Page 45 of His Bluestocking Bride

Something still bothered him about the drawing, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t think it was the trees. He knew what apple trees looked like well enough. Ellen gave him the unsettled feeling.

He turned a page and tried to sketch her, alone, to make certain he could do the job properly. He drew her form again, in a similar pose, but larger, making her the focal point of the page instead of an extra detail.

He focused on the lines of her shoulders and neck, the slight curve of her hip, and then the sloping folds of her gown. Slippered feet peeked out below the hem of her skirt and it was then he began to see his difficulties.

He turned another page, determined to do her justice.

Marcus cleared his throat and sat back for a moment, scrubbing his eyes with his hands, attempting to rid himself of the ideas at the forefront of his mind.

“What is wrong with me?” he muttered into the quiet of the study. He stood and paced before the fire, trying to put his mind back where it had started. All he wanted to do, all he set out to do, was sketch his apple orchard.

Sketching, drawing, giving himself over to that artistic endeavor, had never caused him difficulties until Selene. At his most enamored of her, he spent hours putting her likeness on paper, agonizing over her form, the turn of her head, the shine on a single curl. Marcus slaved over those depictions of the woman he loved with a fever. He filled sheets and sheets with every detail of her face until he felt he memorized her perfectly.

The day he confessed his love to her and made his offer, he had first shown her his masterpiece. Drawn in ink, on a beautiful piece of parchment, he felt certain when she saw it she would realize the strength of his feelings. But she glanced at it with mild interest, pronounced it a pretty rendering, and laid the work upon a table filled with gifts from admirers. Selene gave him little of her time that day and acted with impatience when he confessed his love.

He’d never wanted to draw again.

Though he recognized the folly of his infatuation, at the time Marcus did not want to bestir the memory of Selene ever again. A part of him believed if he had possessed more skill she would have realized the depths of his devotion and considered him more seriously for her husband.

Marcus stopped his pacing beside his desk and looked down at the new page, blank before him, and wondered at himself. His skills with drawing would never earn him more than faint praise from society, and it would likely be with derision if any of his peers spoke of it, mocking time spent on a meaningless accomplishment. Most men left drawing behind, in the schoolroom, if it was not necessary to their future income.

But he enjoyed it.

And he meant to enjoy it again.

He sat down and took up his pencil, but his mind remained full of Ellen.

“I wonder,” he murmured aloud. His previous attempt to draw his wife, while it left him discomfited, came to his mind. He did not, on the previous page, attempt to draw her face. Only her figure.

Ellen, his companion since coming to Orchard Hill, would be a fascinating subject to attempt. While pleasing to look at, his wife did not bear the features of someone classically beautiful.

But most people did not look very closely at the fine things right under their noses.

Marcus began to draw, starting with a basic outline of her face and shoulders, beginning a portrait.

The howling sounds of the storm outside began to fade, and beneath the graphite of his pencil, her image slowly appeared.

Chapter Nineteen

Dawn’s light crept across the room until it slid over Marcus’s eyes, causing him to groan and sit up slowly. He sat in his chair by the fire in the library, his sketchbook in his lap. He left the study, late in the night, when he had the idea to sketch his wife sitting in her chair, reading a book.

He tried to stretch his abused muscles and shook his head. “Getting too old for this,” he muttered, pushing himself up.

Marcus looked down at his rumpled clothing, his lack of coat and cravat, and sighed. Drawing would always turn him half wild as he chased his muse. He knew he must look frightful.

He took a staggering step towards the window to look out on the bright morning scene, disheartened to see snow piled high everywhere. His wife would not return to him early. Not in the carriage, with all the world covered in thick, white blankets.

If he could go to her, assure himself of her safety, and bring Ellen home, he would be more settled.

It took several moments of staring blankly at the landscape out his windows before Marcus sucked in a breath, hit with an idea which would satisfy his frustrations.

“Mrs. Burk,” he shouted, tearing from the library and into the entry. “Mrs. Burk!”

Sounds from below stairs, a metal clash and a loud exclamation, turned him in the right direction. Marcus made it as far as the top of the stairs before his housekeeper appeared, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Mr. Calvert? Is anything wrong?”

“Wrong?” He blinked down at her. “Not at all. But I want my horse readied at once. And send Cray up to me. I must dress quickly and be on my way.”