“Oh, Hope,” Faith said, feeling suddenly emotional. “I’m so happy for you.”
Hope smiled warmly at her sister.
“I guess you can understand now why I was so against you leaving for London. I didn’t want you to be away from me during this time.” She looked down. “But I guess that was rather selfish of me, wasn’t it?”
“Selfish? Goodness, no, Hope. Had I known, I never would have even suggested it.”
Hope perked up.
“So, you won’t be going to London?”
Faith’s smile became strained as she thought about her question. She had more reasons to stay than go, but the biggest reason to leave was sitting downstairs in Aunt Belle’s office.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. In fact, the opposite was true. She found that she had come to enjoy their back and forth. It was ridiculous, but the constant, simmering heat between them had become something she looked forward to. But then he had proposed and ruined everything. It was purely out of obligation, and she couldn’t bear it.
“You should rest,” she said, avoiding the question. “I really should be helping Grace. I’ll have Una bring you some tea.”
“Thank you,” Hope said as she lay on her bed.
Faith returned to the study just as Grace cleaned her hands with a damp cloth.
“Well, then, Mr. Harris. I’m afraid your pant leg is ruined. As talented as I am with sutures, I’m a sight worse with embroidery.” She said, smiling at her little jest as she stood up. “But you should heal up just fine. I’d keep off the leg as much as you can for a day or two—and as I said, no drinking any spirits for at least a week. If the wound becomes red or raised, send for either myself or Dr. Barkley.”
Logan peered down at his torn pant leg.
“Thank you, doctor,” he said, causing a blush to stain Grace’s cheeks.
“Oh, well, yes,” she stuttered before turning to Faith. “I’ll leave him in your capable hands then. If you’ll excuse me.”
Faith was left alone with Logan, who appeared unaffected by his injury. In fact, he looked almost bored, as he stared at the opposite wall. Turning her head to follow his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at her grandmother’s portrait.
“Who is that?” he asked, nodding at the painting. “She looks familiar, but not all at once.”
“My grandmother, the late Lady Alice Sharpe,” Faith answered. “She was Aunt Belle’s sister.”
“That’s it,” he said, more to himself then to her. “She’s been painted rather sternly. Not quite as smiling as Lady Belle.”
“Well, she was rather stern.”
“Is it a true likeness?”
“I believe so.”
He glanced at Faith.
“Is it yours?” he asked, which unfortunately caused Faith’s cheeks to warm. His brow lifted. “It is, isn’t it?”
“How did my sister do at stitching you up? You certainly seem well,” she said, coming forward as she ignored his question. “Was it painful?”
“No doubt you wish it would have been.” He peered back at the painting. “It’s a good portrait.”
“How would you know?” she asked, her tone tinted with humor. “You never met her.”
“Why should that matter? I never met Elizabeth I, and yet I have a portrait in my gallery that looks just like her.” Faith frowned. “I think you tend to be hard on yourself when it comes to your artwork.”
“I don’t… That’s not…” She tried to ignore his observation.
“But you are. Take for example this portrait. You were able to convey her character through it, weren’t you? The colors are smooth, and the shading is particularly impressive.” He glanced at her. “I think I would commission you to paint my portrait, if you weren’t leaving for London.”
