Page 11 of Oddity of the Ton
“Yes, but the other way around. The left side of your face isn’t identical to the right. So when you look in the mirror, you don’t see your true self.” Eleanor gestured toward the mirror. “See the mole above your mouth? It’s on the right side of your face. But the person you look at in the mirror—it’s onherleft.”
Harriet lifted her hand to her lips. “Can you tell the difference?”
“Not at first,” Eleanor said. “I have to study a face a few times. But once I’ve committed it to memory, it’s like the face lives in my mind. Even if I close my eyes, I can see it. I-I can’t explain it.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Or a curse. Mother believes there’s something wrong with me. Perhaps she’s right.”
“Now, don’t go saying bad things about yourself, miss. You’re just gifted—and you don’t rattle on like other folk. That’s what Mrs. Minks says.”
Heavens—it was worse than Eleanor had imagined. So the housekeeper gossiped about her as well?
Soft in the head. That was what she’d overheard Mother say after her disastrous first Season. Papa had defended her—but only after Mother’s soliloquy cataloguing all Eleanor’s faults had culminated in a suggestion she be sent to an asylum, where she could no longer taint the family name and threaten Juliette’s chances of success.
A gentle hand touched Eleanor’s shoulder.
“Is anything the matter, miss?” Harriet asked. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Mrs. Minks is fond of you—she told me so. She’s seen your sketches.”
Panic swelled in Eleanor’s body.Sweet Lord. Had she seen…him?
“S-sketches?”
“She saw the sketches for your portrait of Miss Juliette.Ever so good, despite what the mistress thinks—that’s what I overheard her saying to Mr. Minks.” The maid colored. “You won’t tell, will you? I’d get a thrashing if they knew I’d eavesdropped. But I couldn’t help it, given how kind they were toward you.”
“Of course I won’t tell,” Eleanor said. “You keep my oddities from the rest of the world. I’m sure if Mother knew half the things I told you, she’d send me away. She despairs of me quite enough, given my poor marriage prospects.”
“Then she’s mistaken, begging your pardon,” the maid said. “You don’t need a husband. You could earn a living with your portraits, as good as any man’s.” Then she shivered. “Forgive me, miss—I do rattle on! Mrs. Minks often chides me for notions that have no place in the world.”
“What—notions that a woman can be valued in the world as much as any man?” Eleanor laughed. “Outrageous, indeed! And while it may be a disgustingly modern sensibility, I’d much rather earn a living doing something I love than being beholden to a man. Sadly, it’s not what Mother or Papa want for me.”
Which was only partly true. Papa would, most likely, support Eleanor’s wish to earn her living as a painter if it were up to him. But he had little say on the matter. While it was true as a rule that a wife was subservient to her husband, Mother was the exception. She couldn’t help it—she was a product of the Society in which she’d been raised, and of her own mother’s expectations. And a woman in Society was expected only to do one thing.
Find a husband.
Eleanor rose and exited her bedchamber. Then she made her way to the small attic room at the back of the house where she kept her paints—a room she treasured, for it gave her respite from the world and its expectations.
Once inside, she slipped on the apron hanging on the back of the door, and approached the desk where her materials were arranged in a specific order—paintbrushes according to size, lumps of charcoal in order of texture, and a basket containing tubes of paint that Papa had procured from one of his business associates, in exchange for several bolts of silk. She sat at the desk and retrieved a key concealed underneath a jar containing dried grasses. Then she unlocked the top drawer and pulled out her sketchbook.
Her heart pulsed faintly against her chest as she placed the sketchbook on the desk and ran her hands across the smooth surface.
Hewas inside.
She opened the book and flicked through the pages. The earlier sketches lacked depth—as a child, she’d attempted todraw a subject literally. But the later sketches, when her pencil strokes had grown in boldness, began to convey the essence of the subject when her old governess had once made a throwaway remark about needing to see—reallysee—the subject before being able to capture that subject on the page.
Had Miss James realized that her casual remark affected Eleanor in the manner of a stone dropped into the center of a lake, sending ripples across the surface that magnified and reflected off each other until the entire lake boiled with life? From that moment, Eleanor had set about watching each subject she painted, committing every detail to memory until she only need glance at a person to imprint them on her mind.
She flicked through the pages, pausing at her favored sketches—a pencil drawing of dearest Lavinia, a series of charcoal studies of tree stumps—until, her heart racing, she reached the page she sought.
There you are.
The subject stared out from hooded eyes beneath strong, dark brows set in a frown—a face framed by thick waves of hair, with sharp cheekbones and a firm, square jaw. His throat was straight and strong, the tendons casting a shadow across the skin, leading toward a silk cravat, tied in a perfect knot, framed by a stiff collar.
He conveyed a savage strength, yet there was a softness around the mouth—full, rounded lips, slightly parted, as if about to declare something magnificent. Or perhaps he was on the brink of claiming his mate and kissing her into oblivion.
She traced the outline of his lips, taking care not to smudge the charcoal marks. What might it be like—to feel those lips against her skin?
Dare she meet his gaze?
