Page 26 of The Smuggler & the Society Bride

While Miss Foxe soothed the child, Gabe picked up the charcoal and righted the sketchbook, which had fallen face-down on the sand. Turning the book over, he drew in a sharp breath.

‘Miss Foxe, look at this!’

She glanced over at the page and gasped. ‘Why—that’s me!’

‘And an excellent likeness it is,’ Gabe confirmed, staring in awe and disbelief at the sketch the child had jotted off in the short time the two had been chatting. A head-and-shoulders portrait of Miss Foxe in profile, it caught perfectly the outline of her nose, the curve of her lips and cheek, the arch of her brows, even the hint of the lace at her throat and the little tendrils tugged loose from her coiffure by the wind.

‘That’s amazing,’ she breathed, wonder in her face. ‘Eva, your sketch is very, very good!’

For a moment the girl remained still, as if not believing Honoria’s words. Then, her face still entreating, she went off in a flurry of hand signals.

‘What is she telling you?’ Gabe asked.

‘I’m not altogether sure, but I think she’s saying she is sorry and that she loves the beach, because there she can draw in the sand as much as she likes. If I got that right, Eva?’

Still apparently not convinced she wasn’t going to be punished, the girl nodded tentatively.

The idea for a new, even more attractive venture began shaping in Gabe’s mind. ‘Do you like drawing, Eva?’

The child’s vigorous affirmative nod was his answer.

‘Do you like to draw the beach and the coves, as well as pretty ladies like Miss Foxe?’

The girl gestured with her whole arm, encompassing both Miss Foxe and the rest of the scenery.

Turning to that lady, he said, ‘If Eva can create drawings this skilful of the cliffs and sea, the coves and harbours, churches and fishing boats, she could produce something probably much more saleable than woolen mittens. Many of my Army comrades used to purchase sketches just like those in Spain and Portugal, to bring back as souvenirs for their wives and sweethearts. I wager that ladies and gentlemen of leisure in town, or at least at their country estates, would appreciate just as much having skilful renderings of the wild Cornish coast to decorate their parlours.’

Miss Foxe immediately reflected his excitement. ‘I’ve seen such drawings times out of mind in the homes of family and friends! Sketches in colour might sell even better—especially of garden scenes or flowers. Eva,’ she said, turning back to the child, ‘would you like to make pictures with paints or pastels?’

When the child stared at her uncertainly, she exclaimed, ‘Heavens, what am I asking her? She’s probably never seen a paintbox nor a set of pastel chalks in her life! But we shall change that at once. Perhaps Aunt Foxe has some, and if not, I’ll order them from London.’

Turning back to Eva, she took the girl’s hands and said, ‘Eva, you make wonderful pictures. I’d like you to make lots more of them. Would that please you?’

A slow smile started on the child’s face. As if finally daring to believe what Miss Foxe was telling her, she bobbed her head enthusiastically, then launched herself at Miss Foxe’s waist and hugged her.

Miss Foxe returned the child’s embrace just as fiercely. Though happy for them both, Gabe was feeling a bit envious of Eva, held tightly against Miss Foxe’s bosom, when that lady turned on him a smile so much more radiant and intense than any he’d coaxed from her previously that he forgot everything in a dizzying wave of surprise and delight.

‘Thank you for driving us here, Mr Hawksworth—else we might never have discovered Eva’s talent. Do you truly think we could sell her drawings?’

Still riding that breaker of delight, he would have agreed to anything she proposed. ‘I’ve seen comrades buy much less skilful drawings of places not nearly as attractive as this coastline—and ladies not nearly as beautiful.’

Blushing a little, Miss Foxe clapped her hands in sheer excitement. ‘If only we might create a market for Eva’s sketches! I have no notion of what price such an item might fetch, but unlike knitted goods, which the girls will need time to learn how to perfect, Eva could have drawings ready for sale at once! Again, thank you so much!’

Staring into her radiant face, Gabe felt just a bit like that perfect knight. A layer of satisfaction, warm and sweet as honey, spread itself over the heady sensual pull that had drawn them together from the first. Gabe couldn’t help returning her grateful, confident smile—and wishing this magical moment might last forever.

But the seaman in him had already subconsciously noted the change in the wind and the way the shadows in the cove had lengthened. Though the afternoons were longer now as summer approached, this one was nearing its end.

