. “He would entertain visitors, and she would vanish upstairs. I evenremember whispers. Some thought she was having a secret affair.”
