Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 72
Bertie’s curiosity rose even higher, but she quelled it. “I won’t let anyone look if you don’t want them to. Promise. Not if it’s that special to you.”
Cat shifted the doll again, her brows furrowing as though she debated with herself. Finally, slowly, she opened the notebook, at first holding it so Bertie couldn’t see inside. Then she leafed to a page and held it out to Bertie.
Bertie stared at the drawing on the paper in some puzzlement, then she realized what she was looking at. It was Bertie herself, standing in front of the mirror in Eleanor’s dressing room, gazing at herself in wonder.
The picture wasn’t an exact representation of her, with every line precise—it was more light and shadow than thick lines. Bertie’s gown flowed into her body, short, bold strokes delineating where gown ended and woman began. Her face was a suggestion but her eyes held all the amazement Bertie had felt, seeing herself pretty for the first time in her life.
The other ladies were there, squiggles of darkness and light, each of them expressing delight.
“Oh, Cat,” Bertie said breathlessly. “This is lovely!”
Cat pried the book from Bertie’s fingers. “It’s not right. I know I don’t draw like the drawing master taught me, but it’s how I see things.”
Bertie touched the notebook’s leather cover. “Are all your pictures like that?”
Cat nodded. “I draw all the time.” She flushed. “Sometimes I write little poems about what I draw.”
Bertie instantly wanted to read them, but she restrained herself. “Have you ever shown your Uncle Mac any of what you’ve drawn? I’ve seen his paintings. They’re beautiful, even though some of them are . . . well, blurry.”
“He paints like Monsieur Manet and Monsieur Degas,” Cat said. “Mrs. Evans said that what Uncle Mac paints is shameful, but I think his pictures are beautiful. But no, I haven’t showed him.”
“Why not? Maybe he can give you some lessons.”
“No!” Cat said in a hard voice. She swallowed. “What if he says they aren’t any good? It would be . . .”
She made a helpless gesture as though not knowing how to finish the thought. Bertie believed she understood. If Mac derided Cat’s drawings—not that Bertie thought he would—that would take something away from Cat, something she considered personal and precious.
“You can’t tell him,” Cat said with a scowl. “You promised, Bertie.”
Bertie lifted her hands. “I know I did. I’ll not say a word. Not unless you want me to.”
Cat nodded, though she gave Bertie a skeptical look. Bertie saw she’d have to win the girl’s trust in this matter, and she determined to do so.
The picture Cat had done of Bertie was full of vibrancy and strange beauty. She had talent, Bertie was sure of it. Maybe one day, Cat would be ready to share it with the world.
After breakfast, once the adults of the family had rested from the mad chase of children in the garden, Sinclair went to meet Fellows and Ian in Ian’s wing of the house. Before Sinclair could shut the door of Ian’s upstairs sitting room, it was pushed open by Bertie, who slid in behind Sinclair without apology.
Fellows raised his brows, but Sinclair answered, “It’s all right. I want her here. She might be able to help.”
Fellows pinned Bertie with his policeman’s stare but conceded with a nod. Ian, who was leaning on the edge of a desk, had the letters in his hand and was peering at them in turn. Sinclair watched him interestedly.
Ian didn’t simply read the letters. He held each one an inch away from his face and scanned the paper, turning it over and then upside down. He even touched a page to his nose, as though taking in its scent.
“What do you make of them, Ian?” Sinclair asked.
Ian didn’t answer, continuing his scrutiny in silence. After a few moments, he stood up and laid the sheets out on the wide desk, making three rows. He stood back and studied the arrangement, then lifted a few letters and changed their places with others, neatening the rows again.
At last Ian stepped back and made his pronouncement. “They were all written by the same person.”
Sinclair came to stand next to him—not too close, because Ian didn’t like anyone to touch him without warning. His wife and children could, and his sisters-in-law, but no others. Even his brothers had to be careful with him. Sinclair noted, however, that Ian didn’t seem to mind Bertie coming close to his other side to look at the letters with him. Was Ian a madman, or simply crafty?
“I’d worked that out already,” Sinclair said with a touch of impatience.
“They were all written at the same time,” Ian went on, as though Sinclair hadn’t spoken. “There are five missing.”
Sinclair started. The strange revelation that they’d been penned at the same time was lost in the cold qualm that Ian knew Sinclair had kept some of the letters back. What’s more, from the look Bertie threw at Sinclair, she knew it too, blast her.
Bertie asked the question Sinclair would have if he could have found his voice. “How the devil do you know all that?”
Ian didn’t answer. He touched each page in turn in silence, aligning their corners perfectly with the edges of the desk.
Sinclair couldn’t take his eyes from Bertie, who looked delicious in a modest gown of McBride plaid. The dark blue of the plaid brought out Bertie’s eyes, the blue-violet Sinclair had first noticed under her god-awful hat in the dirty London street. Those eyes flicked to him now, and Bertie flushed.
