Page 51 of Winterset
He was an older man with a droning voice that induced sleep more than spirituality. But knowing people were watching me, I did my best to appear alert and attentive throughout the sermon. After an hour and a half, the verbose vicar finally took his seat.
A closing song was sung, a prayer said, and finally, the meeting ended.
Lord Markham leaned close. “Come, Jennings. There is a young lady I would like to introduce to you.”
“By all means, lead the way.”
Kate
Sundays were now my favoriteday of the week. With Mr. Jennings and his manservant at church, I could read in the library, draw in the garden, or even play the pianoforte in the drawing room if I wished. Currently, I did not wish to. But I could. Because for a few glorious hours, I could doanythingI wanted.
And the first thing I wanted to do was take a bath.
It had been such an effort last night to fill Mr. Jennings’s hats with soil. How vain did a man have to be to own so many hats? I’d had to wash my hands thrice, and they werestillfilthy from the effort.
After the last week, lurking around the house with the constant fear of discovery, I now walked the familiar corridors with a lightness in my step, a freedom I’d nearly forgotten.
I sank into the bath Mrs. Owensby helped me prepare and breathed deeply, enjoying the sweet scent of Mr. Jennings’s lavender soap. It was wrong of me to use it, but I could not resist. I would find a way to repay him for the stolen indulgence. Maybe I would let him sleep soundly tonight.
After my bath, I quickly dressed and gathered my art supplies. It had been a full week since I’d spent time in the garden, and I didn’t want to waste a second. The vicar was well versed, but even he could not talk all afternoon. I likely had only two or three hours at the very most to do everything I loved. When the sun reached its zenith overhead, I needed to return inside.
I exited through the servants’ entrance and hurried to the hedgerow maze. It didn’t take long to navigate to the gate, and once inside the garden, I found my favorite spot under the willow and sat. Sunlight caressed my cheeks, and a sense of peace washed over me. The rustling leaves and babbling birdsong whisked away my fears, if only for a moment.
The garden had changed since I’d last lingered here. Not a single flower remained in bloom, not even any daisy weeds.
I glanced around, searching for something interesting to sketch. The craggy stone wall? The weeping willow? The swaying swing? Nothing inspired me.
And then a leaf fluttered to the ground in front of me. The colors were so bright. It looked as though it had soaked up every shade of the sun: red and yellow and orange. Paint was my preferred medium, but I’d run out over a year ago. I missed having a brush in my hand more than I could say. I couldn’t capture the leaf’s intricate details or incredible color with a dull bit of charcoal. I worked for a few minutes before the leaf blew away in the breeze.
Drat!
I glanced at the sky to gauge the time. The sun was still low, not even close to overhead, so I turned the page to begin a new sketch, a portrait, perhaps. I tipped back my head and closed my eyes, trying to envision a face to draw, but I saw only Mr. Jennings. I blinked, trying to dislodge the image, but it did not drive away the desire, and I found my charcoal inching toward the paper.
I’d never been very gifted at drawing a person’s likeness from memory, and sketching Mr. Jennings would be incredibly challenging. We’d only been face-to-face twice before, and not nearly long enough for me to remember the unique details of his features. But once I started drawing an oval for his head, then guidelines for his facial features, it did not take long to forget my failings and lose myself in creating.
I defined his jawline and ears, then created swirls for his hair, trying to capture the wild way it had fallen across his forehead in the rain. Finally, I drew his nose, mouth, and eyes, sketched stitches on his forehead last, and held it up to view.
Individually, his features looked accurate: the flop of his curls, the rise of his cheeks, the perfect bow of his lips; collectively, though, somethingwas off. I could not tell what was wrong precisely, but I’d not quite captured him.
What a disappointment.
Had Michelangelo ever felt this way? Da Vinci?
It was hard to imagine the masters I admired ever despising creating as much as I, but they must have. One could not create something so vast as the Sistine Chapel or so enduring asThe Last Supperwithout feeling some degree of frustration.
Setting my art supplies aside, I rolled my neck and shoulders, sore from hunching over for so long, then shook out my aching hand.
It had been a long time since I’d lost myself in the bliss of creating, and I felt untethered. Like I’d awoken in the middle of a dream.
Needing a little more time to ground myself before returning to the attic, I glanced at the sky. The sun was still not directly overhead, so I had some time left to linger. Not long, but a few minutes.
I laid back and closed my eyes, enjoying the birdsong, the breeze, and the scent of the grass and garden, soaking in every last second of this respite.
Oliver
“Lord Markham,” a lady greetedas we passed, her lovely daughter at her side. “How do you do?”
He gave the lady a polite nod in passing but did not stop to make my introduction, as I would have liked. Once we were out of earshot, he leaned close and said, “Mrs. Parker and her daughter are amiable enough, but you have no interest in tying yourself toMr.Parker. He lost everything at sea six months ago and would love to saddle his daughter’s future husband with his debt.”
