As he stepped closer, he lifted his own taper to better light the way. Rectangular shadows danced behind the patches of grass and flowers. He was looking at paintings. Brushstrokes on canvas. But even the awareness that what he was seeing was several pounds worth of oils in the hands of a skilled artist did not subtract from the unreality of finding himself in a springtime meadow instead of a warren of ancient crypts.
Miss Smythe emerged from the open doorway. She froze at the sight of him. Her slender arms were wrapped about three more paintings, the tallest of which rose past the bridge of her nose, leaving only her eyes visible above the canvases. She did not move.
“You did this.” He stared at her in wonder.
She hesitated before blurting nervously, “For Lily.”
He blinked in surprise. “Lillian asked you to paint these?”
“She doesn’t have the words to ask. She doesn’t know ‘daisy’ or ‘greenfinch’ or ‘rainbow.’ And she feels that loss deeply.” Miss Smythe’s eyes smiled sadly. “When I was her age, I would have given anything to have a little beauty in my life. Years later, when I saw my first painting, I was not only stunned, I wasinspired. Art... transformed my world. I’m hoping it can bring life to Lillian’s.”
He wished it would not have been unpardonably rude to ask why she had been so in want of beauty. He could not imagine her as lonely or lifeless. She had won over the entire household in short order, transforming Waldegrave Abbey from a place of shadows into a place of smiles. They were all indebted to her. He stepped forward and took the canvases from her arms. “Lillian has no idea you’ve done this for her?”
She shook her head self-consciously. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise her. I want her to wake up in the middle of a garden, surrounded by birds and flowers and the morning sun. I thought she might like it.”
“She’ll adore it.” He lifted his candle to illuminate the passageway. “Who wouldn’t wish to awaken to all this beauty?”
“I just want her to be happy. To escape.” She flicked an unreadable gaze at the art lining the walls. “This morning, I realized Waldegrave Abbey really is a sanctuary. For me, I mean.” Her dark gaze returned to his. “I just want her to feel the same way.”
“That is my dearest wish as well. How can I help?”
Her answering smile warmed his soul. “Bring your muscles. Just take care not to wake her—I’d like it to be a surprise.”
“Lillian will be thrilled.” He started after her as she bent to unlock the sanctuary door, and found himself admiring more than just the paintings.
Miss Smythe was a lovely person, inside and out. Dangerously lovely. He could not risk opening his heart to her. He had yet to be in a position to have earned his own daughter’s love, much less be worthy of another woman’s.
Good Lord, how was he eventhinkingthese thoughts? He would not allow this... this absurd infatuation with his daughter’s governess to distract him from his goals.
Managing the upcoming thinkers’ retreat, for one. Wherein he would hopefully make real progress toward curing Lillian once and for all. Until then, Miss Smythe was absolutely correct: Lillian was badly in want of cheering. In fact, he could not have dreamed of a better plan himself. The paintings were transcendent. As they placed the vivid canvases edge to edge about the room, he could not help but marvel at thetrompe l’oeilof a seamless horizon unfolding around them.
It was as if she had captured a life-size landscape and then cut it up into smaller pieces to carry from one room to another. And yet, despite its verisimilitude to the Shropshire Hills, he swore he could discern bits of Miss Smythe herself in the way the breeze danced among the flowers or the engaging mischief of playful kittens alongside a river. He was astonished to realize that she had poured bits of herself into each brushstroke.
This was not the gift of mere paintings. This was a gift of herself.
No wonder she had looked so disarmingly anxious. She could have no doubt that the paintings themselves were good, but she was hardly concerned about a reaction to her mechanics. Seeing Lillian’s delight in the paintings would be the same as seeing Lillian delight in Miss Smythe herself.
He felt the beginnings of a smile. Miss Smythe needn’t worry in the least. And how blessed was he, to be here to bear witness to the first exclamations of joy when his daughter awoke? If anything, he would have to control stirrings of jealousy when Miss Smythe’s oil paints managed to accomplish what innumerable gifts over nine joyless Christmases had not. And to think, from this day forward—
“Papa?”
Miss Smythe jumped, startled. “Lillian! You’re awake!”
“I’mLily. Tiger Lily.”
He spun toward his daughter’s voice, his insides already warming happily in anticipation of finally having contributed, however circumstantially, to her pleasure.
“Good morning, daughter.”
“What are you doing?”
Lily’s head was just visible between the parted curtains of her bed, her overlarge eyes dark and glittering from her pale face.
He stepped forward. “Sweetling. We—”
“What are you doing?”
“Tiger Lily, look around you,” came Miss Smythe’s warm honey voice. “Do you know what this is? It’s the outside world.”
