Page 1 of Winterset
Kate
Northern England, October 1820
The problem with drawing flowerswas that they were constantly being blown about by the breeze. I could successfully sketch one petal, but by the time I was ready to draw the next, the flower would be posed in a completely different manner. I loved drawing in the walled garden, but how was I ever supposed to improve my art when all I had to work with were such unruly subjects?
I frowned at my little daisy muse.
Well, not mymuseso much as my de facto model. I’d never really cared to draw still life. I could not capture the personality of a peony nor convey the emotions of a foxglove’s face.
With a sigh, I set aside my sketch and lifted my chin toward the sky, searching for warmth. If only I could be satisfied to admiregreat works of art instead of attempting to createthem, I might find some measure of contentment, if not happiness. But no matter how vexing the effort, I couldn’t bring myself to quit; I loathed the act but loved the art. A paradox, to be sure.
Summer was surrendering too soon this year. The once warm breeze had already turned into cool gales, and the sweet scent of flowers had given way to the earthy fragrance of fall foliage. In a few short weeks, my beloved walled garden would lie dormant for a season.
Determined to capture its beauty before it did, I returned to my drawing. I successfully sketched another petal, but halfway through the next, wind swirled through the garden again.
Drat!
What I wouldn’t give to have a willing human model to sit for me.
It wasn’t that Mrs. Owensby wasunwilling, but as Winterset’s housekeeper, she was forever at work cooking, cleaning, and tending to everything in her path. And Bexley, Winterset’s butler, was constantly occupied with everything else it took to keep the manor from falling into complete ruin. Heaven knew I was grateful for them, but in my most selfish moments, I did wish for more.
But dwelling on what that dark day two years ago had deprived me of would do me no good. Time had taught me that it was better to focus on whatever was before me. At present, a daisy.
Most people would probably view the small, scraggly weed as nothing more than a nuisance. But I admired how it survived against all odds, the way it clung to life between the cobblestones. Its beauty was worthy of being committed to paper, even if all I had were the pages in Papa’s old books and a bit of charcoal.
It wasn’t ideal to draw in a book. My art obscured the text, and the text interfered with my art. I did feel guilty about it, but I took comfort in knowing I wasn’t damaging the books beyond their intended use. If ever someone wanted to study—I peeked at the cover of the book I was using as my sketchbook—A Compendium of Domestic Accountancy, they could. Although with such a stuffy title, I doubted anyone ever would. I always replaced the book on the shelf in Papa’s study once I’d filled the pages.
Straightening the book in my lap, I lowered the charcoal to the page, but before I could make my mark, a conspiracy of ravens rushed from a nearby tree, and their caws set my heart to racing.
I froze and listened for whatever had frightened them to flight.
At first, I heard nothing. And then, faintly in the distance, the clatter of a horse’s hooves coming toward Winterset broke the silence.
I sprang to my feet, abandoning my art, and hid behind the leaning willow tree near the wall. Even though the garden’s interior was not visible from the road, panic pulsed like poison in my veins, making me weak and shaky.
We never had visitors. Nor deliveries. Nor anything that would cause anyone to come to Winterset.
But someone was here.
Perhaps it was a person seeking employment. Or a neighbor finally curious enough to come see about the state of the house.
It couldn’t behim, could it? No, not after all this time.
Taking care not to be seen, I scooted up the tree’s tilted trunk and peeked over the garden wall.
It was only a post-boy. He was entering the courtyard through the servant’s gate, skipping no less.
My whole being relaxed with relief.
But ... why was he here? We rarely received mail, and what we did receive was never delivered directly to us but to the postmaster in town. So again, why was he here?
The boy quickly disappeared around the side of the house to make his delivery at the servant’s door. A minute later, he reappeared and left the way he’d come, the servants’ gate clanging closed behind him.
I waited a few minutes to be sure he would not return, then crept from behind the willow tree and padded down the cobblestone pathway to where my art supplies lay in a heap.
I knelt to assess the damage. Papa’s book and my unfinished drawing were unharmed, save a wrinkled page. But my model, my flawless daisy, was crushed. I gently straightened it, but as soon as I withdrew my support, the flower fell.
I plucked it from its stony crevice and tucked it between two pages to press. It would be safe there, damaged but not discarded.
