“If you are well occupied here for now,” he said, “I can carry you back to your room later. In…in an hour or so.”
She frowned as she sorted through his words. And then she looked back at the jars on the table. “I am…” She swallowed.
Beautiful? Exotic? Clever? Wonderful?
“I am well occupied.”
“Then I’ll bid you good afternoon.”
He bowed to her, his body still fighting itself. Then he spun on his heel and rushed away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emmaline sat back,thoroughly disgusted with herself and the canvases she had created. That was a sure sign that she had painted enough. She’d done a record number this time—six landscapes filled with dark clouds and bright-purple lightning. Part of her knew that lightning wasn’t purple, but for some perverse reason, she had painted it thus anyway. And that was another reason for what she was about to do.
“The usual, Nora, please.”
Her maid dipped her chin in agreement or acknowledgment, it was hard to tell which. Then she passed over a rag. Together the two of them set the room to rights, cleaning brushes and pulling the canvases off their frames. Emma tried to wash the paint from her fingers to little effect. She would have to be extra careful to wear gloves for the next few days to hide the stains.
Then she turned to where Nora had built up the fire. “Tell me all the gossip while I’ve been hidden away up here.”
The girl did, talking about ponies and apothecary powders set up in the library. Her father would have a fit when he found out, and Emma wondered if she should make herself scarce until the storm blew over. That all depended on whether her father had been drinking heavily or not.
Meanwhile, she stood and watched as Nora fed her canvases to the fire. Such perverse satisfaction she felt in watching her work turn to smoke. Hours of labor gone and thank God for that.She painted for herself and no one else. Even she wasn’t sure why.
So the canvases burned while she cleaned and heard all about her brother getting a pony for Yihui.
“Perhaps I shall go see how she’s doing.” It couldn’t hurt as she was heartily sick of her own company. All she’d done for the last three days was think about Chris and what they’d done. About how it felt and what she wanted. About what they’d both said and not said. And every bit of it wrapped in questions and useless, wonderful fantasies that would never come to pass.
But now she was done.
She would think no more of him and herself together.
She’d washed her hands, she’d burned her creations, and now she was ready to find out what nonsense her brother had visited upon their home. Indeed, she was spoiling for someone to rail at other than Christopher.
But Max was locked in his room and unavailable to anyone, according to Nora. So Emma went in search of Yihui.
She found the woman inspecting a dozen or more jars in the library. Yihui sat on a stool, leaning forward and back as she rearranged the jars, but what she accomplished was a mystery to Emma.
“Do you need anything, Yihui?”
The woman startled, spinning around on her stool so fast that she had to catch herself or fall over. Unfortunately, she caught her foot on the stool—as any normal person would—except that her feet were broken. She cried out in shock and alarm while Emma rushed to catch her.
“Oh dear! I’m so sorry! Oh no.”
Emma’s words were useless, of course, but they spilled out anyway as Yihui clutched her. Fortunately, the pain passed quickly, apparently muted by the plaster bandages.
“I’m so sorry,” Emma repeated. “Let me call for Max. He can carry you—”
“No! No Max.”
“Oh.” Clearly her brother had done something reprehensible.
“Would you like to sit down somewhere more comfortable?”
Yihui shook her head as she released her grip on Emmaline. “I am fine here.” She gestured at the table. “I enjoy setting this in order.”
It already looked in order, but Emmaline wasn’t one to argue. Instead, she sat down near to their guest and searched the woman’s face. “You seem unsettled.”
