“It says a great deal about my skill that you cannot tell.”
“Oh no… I can—except… this is not a particularly just rendering. It looks more like Elizabeth, perhaps. With Cecilia’s nose.” Her head tilted. “But those are my eyes. It is… it is too pretty.”
“It is no such thing. If anything, it does not do you justice.”
She finally looked up, and to his shock, she seemed almost embarrassed. “You are too kind, but I have always known I do not measure up to my sisters. I recall being fifteen and having my mother bemoaning that very fact to our portrait artist. He seemed to agree.”
“Blast, Soph, sometimes I detest your parents.”
She pressed her lips together. “Me too,” she whispered.
He would have happily allowed the conversation to move from his artwork to her parents, but he couldn’t. He leveled his look at her, as if the more intensea stare, the more likely she would be to believe it. “You are every bit as beautiful and more than your sisters. You’re the most beautiful woman I know.”
She ducked her head, and he held his breath. Surely she must know now—must be aware of how greatly he cared for her. Every pencil stroke on that paper fairly screamed his love.
She tapped the paper with her thumb. “Well, I suppose I must believe you, as accomplished an artist as you are. I cannot believe I did not know you possessed this talent—it must be years in the making.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see. “My mother was an artist, and she taught all of us. My brothers did not enjoy it and begged her to let them off when we were still young. I know it is not a useful talent, but I—”
“Not useful? You could outshine the art professor at the Seminary for certain, besides being simply beautiful.”
“Well, not particularly utilitarian then, which is what I need in this life.”
She studied him, and he shifted his weight. “Not every purpose is readily apparent. I would argue your art has immense purpose. Did you enjoy your mother’s?”
Andrew shrugged, itching to take the picture back and hide it away. “Of course.”
She nodded, as if expecting this. “Exactly.” A noise out the window drew her attention, and she started. “Oh no, we are going to be late.”
“I will change quickly.”
She nodded. “I will meet you downstairs. But I would like to see more of your work when I can.”
He rushed through his ministrations, and less than a quarter of an hour later, Andrew escorted Sophie into the carriage and climbed in after her.
“Have you ever considered doing anything with your art?” she asked.
He grimaced; he’d hoped the interim had taken those pictures from her mind. “No. I'm unsure what I would do. It is just a little hobby.”
She hooked her thumb back toward the disappearing townhouse. “That didn’t look like a hobby. You enjoy it?”
He tapped his knuckle against his knee. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I cannot see any worth to it.”
Her jaw slackened. “Andrew, you amaze me.”
“Thank you?”
“It was not a compliment.” She scrunched her nose at him. “For someone so wonderful at praising my abilities, you sure are horrible to your own. I am not simply speaking as a woman who cares for you—you are incredible. If you wished it, you could do wonderful things with your art.”
There was a great deal of information there that his mind was being tripped on. A woman who cared for him? Incredible? Wonderful things? There had been a time he’d considered pursuing a future for his art, but one mention of that to his schoolteachers had cleared that from his mind. He was a second son and didn’t have the luxury of exploring fancies with his hobbies—their words.
Life was not linear—his situation with Sophie was evidence enough of that—but that moment at school when the professor he’d confided in had crushed his seedlings of hope had certainly compounded to set him on a course. One where he remembered his place in society acutely and acted accordingly.
He did not dislike banking, but it had been a convenient way to gain an income to allow him to marry. For years, he’d convinced himself it was his goal—his dream—but the last two weeks had shown him that while he enjoyed the work, he did not want to build his life around it.
Sophie reached over, touching his wrist lightly. Holding it in a loose grip. “I do not mean to rain down my own opinions on you. I only think you are incredibly talented, and hate to see you demean that.”
He smiled at her. “You would not have to stretch so far if you came to sit beside me.”
