Chapter Sixteen
Monday night before she went to bed, Charlotte left the tall curtains of her bedroom windows open so that the early morning sun would wake her.
She did not wish to oversleep and miss her drawing lesson with Frederick Morton.
Early Tuesday, she was up, dressed, and out the door of Haverstone by seven-thirty, walking swiftly to the Greek temple with her watercolor box clutched firmly in her hand.
She had expected to arrive first, but to her surprise found Mr. Frederick awaiting her. He greeted her warmly.
“Good morning, Miss Kendall,” he said with a small bow. “I have been looking forward to our engagement exceedingly.”
Charlotte curtseyed and smiled. She judged his words to be true and not polite flattery.
As little time as she had spent with him, Charlotte had quickly assessed that the younger Mr. Morton was sincere in all ways.
In addition, she had also discovered that his emotions were quite easily read upon his countenance.
His smile always appeared genuine, never forced, and his eyes were warm and kind.
So very unlike his older brother, whose expressions she still sometimes found rather inscrutable.
“Good morning to you, sir,” she replied. “I, too, have been most eager for our lesson. Our last drawing session rekindled a strong desire to put pencil to paper more often.” She glanced over at a canvas bag sitting next to his art box.
Following her gaze, he moved toward the bag, opened it, and brought out a smallish, silver bowl. Then, he reached inside for an assortment of apples which he placed in the bowl. He set the whole arrangement on a short stone pillar at one end of the temple.
“These are last season’s crop and while not quite suitable for eating, they are perfect for drawing,” he said.
“I thought we might begin with working on the sun’s reflection on the silver bowl and the shadow it casts.
As you yourself said, capturing the light is vital to bringing art to life.
” He fussed a minute to get the apples positioned as he wanted before stepping back with a satisfied nod.
“Why do you not have a seat on the bench opposite there and begin?”
Charlotte opened her watercolor box and quickly set up her lap easel, paper, and pencils. She studied the setting a moment and took a deep breath with her hand holding the pencil frozen above the paper.
“Gracious, I confess I find myself quite nervous, Mr. Morton,” she said.
“I cannot imagine why. It must be because I am still rather unused to having anyone see my process. As I told you, I have had no formal training and am accustomed to doing my art in privacy. That way, should I not care for what I have drawn, I can simply tear it up and nobody has to see my poor effort.”
Frederick laughed and walked over to stand beside the bench where she sat. He remained silent for a while, until she had roughly sketched in the image. Then, he gently gave her small instruction as she worked, pointing out minor changes. When the image was nearly complete, he spoke.
“You are doing quite well, Miss Kendall, but do you perceive how your rendering of the bowl appears to float on the pillar?”
“Yes, I can see it is not quite right, but I do not know how to correct it,” Charlotte said.
“It is quite simple. You must add a darker line along the bottom of the silver bowl. It grounds the object by implying the slightest of shadows where it sits.” He leaned down and reached for her pencil. “May I?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, catching a whiff of him as he bent closer. He smelled of sandalwood and something else—what was it? She did not know, but it was not unpleasant at any rate.
He knelt beside her and angled her easel closer to him, then quickly added a stronger pencil line across the bottom of the bowl she had drawn. She leaned in, observing, then gave a small gasp.
“Oh! I see exactly what you mean. The bowl is no longer floating.” She turned her face to him, so close and now on the same level as she.
Their eyes held a long moment. She inhaled again—had she ever noticed before how lovely the scent of a man could be?
Then, she abruptly turned away, clearing her throat as she reclaimed her easel.
She held it out, as though to study it. “Thank you, Mr. Morton,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“We have been here but a short time and you have already proved your worth as an art teacher.”
“My pleasure, Miss Kendall,” he replied in a soft voice, still kneeling beside her. “But, I must give credit where it is due. You are a most…apt pupil.”
Charlotte turned to find his eyes still focused on her. She felt her face warm, and flustered, blurted, “Perhaps you should consider teaching art to others. It would be a way of adding to your curate’s income.”
He abruptly stood, his face now stormy.
“Yes, curates are often forced to teach, since their incomes are so poor,” he said tightly. He moved to dismantle the still-life arrangement, putting things back into the canvas sack.
Charlotte felt a knot in her stomach. How could she have spoken so rudely?
She quickly tried to make amends. “Forgive me, Mr. Morton, I did not mean to offend, but to compliment. I meant to say—that is—I think you have a gift for teaching, is all. This may be the best thing I have ever drawn, and I give full credit to your guidance.”
He stood with his back to her a moment before turning and giving her an awkward smile. “Thank you for your compliments. I am aware you did not mean to cause offense.”
Charlotte stood to put away her art supplies. “I wish we had time to draw more, but I observe it is getting late, and I do not wish to worry my sister by being absent at breakfast. May we…may I have another lesson? Next Tuesday?”
He nodded and smiled again—one that Charlotte could tell was sincere. They walked together down the hill to the path leading back to Haverstone. Before he could speak his farewells, she boldly placed her hand on his arm.
“Thank you again for the lesson, Mr. Morton. I am so thrilled with the progress I have made in just this one day.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her hand and she pulled it away, murmuring an apology. He raised his eyes to look into hers again.
“I was most happy to help, Miss Kendall. As I said, you are a quick and eager student, which any teacher must admit makes his job enjoyable.”
They stood silent a moment, as though unwilling to part. Frederick cleared his throat.
“You had asked to be informed when I shall give my first sermon. It will be this coming Sunday. The reverend Mr. Peabody has taken on a second parish, and therefore, as his curate, I may soon be guaranteed one or even two sermons a month.”
“How thrilling for you,” Charlotte said. “Of course, we shall be there. I am certain you will do splendidly.”
He suddenly appeared bashful, looking off to one side, and rocking back and forth on his heels.
“I hope so. Of course, Mr. Peabody has advised me to simply read one of the sermons from the books common to a parish, but I will…that is—I am attempting to compose one of my own. Something that will be new for the parishioners to hear.”
“I am sure you will succeed,” Charlotte said warmly. “I so look forward to hearing you on Sunday. Oh—and, also, to seeing you and your brother in two days’ time.”
“Seeing Robert and me? I do not take your meaning, Miss Kendall.”
“Your brother has invited us all to Brentwood Manor for dinner this Thursday. Did you not know? We are to come early so that I may get a full tour of your home.”
“No, I was quite unaware of his invitation. But, Robert has been preoccupied of late. Most likely over estate affairs. He has had much to learn since our father’s passing.
” He beamed at her. “I look forward to seeing you and Lord and Lady Gillingham at Brentwood.” He stepped back and bowed his head sharply. “Good day, Miss Kendall.”
Charlotte curtseyed and replied, “Good day, Mr. Morton.” She turned away and hurried along the path to Haverstone, not looking back at her companion, who stood still and silent, watching her until she was out of sight.