Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“I will come down,” she said. I will face him, she told herself.
But he was not in the dining room for luncheon. A footman said he was taking lunch in the modeling room, and offered to show her where it was.
“That’s all right. I know where it is,” she lied. She would know soon, anyway. She was sure she could find him because her heart needed to be near his.
She wandered down the hall past the ballroom, to the music room, then beyond it. At the very end of the corridor, she found a door ajar, and knew he was there. She knocked softly, then louder when she got no response.
“I don’t need anything else,” he said. “Or is there a problem with Lady Augustine?”
His face appeared at the door, relaxing somewhat as he saw her.
“There’s no problem,” she said.
“Oh.”
“A footman told me you were at work in your modeling room, and I decided to find you.” She peered over his shoulder. “I was curious.”
He chuckled. “Curiosity is one of your more abiding features.”
His chuckle reassured her that she was not unwelcome after the tension between them last night. Easy moods were one of August’s most abiding features, fortunately for her.
“What sort of modeling are you doing in here?” she asked, looking into his brightly lit workshop. “Sculpture? Topiary?”
He laughed again and led her to the counters along the chamber’s walls. Natural light streamed through a line of windows, falling upon dozens of wooden miniatures. Various fine-handled tools were strewn about.
“Goodness, August,” she said. “Have you made all these?”
“Yes. Carved them. It’s been a hobby for some years.”
She remembered, like something from a dream, receiving trinkets made of wood when she was a young girl, small nesting dolls or painted swans at birthdays and holidays. Her parents had fussed over the masterful workmanship; she’d never realized until now who must have carved the things.
“You didn’t show me this room when I moved in,” she said, standing in the middle of the chamber. “Should I be here?”
“You’re welcome to be here. It’s just a mess.”
It was a mess, but an organized mess. There was a huge table in the center of the room with wood and woodworking tools, sawdust, and brushes, and another counter along the far wall with varnish, paintbrushes, and paint. There were shelves of finished figures, animals and people of all types. She walked along it, amazed. One shelf held several models of manor homes, including a small rendering of St. Pierre, with a detailed carriage and team of horses out front.
“Honestly, I’ve never seen such handicraft.” She touched the carriage, astounded that the wheels moved on carved axles. She turned back to him in wonder. “How do you manage to make them so small, when your fingers are so massive?” Her face went hot at his look, and she dropped her gaze. “I—I imagine it must take a great deal of care.”
“It does.”
She moved past the shelves and work benches, mostly to hide her burning cheeks, then paused beside a high table dotted with sanding paper and painting supplies. There were more figures there, some painted, and some appearing to wait between coats.
“Those are more recently finished,” he said.
“You’ve quite an imagination.” She leaned down to look at a ferocious dragon, and a two-headed beast she thought might be from a mythological tale. She was about to ask which tale when she noticed the knight, rugged and armored, painted in shades of silver that seemed to bring him to life. Just beyond the knight stood a damsel with long black hair and a regal purple gown, and a gold crown set with the tiniest, most sparkling jewels she’d ever seen.
Did he own the same book of Arthurian legends? Did he also dream of ancient love stories and heroic tragedies?
“Is this you? The knight?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s not anyone specific.”
She tapped the princess. “This could be Felicity, with her royal trappings.”
She didn’t know why she said it. Because he’d abandoned her that morning? His answer was curt. “It’s not meant to be Felicity, or anyone in real life.”
“Princess Guinevere?”
“If you like.”
She reached to pick up a hawk, smooth and yet unpainted. She turned it carefully, marveling at the detail in the wings and feathers. “Is it all right to handle them?”
“You already have,” he said. “But it’s all right.”
“Goodness, August. Who taught you such skills?”
“I taught myself. My first attempts were not very impressive, but when you apply yourself to something, you can get better at it.” He shrugged. “I find woodworking quite meditative. Very soothing and still, compared to my life’s other activities.”
She made a soft sound. “If you had marble, you could make a statue good enough for the museums.”
“You flatter me.” He took the hawk from her hand, pinning her with a look. “Why did you pick this up? This particular one?”