The Soul of a Stranger

Sir Godfrey had suggested Will spend the next day off his feet, but, true to form, Will was more than ready to exercise. Therefore, in the late morning after he had finished the breakfast which had been brought up to him on a tray, he decided to venture out of his room again. Determined to visit the Menagerie Room, he descended the stairs one at a time, slowly and without assistance.

When he entered the room at last, he was gratified to discover Charissa sitting there alone, bent over a small desk. Guiding himself with his crutches, he limped over to her. “Good morning, Miss Armitage,” he said. “I hope today finds you well.”

“Very well, Mr. Lyon,” she replied, looking up in surprise. “But the more pertinent question concerns your health. Don’t tell me you came down the stairs alone?”

“It was nothing,” he shrugged.

“You are an amazement. Not so very long ago, you were on your deathbed.”

“And now I am tottering around at lightning speed. A true miracle! This morning, the ground floor—next week, London.”

“You shouldn’t jest about such a thing,” Charissa reproved him good-naturedly. “You really are a miracle.”

“With that in mind,” he countered cheekily, “perhaps I should walk to Murrington today. It’s only a little over a mile, so I hear. Would you like me to bring anything back for you?”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Well, if you insist, I’ve decided to have another gown made. You could bring me a few bolts of cloth so that I can select the fabric. Why don’t you carry them on your head?” she suggested. “Like the women in Africa do.”

“Certainly. And I expect you’ll need a brand new ladies’ hat with ostrich feathers galore and heaps of Alençon lace! Yes, I’ll bring two or three bonnets so that you can decide between them. I’ll balance them side by side on top of the cloth.”

“Oh dear! I daresay you shouldn’t subject yourself to such indignity.”

He sighed dramatically. “Alas, I fear you are correct. It appears I shall be forced to visit Murrington another day.”

“What a pity. But for now,” she concluded hopefully, “you might keep me company here.” She indicated a chair beside hers at the table and almost asked him if he needed help, but thought better of it.

To her satisfaction, he took a seat, and after he had made himself as comfortable as he could, he looked down at the table to see what it was she had been working on. It was a pencil sketch.

“Are you trying to draw one of the dogs?” he guessed.

“Yes, Commodore was in here with me before you came down. Usually I can get him to stay put for a while, but he must have heard a noise he didn’t recognize in another part of the house, and he ran out to make sure that all is in order. I’ve been trying to sketch him, but I’m not a very good artist, I’m afraid.”

Will assessed the drawing. “The muzzle is a little too short, too small for the rest of the body,” he pointed out. “Here, let me try something.” He picked up her pencil and began to sketch lightly. “Perhaps if you just pulled it out here… and made this part a little softer…”

Charissa watched in amazement as—in only a few minutes—he improved her work significantly. Instead of an odd-looking, dog-like sort of creature, Commodore himself began to take shape on the page.

Suddenly Will recalled where he was and what he was doing. He put down the pencil. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’ve done too much. Forgive my presumption.”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes wide. “But it’s wonderful! I don’t think I could make it look that real if I worked on it all year.” She stared at Will. “Are you an artist?”

Will’s lips twisted into an ironic smile. “No. My father was adamantly opposed to it.”

“That’s a strange attitude, I must say. There are many respectable men who are painters. Some have even been knighted.”

Will knew such arguments intimately for he had used them all, but they had availed him nothing. Such a pursuit might be worthy of a lowly member of the gentry, his father had scolded him, but was in no way suitable for Viscount Disborough, the future Earl of Hartwell.

Will could not explain his father’s objection to Charissa without revealing his own identity, so he said bitterly, “My father and I rarely saw eye to eye.”

“But you obeyed him by not pursuing a career in art.”

“Yes.” In spite of their quarrels, Will had never really considered that he’d had a choice in the matter. After all, what nobleman had a career?

“Then how did you learn to draw so well?” she asked, looking back down at the picture of Commodore.

Will lowered his voice. “The truth is that I obeyed him publically, but when I moved away from home and bought my own house in London, I took private lessons from one of the members of the Royal Academy.” He paused. “I’ve never told anyone about it before.”

She turned her head toward him and found his face only inches from hers. He did not move away, and she was intensely aware of his dark eyes boring deep into hers. Her heart made a few severe, rapid beats, then she caught her breath.

“Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?” She pulled away and, grabbing a sheet of paper and a pencil, held them out to him.

He sat back. “What’s this?”

“This is your first commission, Mr. Lyon,” she announced. “I should like you to draw me two pictures, one each of Sprite and Commodore. It will give you something purposeful to do during your convalescence.”

Something purposeful to do. Had he ever done anything purposeful, he wondered?