Page 7 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
“Well, you meant wrong.”
Eliza swallowed. “You must accept my apologies.”
A wave of tension passed between all three of them before Marcus eventually broke it.
“Make certain you never ask me that again,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He turned on his heel and strode away with Mr. Coltrane, leaving her rooted to the spot.
Left alone, she felt her skin start to crawl with embarrassment. Her vision blurred, and she blinked hard, but the sting in her eyes did not fade.
“Miss,” Ruth’s gentle voice broke through as she hurried forward and touched Eliza’s arm. “Do not cry. Please, do not let your brother’s words fall too deep. It will be well.”
Eliza forced a breath, steadying her voice, though it wavered. “Yes, Ruth. I am well aware of that, believe me. I know it cannot continue this way.”
Ruth gave her a searching look. “No, it cannot. Do you need me to fetch you anything? A handkerchief, perhaps? Maybe a handkerchief for your eyes?”
“You are too kind,” Eliza stated. “But you do not have to worry. The worst of it is all over, I suppose.”
Ruth said nothing. Instead, she only nodded and remained rooted to the spot. Eliza brushed her sleeves against the falling tears in her eyes and cleared her throat.
“Tell me, Ruth,” she said, “Who is Mr. Coltrane? Is he someone we used to know? Something about him seems oddly familiar.”
“I do not think so, miss,” Ruth answered softly. “But if you will forgive my forwardness, I cannot help but wonder what mischief your brother is plotting this time around.”
Eliza’s lips pressed into a thin line. She lifted her chin and nodded faintly. “I cannot help but wonder as well.”
***
The afternoon light slid lazily through the tall window, softening the hard lines of Eliza’s chamber. She sat with her easel near the window, her brush moving gently across the canvas. A shallow plate of hues rested at her side, the colors new and precious. She had asked her only friend, Clara, for money to purchase them. She could still hear Clara’s voice in her mind as she painted.
Do not fret, Eliza. I only want you to pay it back when you can.
Her hand trembled slightly with gratitude as she dipped the brush into the vivid blue. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe. The scent of oil and pigment filled the room, intense but somewhat soothing. Her brush moved, laying out the lines of stone steps, tall drapes, and windows filled with light.
She was not painting what lay outside her window. There was nothing worth painting there. All she could see now were broken shutters, cracked stones, and a courtyard overrun by weeds. No, she painted what had once been, what the house used to be like when her parents were still alive.
She painted the mansion as she remembered it, when it looked graceful and stately and when it was filled with the hum of life.
The tall cobblestone steps shone in her imagination, and the courtyard brimmed with polished carriages. Drapes of ivory fell in soft folds from high windows, and the sun pressed hard against the bright walls.
She painted the grandeur of yesterday. The one she could no longer get back. The thought struck her just as it had come.
Her throat tightened, and she set down the brush for a moment. Tears filled her eyes as she folded her hands together.
“Papa. Mama.” Her voice was low and uncertain as she pressed her palms against her knees.
“You always said you would be with me. Yet it feels as though you have abandoned me.” She raised her gaze to the ceiling as if the light might carry her words.
“I remember the dinners you gave. I remember the plays we attended, the carriage rides through town. Now we have nothing, except enough to keep us from starving.”
She bent her head again, lifting the brush but not moving it.
“Marcus is no solicitor anymore. He was caught stealing, and he has brought disgrace upon us. I have had to borrow from a friend for these colors.”
Her breath caught, and she blinked against the sting in her eyes.
“This cannot be the life you wished for me. I know you wanted better, and I want better, too. I want freedom. I want to escape his hand upon me. If you hear me … if you truly are still with me … please send me a sign.”
The door burst open without warning, and Marcus stepped in, his boot digging into the floor with purpose. She watched his eyes sweep over her painting before settling on her face, and she gently lowered her brush.
