1794_Charlotte

by Karen Hawkins

  He tried not to focus on the way her fingers were entwined with his. What did she just say? “The book. The one about sculpting.”

  She nodded. “I would like to see some of your techniques as you make the fireplace surround.” She wet her lips as if they were dry. “I am quite curious about your process.”

  “You are always welcome in my workshop. I will try to answer any questions you may have.” He squeezed her hand once, and then stepped back, as happy as an angel just granted his wings.

  She looked pleased and adorably self-conscious. “Thank you. I look forward to it.”

  “So do I.” He took the reins, making sure he left plenty of loose leather between him and Angelica on the off chance she decided to nip at him. Satisfied she wasn’t already eyeing him like a large apple, he glanced back at Charlotte and smiled. “Which way do we go?”

  Chapter 10

  Marco returned to his workshop to find Pietro sweeping the floors. The stonemason, unaware that Marco had just spent an enjoyable hour with the woman he shouldn’t have spent an enjoyable hour with, didn’t notice that his master was in a better than normal mood.

  But he was. A much better mood, and all because of a beautiful, secret grotto in the heart of Balesboro Wood and a refreshingly candid woman with a soul as beautiful as her blue eyes.

  That was why he felt like whistling as he found his chisel and hammer and set to work. Naturally, none of his cheerfulness had to do with the fact Charlotte was no longer marrying–

  Marco squinted at the ceiling. What was that man’s name again?

  He shrugged. Oh well. No matter. He is gone. Satisfied, Marco angled the chisel and tapped it lightly, a chip flicking off the statue and falling to the floor.

  Pietro put away his broom and came to watch Marco work. The stonemason grunted his approval. “It goes well.”

  Marco, who’d been chipping the stone away from a dimpled elbow, sat back on his heels. “There are two types of statue. One of them will fight you as you try to draw it from the stone. There are chips and broken rock, hard spots that cannot be smoothed, and smooth spots that cannot be carved. The stone and the statue struggle against one another, and the artist is caught between.”

  “I know those well. What is the other kind?”

  “The statue is strong, and the stone knows it is beaten before the fight begins, so it steps aside. It allows the statue to emerge unscathed. These pillars are the second type of statue. I can see the figures so clearly that to me, the rest of the stone is already dust.”

  “They will be some of your best work.”

  “They will be magnificent.” He went back to work.

  After a while, Pietro announced that he’d been invited by Davis and the other grooms to play cards, but would go only if Marco didn’t need him.

  “Go,” Marco said. “I won’t need you any more today. Just don’t lose. I’ll not have you returning to Italy as naked as the day you were born because you lost all of your possessions in a card game.”

  “I promise to cheat as hard as I can and to never wager my final pair of breeches,” Pietro vowed solemnly.

  “You are a man of great sense.” Marco waved the servant away. “Go. Enjoy yourself.”

  Chuckling, the stonemason left, and Marco continued his work, carefully tapping away at the white marble.

  It had been a good day. Of course, he was still angry at that damned owl. The sketch was still gone, and Marco’s hands still scratched, his knee was still stiff, but as painful and humiliating as his foray into the woods had been, it had been worth it to spend an hour in a beautiful grotto with an intriguing and seductive woman.

  She was all of that and more, he decided, fitting the chisel to the fold of the caryatid’s inner elbow. He wondered if Charlotte’s elbow was as dimpled. She didn’t seem the least remorseful that she’d ended her engagement, too. He’d been relieved at that.

  He paused, the hammer cocked, the chisel in place, and wondered why he cared. Even though Charlotte was no longer engaged, she was still the daughter of his patron, and when her mother discovered that her daughter was no longer engaged, plans would be made for another marriage. Another suitor would be found.

  And if that didn’t work out, then there would be another.

  And another.

  And ano—

  He slammed the hammer onto the chisel head, a loud ring echoing. An awkwardly shaped chunk of marble fell to the floor with a thunk.

  Cursing, he examined the spot he’d hit, and was relieved to find that although he’d removed more than he’d meant to, his error hadn’t destroyed the statue’s lines.

  Good God, he had to be careful. Scowling, his earlier good mood destroyed, he dropped his tools on the ground and left them.

  What is wrong with me? Of course, Charlotte will have other suitors. God knows she deserved a swarm of them. He knew that, and expected it. Marriage was the goal of all well born women. It was what they were raised to do.

  The problem was that, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t imagine a man worthy of her. She was kind, funny, fascinating, complicated, spirited, and—He closed his eyes. And not for me.

  He could not seem to remember that when she was nearby.

  He rubbed his face, gritted his teeth, reclaimed his dropped tools, and went back to work. Damn all this thinking; I need to finish these. For the rest of the day, that’s all I’m going to think about.

  Soon the tap tap tap of the hammer filled the room, and the chips flew. Dust clung to his clothing and skin. As the hours passed, his hands and shoulders ached with his efforts. It was difficult, but every time thoughts of Charlotte threatened to return, he would mercilessly tap the thought away, letting the chips drop into a pile at his feet.

