“If I remember correctly,” the viscountess continued, not deterred by Lenora’s lack of enthusiasm, “it was the historical places that drew you girls like flies to honey. I’ve long wanted to compile a record of the family history, and have written out all I can remember. But I lack someone with the skill to paint the various places around the Isle that the Ashford family is connected with. You, my dear, have just the talent.”
“You wish me to paint for you?”
“Very much so.”
Lenora shook her head. “Surely Margery can manage it. She has talent—”
Lady Tesh slashed a hand through the air. “Talent, yes. For lovely watercolors that any young lady of breeding can create.” She sat forward, her eyes blazing. “What I need goes beyond that, paintings with heart, images brought to life with unsurpassed skill. Only you have that, my dear.”
Lenora wrung her hands in her lap, any pleasure she might have received from such praise overshadowed by the pain of her memories. She remembered how it used to be, how art had been an extension of her heart. Yet once Hillram died, she’d given it up. Oh, she still drew. But as Margery had pointed out to Clara, there was something different in it. Only Lenora knew that she had retained the mechanics of her art, but had gutted it of any emotion.
Now, however, temptation stirred, to experience again that deep satisfaction of creating from the very depths of her soul, something she had vowed never to do again. And it frightened her.
She opened her mouth to refuse.
Lady Tesh spoke before she could utter a word.
“It would be a great gift you give me.” Her voice warbled, suddenly reed thin. “Especially as I wish to see it finished before I pass from this world. And there is no telling how little time I may have left.” Here she paused, her vision going distant and sad, as if she were seeing some melancholy truth only she was aware of. The next moment, her eyes cleared, though the mournful look remained. “Would you do this for me, child?”
Lenora was stunned. The woman was talking of her death as if it was close at hand. Was the viscountess unwell? Lenora looked at her closely, noting the tired cast to her shoulders and the heavy way she leaned on her cane. Sorrow engulfed her. No matter that she did not want to be involved, she would see it through. She owed the woman too much for all the love she had given her over the years.
“Yes,” she said, “I’ll do this for you.”
Lady Tesh straightened, a smile lighting her face. “Splendid,” she pronounced, all trace of weakness gone.
Lenora gaped. In the space of a second, she looked as if she had shed twenty years.
“Peter,” Lady Tesh continued, swinging her gaze to Mr. Ashford, “I would have you accompany Lenora on her outings.”
Lenora opened her mouth to denounce the plan. The very idea of being forced to paint with Mr. Ashford nearby left her feeling cold and hot all at once.
Mr. Ashford, however, was quicker than she in attempting to put a stop to the mad scheme. “I don’t believe that was part of the deal, madam.”
Lady Tesh merely smiled. “Ah, but you see, I asked that you provide your company. I did not specify with whom.”
Mr. Ashford’s typical scowl deepened considerably, frustration and a kind of grudging admiration flashing through his cold blue eyes. “Very well,” he muttered with a decided lack of grace.
The whole exchange was confusing in the extreme. Even as Lenora wondered at it, however, she ruthlessly tamped down her curiosity. It was none of her business if the two of them had struck up some bizarre understanding. She would not get involved.
She wouldn’t.
Chapter 9
The sight of her easel set up beneath the tree, ready and waiting for her like an old friend, hit Lenora harder than a punch to the stomach. Everything else faded: Margery and Mr. Nesbitt fussing over her things, even Mr. Ashford’s arm under her fingers. She took a deep breath, let her hand slip from the crook of his elbow, and stepped up to the easel. Dread snaked under her skin as she considered the blank paper ready and waiting for her.
The scene, the tools, were all so reminiscent of her youth on the Isle. No setting in London had ever affected her to such a degree. Once again temptation swirled. She had never once wanted to reclaim her joy in creating art since giving it up three years ago. Now, however, the desire surged in her with an intensity that stunned her.
But how could she, when she had so broken Hillram’s heart?
When she had been the one responsible for his death?
As she continued to stare unseeing at the easel, Mr. Ashford came closer. Not close enough to touch, but she felt it all the same, a kind of electricity that scorched the very air between them, sending rivulets of sensation skittering across her oversensitive skin.
“Do you require assistance?” he asked, his voice deep and uncertain.
“No! That is,” she amended with much less force, “I don’t believe so.” Drawing in a breath, she considered the gathered supplies. Her painting box stood at the ready on a small portable table, already propped open. Water was at hand, her brushes and pencils laid out. Even her smock was there, draped over a low stool. And the view itself was impressive, the valley laid out before her like a blanket of green grass and trees, that most important part of Ashford history at the center of it all.
Goodness, but Lady Tesh had thought of everything.
