Page 6 of Romancing the Artist

“Am I keeping you from something?” Edward started to rise. “I can return another time.”

She shook her head and waved him down. “No, please stay. You see, as soon as I rise to get something done, I am weary all over again. It is rather vexing that my mind cannot choose between sleep or activity. Sitting and conversing with you is the best answer. I may rest and still engage in good conversation.”

“You are a study in contradiction today, Grace.” Edward relaxed again into his seat and stretched his legs out before him, crossing one booted ankle over the other. “I will admit I came for entirely selfish reasons, though I am glad my presence will do you some good.”

“Selfish?” She cocked her head to one side. “I’m not certain you can admit to being selfish. Not to a vicar’s wife. I am positively duty bound to tell you to go forth and think of others, rather than yourself.” Her lips turned upward, the admonishment more teasing than serious. “Or solicit a donation to the poor, perhaps. Or maybe there is a proverb we ought to recite.”

“Please leave the preaching to your husband,” Edward begged, unable to hide a smile of his own. His sister was the perfect vicar’s wife, in all honesty. She had a quiet way about her, whether she was encouraging good behavior in another or doing a kind deed of her own. Grace never made a fuss about things, either. She was calm and gentle, mindful of others’ feelings and circumstances.

“Well?” She held a hand out, soliciting his explanation. “Out with it. What selfish thing is in your thoughts?”

Edward shifted again in his chair. “It’s about Father.”

The maid reentered the room with a tea tray and set it on the table nearest Grace, then left again. Grace rose to prepare a cup for him. “What has our father done to inspire selfishness? Given that he is a creature of comfort, I cannot imagine he denied you something.” She spoke without judgment, merely a matter-of-fact knowledge of the parent.

He accepted the cup and saucer from her and noted she’d tucked a biscuit onto the tiny plate. Shortbread. His favorite. “It is more that he is forcing a thing on me that I do not want.”

“Really?” Grace settled with her cup and a biscuit. She nibbled on the shortbread more daintily than a bird took up a crumb. “What might that be? A business responsibility of some sort?”

“The business of marriage.”

The words floated between them a moment, Grace staring at him with her eyes wide and her cup frozen midway to her mouth. “He is forcing you to marry?” She lowered her cup to her saucer with a clatter. “Oh, no. Not the Kimball girl, surely? Mama was here speaking of her only yesterday.”

Edward put his cup down on the small table at his elbow and dropped his forehead into his hand, rubbing at his temples. “She is doing her best to couple our names together all over the neighborhood. If Mama could speak my marriage into existence, she would.” Then he looked between his fingers at his sister. “Wait one moment. What do you have against Mariah Kimball?”

His sister’s lips pressed together, her eyes widening drastically.

“Come now, Grace,” he cajoled, genuinely amused by her response. “Even you can admit that not everyone is perfect.”

“I know that,” she spluttered, then took a hurried sip of her tea, her gaze sliding away from his. “And I think Miss Kimball is a lovely person. Talented in all the ways a young lady ought to be talented. Fashionable, too, without being ostentatious. Everything I know of her character is acceptable. I merely think—that is to say, Edward, that I…” Her voice trailed away as she lowered her eyes guiltily to the ground. Her cheeks lost all color. “I think I am going to be ill.”

Edward’s heart twisted for his sister’s discomfort. All because he had teased her. “You needn’t fear telling me your thoughts, Grace. I wouldn’t betray your trust, and—”

“No.” She rose abruptly and put her cup and saucer down with a clatter. “I mean physically ill.” She rushed out of the room before he could say another word, leaving him to stare after her. Belatedly, he rose from his chair and put his cup down.

Ought he to follow in case she needed help? Or call the maid? He took a step to the door before indecision froze him in place. What if his sister’s sudden illness was of a delicate, female nature?

Four sisters had taught him more than he wished to know about the sometimes volatile nature of a woman’s emotions. He greatly loved and respected his sisters. So much so, that he knew when it was best to stay out of their way.

He sat back down and crossed his arms. He would wait. Grace hadn’t asked for any help. Merely fled. Obviously, she did not think him capable of assisting in whatever ailed her.

The clock on the mantel showed ten minutes passed before Grace returned, still a little pale.

“Edward. I am terribly sorry.”

He had risen again and eyed her with concern. “Are you unwell, Grace? Should I send for Jacob? Or a doctor?”

She shook her head and picked up a biscuit from the tray—a ginger biscuit this time—and retook her seat. Hesitantly, Edward did the same. Her smile wasn’t nearly as cheery as before. “You needn’t wear that gloomy mask of worry. My stomach had an indelicate moment. That is all.”

“I cannot help but worry. I have never seen you charge out of a room like that.”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It has passed. I am quite composed now.” She took a bite of her ginger biscuit and visibly relaxed after she swallowed.

But what if she couldn’t keep that down either? If she rushed out again, he would track down Jacob and bring him back to look after his ill wife. Vicar or no, Grace shouldn’t be ill on her own.

“What were we speaking of before?” Her eyebrows drew together as she thought, and Edward finally had to remind her.

“Miss Mariah Kimball.”