Cat shifted the doll again, her brows furrowing as though she debated with herself. Finally, slowly, she opened the notebook, at first holding it so Bertie couldn’t see inside. Then she leafed to a page and held it out to Bertie.
Bertie stared at the drawing on the paper in some puzzlement, then she realized what she was looking at. It was Bertie herself, standing in front of the mirror in Eleanor’s dressing room, gazing at herself in wonder.
The picture wasn’t an exact representation of her, with every line precise—it was more light and shadow than thick lines. Bertie’s gown flowed into her body, short, bold strokes delineating where gown ended and woman began. Her face was a suggestion but her eyes held all the amazement Bertie had felt, seeing herself pretty for the first time in her life.
The other ladies were there, squiggles of darkness and light, each of them expressing delight.
“Oh, Cat,” Bertie said breathlessly. “This is lovely!”
Cat pried the book from Bertie’s fingers. “It’s not right. I know I don’t draw like the drawing master taught me, but it’s how I see things.”
Bertie touched the notebook’s leather cover. “Are all your pictures like that?”
Cat nodded. “I draw all the time.” She flushed. “Sometimes I write little poems about what I draw.”
Bertie instantly wanted to read them, but she restrained herself. “Have you ever shown your Uncle Mac any of what you’ve drawn? I’ve seen his paintings. They’re beautiful, even though some of them are . . . well, blurry.”
“He paints like Monsieur Manet and Monsieur Degas,” Cat said. “Mrs. Evans said that what Uncle Mac paints is shameful, but I think his pictures are beautiful. But no, I haven’t showed him.”
“Why not? Maybe he can give you some lessons.”
“No!” Cat said in a hard voice. She swallowed. “What if he says they aren’t any good? It would be . . .”
She made a helpless gesture as though not knowing how to finish the thought. Bertie believed she understood. If Mac derided Cat’s drawings—not that Bertie thought he would—that would take something away from Cat, something she considered personal and precious.
“You can’t tell him,” Cat said with a scowl. “You promised, Bertie.”
Bertie lifted her hands. “I know I did. I’ll not say a word. Not unless you want me to.”
Cat nodded, though she gave Bertie a skeptical look. Bertie saw she’d have to win the girl’s trust in this matter, and she determined to do so.
The picture Cat had done of Bertie was full of vibrancy and strange beauty. She had talent, Bertie was sure of it. Maybe one day, Cat would be ready to share it with the world.
After breakfast, once the adults of the family had rested from the mad chase of children in the garden, Sinclair went to meet Fellows and Ian in Ian’s wing of the house. Before Sinclair could shut the door of Ian’s upstairs sitting room, it was pushed open by Bertie, who slid in behind Sinclair without apology.
Fellows raised his brows, but Sinclair answered, “It’s all right. I want her here. She might be able to help.”
Fellows pinned Bertie with his policeman’s stare but conceded with a nod. Ian, who was leaning on the edge of a desk, had the letters in his hand and was peering at them in turn. Sinclair watched him interestedly.
Ian didn’t simply read the letters. He held each one an inch away from his face and scanned the paper, turning it over and then upside down. He even touched a page to his nose, as though taking in its scent.
“What do you make of them, Ian?” Sinclair asked.
Ian didn’t answer, continuing his scrutiny in silence. After a few moments, he stood up and laid the sheets out on the wide desk, making three rows. He stood back and studied the arrangement, then lifted a few letters and changed their places with others, neatening the rows again.
At last Ian stepped back and made his pronouncement. “They were all written by the same person.”
Sinclair came to stand next to him—not too close, because Ian didn’t like anyone to touch him without warning. His wife and children could, and his sisters-in-law, but no others. Even his brothers had to be careful with him. Sinclair noted, however, that Ian didn’t seem to mind Bertie coming close to his other side to look at the letters with him. Was Ian a madman, or simply crafty?
“I’d worked that out already,” Sinclair said with a touch of impatience.
“They were all written at the same time,” Ian went on, as though Sinclair hadn’t spoken. “There are five missing.”
Sinclair started. The strange revelation that they’d been penned at the same time was lost in the cold qualm that Ian knew Sinclair had kept some of the letters back. What’s more, from the look Bertie threw at Sinclair, she knew it too, blast her.
Bertie asked the question Sinclair would have if he could have found his voice. “How the devil do you know all that?”
Ian didn’t answer. He touched each page in turn in silence, aligning their corners perfectly with the edges of the desk.
Sinclair couldn’t take his eyes from Bertie, who looked delicious in a modest gown of McBride plaid. The dark blue of the plaid brought out Bertie’s eyes, the blue-violet Sinclair had first noticed under her god-awful hat in the dirty London street. Those eyes flicked to him now, and Bertie flushed.