  Marco worked through dinner and into the night, pausing only when Pietro came staggering home, coins jingling in his pockets. The stonemason mumbled an incoherent story about a marked card that somehow ended up under his chair and fell as he tried to climb into his cot. The old man ended up on the floor, laughing hysterically, until – finally – with a hearty wheeze, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep. Marco stopped long enough to put a pillow under the old man’s head before returning to work.

  Hours later, Marco stepped back and examined the pillars, rolling his shoulders where they’d knotted. The features were now clear, the arms and legs almost done, as were the graceful folds of the toga. Tomorrow, he would leave the chisel and hammer behind, and start smoothing the stone.

  His gaze flickered to the uncarved faces and he growled under his breath. Soon, my muse, you must do your job and reveal them to me.

  His muse remained silent, and so – tired and aching – he went outside to the well to wash before he stumbled to his bed to sleep.

  He awoke late the next morning to a soft rain thrumming on the roof. He sat up and stretched away the familiar stiffness of his arms and shoulders, wincing more at the ache in his heart than in his limbs. His time by the pool with Charlotte now felt like a too-beautiful dream. Yesterday, every tap of his hammer had driven home the sad realities of their situation and he couldn’t shake the darkness it left. Sighing heavily, he put on clean breeches and a fresh shirt, tugged on his boots, and raked his hands through his hair. Stretching his arms over his head, he made his way to his workshop and found the fire freshly stoked, warding off the chill brought by the rain. On his work table sat a plate holding an apple, a wedge of cheese, and some bread. Pietro, however, was nowhere to be seen. No wonder Simmons has decided he dislikes you, old friend. You have taken up permanent residence in the kitchens, and no one likes a distracted cook.

  Famished, Marco ate, his gaze wandering to the statues. While he waited for the muse to whisper, he would work on smoothing out the chisel lines. He would use a special rasp to knock of the larger lines made by the chisel. When that was done, he’d polish the stone until the surface was silky and shiny. Where should be begin, he wondered? On the arms, perhaps. They provided the most movement in both pieces. He p
ushed his empty plate aside and found his tools.

  Working kept him from dwelling on the decision he’d made yesterday. Slowly, slowly, the rasp did its work and the chisel lines were erased, leaving only the sheen of milky white marble, ready for polishing. It was laborious, but the beauty of the end result pushed him onward.

  Still, the blank faces irked him. He stopped working, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine them, but his stubborn muse remained silent.

  Muttering, he set aside his tools and repaired to his work table. He found some foolscap and a stick of charcoal, and began to sketch, trying various shapes for the faces, different noses and lips, different curves for the cheek. Anything to tease the muse to life.

  He’d just sketched a series of eyes when the stable door opened, the thrum of the rain loud. But instead of Pietro, Charlotte rushed inside, a blanket held over her bonneted head, water dripping from every surface.

  “Goodness, it’s coming down!” She threw off the blanket and tossed it over a barrel sitting near the door and brushed raindrops from her spencer. “It’s raining hard. The drops are splashing on the ground like marbles tossed into a tea cup.”

  Marco nodded, and wondered why his workshop suddenly felt too small, too intimate. Truth be told, he was painfully glad to see her, but that same happiness was tinged with the cold whisper of his future despair. “It’s too dark in here. I’ll light some lamps.” He collected three lamps from where they hung on hooks, and lit each one, turning them up as high as he dared before he returned them to their places. Soon the workshop was bathed in a soft glow.

  The light reflected off of Charlotte’s red spencer and the yellow gown the peeked beneath it. Despite the fact that her wet hem dragged the ground and mud had spattered over her half boots, she still looked like what she was – a beautiful young lady of the best birth, rich in heritage, and destined to carry on an ancient family name.

  She untied her bonnet, pulled it off, and shook her curls free, the auburn color warm in the cool dampness of his workshop.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for the few pins still holding her hair in place and letting down her tortured tresses.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing your work.” She placed her bonnet on his work table, making sure she didn’t set it on any papers that might absorb the dampness. “I was out taking a walk and it began to sprinkle, so I was forced to take refuge here.”

  “It’s been raining for hours. And where did you get this blanket? Did you find it on your walk?”

  Her lips quivered. “Don’t be ridiculous. I got the blanket from an old witch in exchange for an apple I was carrying in my pocket.”

  Damn it, why did she have to make him laugh? It made it impossible to stay cross, and he needed his irritation. “Fortunately for you,” he said in a pointed tone, “it is a short distance to the Hall. You should leave now, before the rain gets worse.”

  She sent him a searching look, and he could see that she was surprised at his coolness. Her eyes narrowed, but all she said was, “I brought you something.” She pulled a slender tome from her pocket and held it out. “It’s the book on sculpting I found in the library.”

  “Thank you.” He took it, almost wincing when her fingers brushed his. Turning, he placed it on his folio where it rested on the desk. “You’d better go now. The sky’s getting darker.”

  Her jaw firmed. “No.”