Reluctantly he said, ‘As delightful as this interlude has been, I fear we shall have to leave. It must be fast upon four of the clock.’

Miss Foxe looked around her quickly. ‘Heavens, you are right! The sun is so low, nearly the whole cove is in shadow. We must return at once, or my aunt will worry. I can hardly wait to tell her about Eva’s skill and all our plans!’

Giving the child one more impulsive hug, she turned to Gabe, her arms still loosely about the girl. ‘We both thank you for today, don’t we, Eva?’

Burrowing back into the safety of Miss Foxe’s arms, the child nodded and made another hand movement.

‘She says “thank you”, too,’ Miss Foxe said softly.

‘My pleasure, ladies—to you both.’

And so they gathered up the sketching supplies and climbed back up the narrow track to the gig while the sun waned and the clouds in the western sky began to burnish gold and purple. Before he helped Miss Foxe up into the vehicle, though, Gabe stayed her with a touch.

‘One more thing before we go.’ Pointing to the sketchbook he was carrying, he said, ‘Might I keep your drawing, Miss Eva? With your permission, of course, Miss Foxe.’

Eva nodded gravely, while, blushing slightly, Miss Foxe murmured, ‘If you wish.’

I’d rather keep the original, he thought, nearly voicing the comment aloud. To distract himself from blurting out something equally unwise, after helping the ladies into the gig, he occupied himself with carefully removing the drawing from the sketchbook. Then, handing the book up to Eva, he climbed up to the bench, released the brake and gave the horses the office to start.

An hour later, Gabe arrived back at the inn. Miss Foxe was safely on her horse headed back to Foxeden, and Eva had been escorted to the track leading to her house. Gabe ordered a mug of ale and took a chair, idly sipping at the brew while his mind filled with speculation about cargoes and trading routes and contacts with legitimate businesses in Bristol, Gloucester, Bath and London.

It was more important than ever now that he go to London, so he might check at galleries and print dealers, see what was being bought and sold, at what prices. If Miss Foxe’s aunt didn’t possess any, he needed to purchase pastels and oils for Eva to try. Miss Foxe was right; since coloured sketches and portraits would probably sell better and certainly command a better price than charcoal sketches, it would be prudent to discover if she could produce works in those mediums with the same natural skill so strikingly present in her charcoal sketch.

He also needed to check into dry-goods dealers, drapers, dressers and modistes who might be interested in offering an assortment of knitted gloves, scarves, hats and reticules of superior weave and design.

And he wished to find a frame for the sketch of a certain young lady that now lay neatly rolled on the table before him.

Smiling, he spread it out, feeling somehow closer to her, as if by holding this brief image of her likeness, he possessed some small part of her. Lovely as the silhouette was, if Eva proved to be as talented with a brush as she was with charcoal, Gabe intended to have her do a portrait of Miss Foxe as he remembered her from this afternoon—framed by cliffs and blue sky, smiling for him.

He seemed compelled by some driving need to try to inspire more dazzling smiles from Miss Marie Foxe. Smiles that, along with her enthusiasm, unquenchable spirit and loveliness, were burning her likeness into his mind and heart. Maybe forever.

As a man who’d always resisted being compelled to stay in any one place doing any one thing for very long, that thought ought to terrify him, send him speeding to weigh anchor on the Gull and sail out of Cornwall as quickly as his father’s controlling hand had propelled him from Ireland.

But somehow, this time, he did not feel inclined to run.

Chapter Thirteen

Honoria galloped back to Foxeden, arriving sufficiently in advance of sunset that neither the staff nor her aunt appeared to have grown uneasy about her absence. She was relieved her aunt would be calm when they met at dinner, for after her interlude with Mr Hawksworth and Eva, Honoria was unsettled enough for both of them.

She went up to her room to prepare for dinner, then changing her mind, sent Tamsyn off with a request that her aunt meet her in the library before the meal, where they might talk privately. Honoria didn’t want the whole staff buzzing about her plans for Eva before she determined whether or not they were feasible. After finishing her evening toilette, Honoria repaired to the library to wait for her aunt.

Matrons of a more conventional turn of mind might view with disfavour the idea of dealing with such a child, or dismiss the entire project out of hand. But Honoria knew Aunt Foxe would not prejudge Eva or her skill, but thoughtfully consider before giving her opinion on the concept’s value and probability of success.

---