Page 12 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

“A canary,” he said, lowering into a crouch. And somehow maintaining his dignity. “How st-strange.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Your sis-sister-in-law told me to find you.”

“Oh? Does she have need of me?” Emily scattered a few more crumbs for the little bird.

“No.” His expression lightened, his shoulders seemed to relax. “I am to ensure your safety. And view your drawings.”

“My drawings?” Emily felt her cheeks warm. Why had Juniper mentioned her drawings to Mr. Eastwood? That seemed a betrayal of some kind. Which was certainly an irrational thought. “Most of them need a great deal of improvement. I have never had any training, you see. It is only something I used to do for my own amusement, and I am trying to take it up again.” Sketching had been a way to favorite way to fill her time before their elevation in Society. And she had been told by the tutor in London not to mention her family’s past in genteel company. Botheration.

“M-may I?” He pointed to the book peeking out of her canvas bag, a relic from her days living in a farmhouse, his eyes still sparkling at her with good humor.

“Yes. If you promise not to tease me.”

“T-tease you? Me?” His eyebrows shot up all the way to the brim of his hat. “Never.”

Emily took the book from her satchel. “I have older brothers, Mr. Eastwood. I know how men like to tease young ladies.”

He chuckled as he accepted the book, head tilted to the side as he examined her. “How brothers tease sisters, perhaps. I am not one of your brothers.”

How thankful she was for that! He was one of the few gentlemen she had found herself comfortable with since her father’s became an earl. She wasn’t even certain why, given their comparatively short time in each other’s company, but Lyness Eastwood did not make her feel small. Not the way some of the other men had.

He did not look at her as though her conversation was somehow amusing, while other gentlemen had remarked on her “quaint” and “country” charm. A thing that felt like a criticism veiled in spun sugar.

Emily turned her attention back to the bird, shaking slightly and ruffling its feathers until it was quite puffy. Then it hopped closer and turned its head, looking at her from one eye, then the other, perhaps waiting for more food.

“Do you sketch plants more often than people?”

The question startled her; she had been so intent on the trembling creature that she had not expected it. Most who looked at her work made some minor compliment of it and moved on. He was the first in some time to ask anything. Emily glanced up briefly to see him studying the pages of the book rather than her, then turned back to the bird.

“When I can. It is easier to draw plants and stones than people. They keep still. Or animals. They are more forgiving if you do not get their noses quite right.”

“I should like to see more of your drawings sometime,” he said. His tone was even, not merely polite, as though he meant it sincerely. “Some of the flowers look as though I could lift them from the pages.”

She shook her head slightly. “You are too kind, sir. Though I admit to laying a flower on one page and drawing its likeness on the other. I know I do not do them justice. Still. I thank you for the compliment.”

“There is an honesty in the way you draw—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and shifted his weight. “It shows the world as you see it, I think. Instead of what the masters would call proper technique. What many of them really do is train individuality out of artists, reducing everything to a…a simple parlor trick.” His voice trailed away as he spoke, but it was one of the longest speeches she had heard him make.

Emily blinked at him, surprised into stillness. Few people paid much mind to her sketches. Her brothers had sometimes teased about her fascination with weeds, and even Juniper smiled at her pages as though they were pleasant trifles. Juniper had even offered to find a drawing tutor for Emily. But Mr. Eastwood spoke as though the drawings mattered, precisely as they were.

The bird gave a sudden flutter, jumping from the grass and vanishing into the folds of her skirts. Emily gasped, fumbling to gather her gown, fearful she would crush the little thing. “Oh—oh, goodness!”

“Hold still.” Mr. Eastwood crouched at once, careful not to touch her, his gloved hands hovering above where the bird hopped about in the net she had made with her skirt. “There—do not move.”

The bird’s golden head poked from a fold of muslin, its small claws tangled in a ribbon tied around Emily’s waist. “It seems I have been claimed.”

His mouth quirked, though his eyes stayed on the bird. “Then we must find you a way to carry home so bold a creature.” He glanced at her bag. “That will not do. The poor thing could be crushed.”

“My bonnet?” She put one hand to the top of her head.

“Too shallow a cap, I think. It could hop out again. Here.” He straightened and removed his hat. “If you will allow me, this may serve.”

“Oh, but it could scratch up the inside. Or soil it.” She hesitated, looking down at the tired, frightened little creature.

He took out a linen handkerchief from his coat and put it in the bottom of the hat. “That will serve well enough.”

She hesitated, then nodded. Together they coaxed the canary from her skirts, his hands steady as he guided it toward the dark hollow of the hat. The bird hopped inside with surprising meekness, settling on the linen with no objection to such lodgings.

Emily gathered the brim against her, holding the makeshift carrier close. “Thank you. I had not the least idea how I meant to carry it home.”

“You would have found a way,” he said simply. “But I am glad to be of use.”