Page 1 of Romancing the Artist

Chapter 1

JUNE 1823, DUNWICH

Picturesque. Most who visited the countryside surrounding Dunwich, a village beside the sea, called it picturesque. But beneath the shade of a cherry tree orchard, Caroline Clapham scowled at the canvas before her, upon which she had painted a depiction of sheep wandering beneath the orchard’s trees. Her landscape didn’t at all capture that lovely, dream-like quality that so many felt when they walked in that very same orchard.

“I cannot understand why my paintings lack the emotion I wish to invoke in them.” She examined the depiction of the fluffy white shapes nestled in the long brushstrokes of grass. “This is supposed to look peaceful. Instead, it is insipid. I can feel it, even if you won’t tell me that you see it.” She glared accusingly at her companion.

A pair of baleful brown eyes stared back at her, then blinked slowly. The aged audience to her rant, a brown dog with a curling coat and white fur upon her snout and around her eyes, hadn’t much to say on the matter. The dog whined, sensing the distress of her mistress.

Caroline’s shoulders fell, and she dropped her paintbrush upon the easel. “Sweet Muse. It isn’t your fault, of course. You’re not a classically trained artist.” Caroline knelt next to her dog, a beloved companion in all her pursuits for the last eight years.

Muse’s tail thumped against the ground happily as she leaned into Caroline’s gentle touch. There they sat, together in the shade of a cherry tree, upon a faded quilt liberally sprinkled with paint from hundreds of Caroline’s artistic projects.

At all of nineteen years of age, Caroline hadn’t yet found the secret to creating true masterpieces. Somehow, it still eluded her, that special something her mentor promised Caroline would one day find within herself. Yes, she possessed a talent and had turned it into a skill through a great deal of practice.

But the sheep on her canvas were only sheep. The trees, only trees.

“Maybe it’s the light,” she murmured to herself, tilting her head to the side as she studied the canvas. Muse whined again. The dog wanted more attention before Caroline focused on her task and wasn’t shy about letting her mistress know.

“Spoiled,” Caroline said softly, fondness in her voice. The dog had come into Caroline’s life the same summer as her papa. Everything had changed for her, her mother, and her grandmother, in those precious weeks that a lord’s son had stumbled onto their property looking for directions and a meal.

Caroline released a deep sigh, her eyes sweeping across the meadow between the orchard and the cottage where her family lived. That cottage had changed, too. After Mama and Papa married, they built on to the thatched building. There were more rooms with new purposes, including a bedroom for Caroline’s little sister and another for her twin brothers.

Leaning back on her elbows, Caroline narrowed her eyes at the cottage. She had sketched and painted that building a dozen times or more, and still she hadn’t possessed the skill to transmute the love contained within those walls to canvas or paper.

What was wrong with her?

Muse’s head turned, and her tale thumped happily against the blanket. Caroline followed the dog’s gaze to find her papa coming through the trees, rolling his sleeves down his forearms, his coat tucked under one arm. He spotted her at nearly the same moment and his expression brightened.

Caroline raised her hand in greeting, and he adjusted his direction to come to her side. She turned her attention back to her canvas. She kept both hands in her lap, though. There was nothing more she could think to do with this particular attempt at artistry.

“How goes the creative endeavor today, Cara?” Papa stood beside the blanket, peering down at her canvas while Muse’s tail thumped all the faster at his nearness. The dog adored Neil Duncan more than any other member of the family. He turned his attention to the animal long enough to give her a reassuring pat on the head.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, Caroline gestured to the blanket, inviting her stepfather to join her. “I am not certain you want the answer to that question. It will sound a great deal like complaining.”

Papa took a seat on the other side of Muse, keeping his boots well away from the fabric. “I don’t mind hearing complaints, now and again. What ails my artist, hm? Too much sunshine? Or is the sky not the right shade of blue today? Perhaps you need better brushes, made of silver and the hair of an exotic goat of some sort?”

She smiled despite herself, his familiar teasing somehow reassuring. She stuck her nose in the air. “You obviously do not understand the delicate temperament of an artist, Papa. I require a diet of raspberries and cream to perform the greatest work with my paints.”

“Ah, I see. You must excuse me. How did I not guess?” Papa studied her painting, his expression thoughtful. Without looking at her, he said, “Are you nervous about the summer?”

She considered his words, studying the profile of the man who had taken on the role and responsibility of fatherhood with more enthusiasm than most would, especially given she’d been a rather precocious child of ten when they’d met. “Not really. Not about spending the time away from home. But…what if Lady Inglewood cannot help me?” She looked down at her hands, seeing only one smudge of paint on her index finger. She rubbed her thumb over the dried dollop of white. “What if I can do no better, or learn no more, than I know now?”

Her papa’s large hand appeared, covering her own. She looked up to see him regarding her with gentle eyes and a smile that had soothed away her childhood worries on many occasions. “You have a gift, Caroline. Lady Inglewood was the first to see it, and your mother and I are proud of all the work you have done to turn that gift into a talent. You have grown so much already. Be patient with yourself.”

Though they were not the answer she wanted, his words soothed her enough that she managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Papa.”

“I am not certain you should thank me for anything.” He grimaced. “I would much rather you stay home with us. We will miss you, Cara.”

“Summer will not last forever, and you will have plenty to do with the other three children underfoot during the cherry harvest.”

Papa wrinkled his nose. “Yes. My three little helpers. Perhaps I should come with you to Inglewood and take up art myself.”

Caroline laughed softly. Lady Inglewood was an old friend of Lord Neil. It was through their connection that the countess had first seen Caroline’s childish attempts at drawing and offered to mentor the budding artist. “Too late for that. I’m beginning to think you will only miss me for all the work I do around here.”

“Not at all. You barely lift a finger.” He winked at her. They all helped when it was time to harvest the cherries, but it was true that Caroline did little else that could be called work. Her mother owned the farm, and her stepfather was the third son of a marquess. After their marriage, and a generous gift from her step-grandmother, life on their land was less about survival and more about enjoyment.

Caroline had been given more time to study and play, to practice her painting, and to grow from a child who ran barefoot through the fields to a woman with aspirations of one day seeing her artwork in a London gallery. Grand dreams, indeed, for someone who still milked the family cow every day.