To have his hands on me again was a scandalous desire. It’d not bode well for me, even if they could stave off the light pains of a headache.
He glanced at me. “Cilia, you look exhausted. Let me help.”
“My paint palette is up top.”
Felton climbed the scaffold and scooped up the treasured one I’d brought from home. It was made of gommier tree, like the boat we’d used to escape Demerara.
Felton lay flat on the scaffold, looking up at my canvas. “It is wondrous. Wish I could take it with me.”
“Then I wouldn’t be paid, my lord. Hurry down. I don’t like looking up to you.”
His head bobbled over the side. “That wasn’t always true.”
It wasn’t.
On the fateful day he proposed at the doorway to the Stabroek ballroom, he mesmerized me, changing from a court jester to what the British called a rake, to a debonair fellow who commanded the room. My father couldn’t deny his offer for my hand.
On our wedding trip to Kingston, he fascinated me with his knowledge of the terrain, the people, even the secrets of Jamaica. He was my adventure, until I realized I needed one of my own.
“I see you thinking down there. Are you coming up with your next masterpiece?”
Wiping at my eyes, I glimpsed at him in astonishment. “What a transformation a separation can make.”
Wary blue-black eyes sought mine. “Change is good, I hear.”
This was beginning to feel too cozy, too comfortable. “Once we are back from Warwick, I’ll need to quickly seek out my next employ.”
“Of course.” He climbed down. “Let me hand you your brushes. I’m told an artist’s tools are very important.”
“They need to be cleaned and dried so the bristles remain sharp, the belly and heel stay nice and tight.”
He handed me my fine brushes and my bucket of cleaning water. Felton stood over me as I washed them free of the colors.
“Lean against me. I’ll steady you. You need to be off your feet.”
Yawning, I surrendered to his strength and slumped against his leg.
Closing my eyes, I was in my studio at Warwick. The hold about me tightened. When I peered up, my friend, my rock, was shadowed. I couldn’t discern who—
“Cilia, you’ve fallen asleep.”
I startled and Felton bent down and picked me up.
The heat of him.
The smell of starch and coffee and man wrapped about me as surely as his embrace. In the silence of the theatre, I fit against him, like always. I missed his heat. Before my limbs turned to a jelly, wobbly like those desserts on fancy tables, I tried to move, but couldn’t. “We are all done . . . here.”
Felton’s hands slipped to my sides, and he offered a gentle rub to my lower back. “Love being your assistant. Maybe that can be my next profession.”
My brain was slowing, fighting the dreamy state and that hunger to be safe and supported.
“Now what do I do, Cecilia? How can I help you more?”
Felton the planner, the obligation runner, always knew what to do. The man I fell for under a Jamaican moon looked at me now, nervous and curious, drawing closer.
Then it hit me, waking me from a fog. “This is like before. You feed me. You act sweet.”
“Then we make amends and end up forgiving each other.” His voice was steady.
