Ellie thought of the dismal dinner they’d had this evening, of all the dismal dinners she’d had as a child, trapped at a grim, silent table with her father, and she shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know. Dinner in the nursery sounds quite cozy.” She walked over to stir the fire, then took a seat on the bed. “You’re fond of Miss Norwood, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve been looking at the drawings I did this afternoon. I only made two, but Miss Norwood says they’re both good enough to show you.”
Some of the tension drained from Eleanor’s body, and she patted the space next to her. “Well, I’m glad we have Miss Norwood’s approval, for I’d very much like to see them both.”
Amelia came over to the bed, sat down and opened the sketchbook flat across her lap. She flipped through a few of the pages and laid the two sketches of the ruins side by side on the bed.
Eleanor scooted forward to look, and her eyes widened. The sketches were the work of a child, yes, but a talented child, the pencil strokes confident, the lines true. “Oh, how wonderful, Amelia. My goodness. You did both of these in one afternoon?”
“Yes.” Amelia gave her a shy smile. “Do you like them?”
“I do.” Eleanor traced a finger over some of the pencil lines. “This looks a bit like the remains of a moat. Are these castle ruins?”
“Yes. Denny says it was built way back when the Normans came to conquer England. There was a moat, and these stones here were the castle keep. I used to think it looked like just a pile of old rocks, but once Denny explained it to me, I could see how it used to be a castle, long ago.”
A lump formed in Eleanor’s throat. She couldn’t think of Cam just now. “Did the ladies enjoy the ruins? I can’t imagine their sketches are any nicer than yours.”
“Oh, they are, though,” Amelia said, without rancor. “Especially Lady Charlotte’s. She’s very good with her pencils, isn’t she? But she says you’re better than she is.”
Eleanor smiled. “It’s kind of her to say so, but I’m not sure it’s true. I do love to study art, but I’ve never been devoted to my pencil. Charlotte though, well, even as a child she loved to sketch, and her passion shows in her drawings. That is what true art does, really—expresses emotion.”
Amelia seemed to consider that. “Like this, you mean?” She turned over a few of the pages a pulled a loose paper from her book.
Eleanor bent over it to get a closer look, then laughed at the picture of Julian West, struggling to string a limp daisy onto a thread. “Yes, just like that. Has your uncle seen this drawing?”
Amelia gave her a sly smile. “He has. He said it didn’t look like him, but then Denny said it did, and Uncle Julian said it was something, something like a lib-lib—”
“A libel?”
“Yes. A scandalous libel, he said, whatever that means.”
“What did your brother say to that?” Eleanor asked, unable to resist.
“He said the picture was his favorite.” Amelia cocked her head to the side. “But that was before he saw the picture I drew of you.”
Eleanor stilled. “You drew a picture of me?”
“Yes, and then Uncle Julian said that one was Denny’s favorite.” Amelia frowned. “It must have been, because he took it, and he never gave it back to me.”
Eleanor stared at Amelia, unable to speak. It meant nothing, of course. Less than nothing. She couldn’t quite make herself believe it, however, and warmth surged into her cheeks.
Amelia gave her a curious look. “Are you all right, Lady Eleanor? You look warm.”
“Yes, yes. Quite all right.” Eleanor cleared her throat. “I think it’s time you called me Ellie, don’t you? We’re friends, after all.”
Amelia clapped her hands together. “I should like that more than anything. I don’t have many friends, you see.”
Ellie gazed at Amelia’s bright face, and a sharp arrow of pain pierced her chest. No, she wouldn’t have many friends, would she, surrounded as she was by adults? Ellie’s own childhood hadn’t been easy, but she’d had Charlotte and her brothers, and she’d never been lonely.
Amelia, though—she was so young, and so much had already been taken from her.
You’ll take more.
Eleanor’s chest burned with shame.
“I always wished for a sister,” Amelia said, her tone wistful. “A younger one, so I could show her things, and share things with her, the way Denny does with me.”
Eleanor placed her hand over Amelia’s small one. “That’s the best part of having a sister—sharing things.”
