It was, he thought, probably Miss Whitcombe's influence. Two weeks in her company, and Rosanne was already beginning to stiffen her resolve.
He was not certain how he felt about that either.
"I have work to do," he said. "The drainage report..."
"It can wait an hour," Rosanne finished. "Sit down, Daniel. Try not to glower at the paintbrushes."
"I do not glower."
"You are glowering right now."
"This is simply my face."
"Then your face should apologise to the paintbrushes."
Miss Whitcombe made a small sound, quickly suppressed, that might have been a laugh. Daniel's gaze snapped to her, and she met it with an expression of perfect innocence.
"I was merely clearing my throat," she said.
"Of course you were."
"Painting can be quite dusty."
"I am certain it can."
They looked at each other across the length of the room, and Daniel felt that same strange tension he had noticed at the fair; a kind of a strange awareness, as though the air between them were charged with something he could not name.
"Do sit down," Rosanne said again, and her voice had softened, losing its teasing edge. "Please, Daniel. It would make me happy."
It would make me happy.
It was such a small request. Such a simple thing. And yet Daniel could not remember the last time his sister had asked him for anything. He could not remember the last time she had felt safe enough to express a want, a preference, a desire that was not immediately qualified with apologies and disclaimers.
He crossed the room and sat down in the empty chair beside the easel.
"There." Rosanne's smile was radiant. "That was not so difficult, was it?"
"That remains to be seen."
Miss Whitcombe passed him a blank sheet of paper and a brush with the efficiency of someone who had decided not to give him time to reconsider. "Do you have any experience with watercolours, Your Grace?"
"Some. My mother painted." The words came out before he could stop them, and he felt his shoulders tense in automatic response. He did not talk about his mother. He did not talk aboutanythingpersonal. And yet here he was, offering information like a man who had forgotten how to guard his tongue.
"Then you know the basic technique," Miss Whitcombe said, as though he had said nothing unusual. "Start with something simple; a shape, a colour study. The discipline is in the restraint."
"The restraint?"
"Watercolour rewards a light hand. If you try to force it, the colours become muddy and overworked. But if you can learn to let the medium guide you..." She demonstrated, her brush moving across her own paper in soft, fluid strokes. "You see? The water does the work. You simply provide the direction."
Daniel watched her hands, capable, unhesitating, slightly paint-stained, and found himself momentarily unable to speak. There was something about the way she moved, the easy confidence of her gestures, that made it difficult to look away.
"The discipline is in the restraint," he repeated slowly.
"Yes." She looked up, meeting his gaze, and he had the sudden, disorienting sense that they were no longer talking about painting at all. "Though I suspect that particular lesson requires no instruction from me."
The words were mild, her tone perfectly pleasant. But there was something beneath them, something knowing, something almost gentle, that made Daniel's chest tighten.
She sees too much, he thought.She sees far too much.
