Sophie’s pulse accelerated. Good heavens. What was he going to show her?
He led her up the stairs. She thought again of seeing him climb these stairs at odd hours and wondering what drew him there. Had it really been to see his old nurse, or had there been some other, clandestine reason? Whathadhe and Flora been doing up there alone together? And what about that crate she had seen him and Edgar sneaking upstairs?
She asked, “Are we going to visit Miss Whitney again?”
“Not this time.”
Her heart beat a little harder than it should have for the exertion of the climb. She told herself she was foolish to worry. Foolish to care. She was only a duty to him, was she not? An unwanted responsibility.
“When you see, I think you will understand the reason for my secrecy.”
That didn’t bode well.
He led her past Winnie’s door and instead stopped at the next—the one she had seen him and Flora exit together.
She drew up short, bumping in to him. “Pardon me.”
He lightly touched her arm, as though to steady her, but his hand lingered.
“I tried to keep it quiet, but my valet knows, and at least one of the housemaids. Hopefully no one from the family...”
Worse and worse.
“I hope you don’t think it presumptuous of me. I no doubt chose poorly, but not having your experience, and not wishing to ask and reveal my secret...”
Her ears roared. “You know what. I don’t need to know. I will just go back downstairs and you can keep your secret—whatever it is—to yourself.”
His expression fell. “No! Just look... I am making a muddle of this. I hope you will like it. But if you don’t, you needn’t pretend.”
Now she was well and truly confused.
He opened the door gingerly, looking both ways down the passage as if to assure himself there were no witnesses. “It’s the old schoolroom,” he said. “It was the most private place I could think of. No one comes here anymore.”
He gestured her inside and quietly closed the door behind them.
It took her mind a few moments to realize what she was seeing. Although shelves of forgotten schoolbooks lined one wall and an old desk stacked with slates and globes had been pushed against another, the items in the center of the room were new: an easel positioned near large windows. A high three-legged stool. A drawing box, and a set of paintbrushes arranged in a ceramic pot as though a potted plant in bloom.
Her heart pounded. “For... me?” she asked, voice tight.
“Yes, of course. I paid one of the housemaids to do a little cleaning in here after hours, but it may need more.” He ran a finger over a dusty shelf, murmuring, “A lot more.”
She stared at him. Stunned, stupid, remorseful.
“I am so sorry!” she blurted.
He frowned. “Sorry for what? Don’t you like it? Did I get the wrong things? I can return them and—”
“No!” She shook head vigorously. “I didn’t mean that. I...” How could she explain what she suspected, and foolishly feared?
Instead she walked forward and began fingering through the brushes, admiring the fine bristles, the varying thicknesses, the quality handles. “They’re wonderful.”
“Good. I asked the dealer to suggest the best, but he could have sold me a child’s playset and I doubt I’d have been the wiser. I decided against going to the shop Wesley frequented. I didn’t want a receipt to find its way into Father’s hand and raise questions, since I know you are keen to keep your work hidden from view.”
“I don’t mean to be secretive...” Sophie murmured. “I am just self-conscious. I have no wish to give your family reason to compare my amateur attempts to Wesley’s—or anyone else’s.”
“I think you underestimate yourself.”
“And I think you are biased.”
