Chapter Eleven #3
David’s problem was his current lack of paints.
Sitting cross-legged on the bank of the canal, his back to the town of Channing, his sketchpad on his knee, he was sketching the course of the canal into the distance.
He had caught the shape of the gentle rise on the right bank, and the big houses spaced out, surrounded by their own fields and woods.
Here and there, a few cottages dotted the countryside.
The distant bridge at Larchford drew the eye to the left bank, where thicker woods and seemed to hold more mystery.
Up to a point, he liked what he had drawn. But it needed life. A few cows and sheep in the fields, a few soaring birds, were not enough. The picture needed the vibrance of color, the shades of green and the reds and golds of falling leaves, the changing reflections in the canal.
And it needed people. A passing boat, perhaps.
And yet it wasn’t a boat or even a boatman that he truly wanted in his picture. It was a woman with raven-black hair and skin of the same shade as his own, part of this quintessentially English scene, and yet carrying with her the hot sunshine of Jamaica. A foolish desire. A foolish obsession.
And yet he wasn’t even surprised when she emerged from the wood in front of him. He had heard the high, childish laughter and the woman’s voice. Perhaps that was where his inspiration came from, to establish her in his picture, just there.
She caught sight of him and paused, the teasing smile fading from her shapely mouth.
She caught the child’s hand, and David’s hand began to move without permission, without his taking his eyes off the pair before him.
Clarence tugged his mother’s fingers—he carried a small basket in his other hand—and she began to walk onto the path.
Some thorns caught in her skirts, trying to hold her back, but she merely pulled the fabric free, leaving a small piece of bright-blue patterned wool behind. If she noticed, she obviously didn’t care, merely kept walking with careless, mesmerizing grace.
Hastily, David remembered his manners and rose to his feet, sketchbook in one hand, pencil in the other. “Mrs. Jenkins. Clarence.”
“Mr. Grey.”
Her voice, smooth and rich, seemed to flow through him, like sweet wine in his veins.
He smiled. “But which one?”
“Mr. David,” she said immediately. “The difference, once noticed, is clear.”
“We’ve been picking blackberries,” Clarence said happily. “Shall we eat them?”
“We mustn’t disturb Mr. Grey when he’s busy,” Adelaide said. “But you could offer him the basket.”
David took off his coat and spread it on the ground. “I am happy to be disturbed, and to taste your blackberries.”
Adelaide hesitated, but Clarence had already pulled free, settled on the edge of David’s coat, and placed the basket in the middle.
“For a moment,” she said, kneeling beside her son in one graceful motion.
God, he wanted to paint her…
“Help yourself,” she said, indicating the basket. “They’re the last of the season, I think, and a little tart, but refreshing.”
David sat on the grass, exactly where he had been before, and took a blackberry from politeness.
It was indeed sharp, but welcome. He took another and exchanged grins with Clarence, who had three in his palm.
Adelaide reached for the basket with one slim, elegant hand.
David retained enough sense not to watch her eat it.
“Will you show us your sketch?” she asked.
David glanced at the book he still held in one hand, almost surprised. Suddenly afraid, he wanted to hide it, like a child caught out doing inadequate work. He was dissatisfied with what he had done, and he blinked at the half-drawn shapes on the page, of the woman and boy emerging from the trees.
He shrugged and put the book down beside the blackberries, only because it would have made more fuss to hide it. “It needs color.”
She picked it up, and anxiety twisted in his stomach. She gazed at it and turned her head to catch his precise view, then returned to the sketch.
“Is that us?” Clarence asked delightedly, peering over her arm.
“If your mother gives me permission. I’m afraid I didn’t ask. I needed life and there you were.”
A stupid thing to say. She would think him a half-wit.
She didn’t speak for a long moment. Then she said, “Would we be recognizable?”
“Not if you don’t want to be.”
She gave a sardonic half smile. “I suppose it depends who sees it. Where will you show it?”
“Nowhere, probably. I am entirely unknown, although Solomon has some hopeful plan to interest a man of influence in the world of art. It needs a lot of work.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Really? What will you do? Apart from fill us in a little.”
“It needs color. It’s funny, I used to draw like this all the time, sketches on scraps of paper and canvas with tiny bits of charcoal. And now it’s never enough.”
“Because it doesn’t portray what you’re seeing and feeling?”
“Something like that.”
“Why was it enough before?”
The question surprised him. He had to think about it. “It was all I had.”
He risked a glance at her and found her gaze on his face, curious, almost fascinated.
“Where were you when you disappeared?” she asked.
The blood froze in his veins.