Snatching one of the lemon drops from the bag, Miss Stillwell gave him a wicked grin. “My locks are too short for such a decoration, but…”
She twisted in her seat, moving slowly toward her niece’s coiffure to tuck a lemon drop amidst the profusion of curls. The girl never noticed, but Stanley snuck a glance around her to frown at his father. Miss Stillwell jerked back and pressed a hand to her mouth once more, though she couldn’t quiet the laughter shaking her. And Baxter couldn’t help but join in.
When Stanley and Miss Alice glanced at them with furrowed brows, the older pair shook and attempted a semblance of decorum, but it was difficult when tears were rising to Miss Stillwell’s eyes. Her hair curled faintly at her temples, making her look even more impish as she laughed at her own ridiculousness.
Keeping the treats on his lap, Baxter reached into his jacket and freed a handkerchief, offering it to Miss Stillwell.
“Oh, this is simply lovely,” she said when she could get breath enough to do so. The edges of the linen were embroidered with a pale green as though ivy were crawling along them, before turning into the corner with a flourish of leaves in which his initials resided.
“My daughter, Charity, gave it to me as a present for St. Nicholas Day,” he said, his thumbs brushing along the careful stitches before he offered it to her once more.
Miss Stillwell took it and examined the work. “This is gorgeous. I love the way she captured the curl of the leaves. I will have to try that.”
But she freed her own handkerchief, returning his. “That is kind of you, but I fear it is too lovely for me to use in such a fashion.” She dabbed at her eyes with her plain handkerchief, a few remnant chuckles working their way out as she shook her head. “I know all too well how much time and effort went into making that, and I shan’t risk ruining it.”
Baxter smoothed the fabric and tucked it gently into his pocket once more. “Do you embroider?”
“Is there a lady who doesn’t?” she asked with an arched brow. “But I know what you mean. Yes, I enjoy it. Greatly. Though I enjoy creative endeavors, I fear I am no artist, and needlepoint allows me an avenue for creativity.”
“No doubt you are vastly underestimating your skills,” replied Baxter.
Miss Stillwell chuckled and shook her head. “Definitely not, sir. I am not one to denigrate my talents in some bid for false humility, nor am I overly critical of my abilities. I am passable when it comes to drawing, but I have no true skill with the paintbrush. Needlework requires an entirely different set of skills, at which I excel.”
Flattening her handkerchief, she tucked it away and slanted a look at him. “And you, Mr. Baxter? Are you artistic?”
Such a simple question, but it dropped a weight on Baxter’s chest that threatened to suffocate him. Silly, really.
“Yes.” He paused. “Or I was.”
Miss Stillwell’s brows pinched together, though she smoothed the reaction away. “I would think that if you were in the past, you are still. Such a thing doesn’t exactly erase itself from one’s life, does it?”
Baxter shifted in his seat, promptly elbowing the lady once more. He hurried through another apology, but she brushed his verbal fumbling side.
“When I was younger, I spent many an hour painting and sketching,” he said, scouring his thoughts for an explanation. Of course, it was easy enough to hear Dolores’s condemnation of the low-born pastime. It mattered not that many young gentlemen indulged in such pursuits. To her way of thinking, being an artist was common—even if one never attempted to sell one’s work. It was a lady’s hobby or a poor man’s profession.
Baxter cleared his throat.
“After I married, I didn’t have much time for such things.” And that was true enough that his conscience did not prick at him; the truth was too unkind to his wife’s memory. A slight fib was a far better choice.
Miss Stillwell nodded. “A time and a season for everything, as they say. But perhaps now that you are settled in Bath you might try your hand at it again.”
Such little words, yet they struck Baxter to the core. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to speak of that long-lost part of himself that the thought of venturing back into his art hadn’t crossed his mind. As pleasing Dolores had been his only motivation for quitting, nothing was keeping him from picking it up once more.
Yet even as he thought about it, Baxter’s heart clenched as though his ribs tightened around it, and his stomach gave an unhappy rumble. His marriage to Dolores had not been an easy thing, but that did not mean he celebrated her demise. To go against her wishes even now felt like a betrayal, painting him as a heartless cad.
Baxter’s shoulders drooped, and he forced himself to speak evenly. “Yes, I suppose I could.”
Miss Stillwell’s brows drew together, and she studied him, though he pretended to watch the singers below. “I hope you do. I would like to see your work.”
“You would?”
His gaze darted to her and was met with bright honesty. Miss Stillwell sat there, watching him with such an open expression that Baxter didn’t know what to do with it. His cheeks didn’t have the same problem, for they immediately reddened. Thank the heavens that they were inside, for though many candles burned bright in the theater, there was not light enough to see that. Or so he hoped.
Though his face was quite hot.
“That is kind of you, Miss Stillwell,” he said, stumbling over his words.
“Not kind at all, Mr. Baxter. I am truly interested in seeing it, if you would allow me the honor.”