  His heart sank. She wasn’t going to make this easy.

  “I think I’ll stay here until the rain lets up.” She crossed to the stove and held her hands toward the fire. Overhead the rain thrummed on the roof. Before she’d come in, his workshop had felt damp and dim. Now, it seemed cozy and incredibly warm. Perhaps lighting the lamps hadn’t been such a good idea.

  She glanced at him from under her lashes, and proffered a smile. “I love rainy weather, don’t you?”

  God, but he would miss that smile. He would miss the way she smelled, of lily and sunshine, and the way she peeped at him from under her lashes when she thought he wasn’t looking – He would miss all of it, all of her.

  But that didn’t change the facts of their lives. “Charlotte, I know how we left things yesterday, but . . . we can’t do this.”

  Her smile froze in place. “Do what?”

  But she already knew. He could see it in her eyes, in the faint quiver of her bottom lip. He forced himself to continue. “Our time in the woods was perfect, and I didn’t want it to end. Being there with you . . . it felt as if we could overcome anything. As if we were meant to be.”

  Her smile had faded, her eyes darkening. “Perhaps we are.”

  “Are we? To what end? To the detriment of our families? Yours would be horrified at this connection and mine would suffer from my loss of career – Could our love bear that weight?” He shook his head. “We can’t take that chance. Too many would suffer. We must be prudent and—”

  “No!” She took a step toward him. “I don’t want to do the safe thing, the ‘right’ thing, especially when that ‘right’ thing is defined by others. I’ve tried that, and it was the most deadening thing I’ve ever done. This attraction, this passion, whatever we have, it’s real. You know it and I know it. It’s meant to be. If we walk away from this chance, how do we know we’ll have another? Marco, we should at least try.”

  “To what end? Every day we spend together will make the inevitable all the more difficult.” He was worried; he was worried about how enraptured he was already. He worried about how much more enthralled he’d be if he continued to see her. He was worried about how painful it would be to leave her behind and how empty his life would be after that.

  But most of all, he worried about how she would survive the weight of another loss. She’d suffered enough. He sent her a bleary look. “I can’t do this.” Not to you. Not after all you’ve already been there.

  She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “This is so unfair.” She gave a weak laugh. “When I came today, I was hoping for something else.”

  “So was I, but we must be realistic.”

  She didn’t look at all happy with that. “What if we keep our conversation centralized on safe topics like the weather or—or cats, or something.”

  “Cats?” He had to smile, although it killed him. “It wouldn’t matter if we didn’t talk at all. Every minute I spend with you will haunt me more. Go back to Nimway. I can’t—"

  “No! Not yet. I want to stay. At least for a while.” She looked around, her movement abrupt, desperate. “There! You’ve been working on the pillars.” She crossed to them before he could stop her.

  Damn it, I should have covered those blasted things.

  She stood before them, her eyes moving over every inch of the statues. “Oh Marco,” she said in a soft voice. “They’re perfect.”

  Warmth washed over him at her admiration. He wanted to stand beside her and explain all he’d done, but he forced himself to stay in place, far away where he was safer. “The muse has hidden the faces, but I’ll see them soon.”

  She nodded. “I’d heard you’d been hard at work on these, but I had no idea you were this close to finishing.”

  “Who told you I’d been hard at work?”

  “Pietro told Cook, who told Simmons, who told me, but not before he’d complained about the amount of time Pietro has spent in the kitchens and how Simmons is certain the missing ham is now residing in Pietro’s rather large belly.” She frowned. “There was also something about pickled eggs, although I didn’t catch all of it.”

  “Good God. I’m going to skin Pietro alive.”

  “Not if Simmons gets to him first.” She bent and picked up a marble chip and turned it over in her hands, smoothing it as she did so. “To think that something so beautiful came from a plain block of stone. It gives one hope, doesn’t it?”

  He tried not to watch her, but he couldn’t help himself. Her hands were as beautiful as the rest of her, slender and narrow, and as graceful as
the fall of water over a smooth rock.

  Absently, he reached for his charcoal and paper, his fingers itching to capture her expression as she examined the marble. He wouldn’t render her as the daughter of a wealthy scion, a maid of virtue and the utmost respectability as her blood demanded. No, he’d follow instead the wildness of her deep blue gaze, the sensual line of her mouth contrasted with the carefully protected life she’d led. He would capture the fullness of her breasts, and the delicate hollows of her shoulders, both of which begged to be explored and tasted. He would have her reclined on a chaise, nude except for a silk shawl, which he’d drape over her bared thighs—

  Snap. The charcoal stick broke between his fingers. He stared down at the splintered ruin, his mind still spinning.

  The marble chips clattered as she returned them to the pile. “The pillars are quite tall. Almost my height.”

  “Almost.” Marco tossed the broken charcoal onto the table. “The fireplace is to be the focal point for the room, so those had to be substantial.”

  “That will be is a lot of marble.”

  “It’s a big fireplace.”

  Her lips twitched. “True.” She turned from the pillars and walked toward him, her gaze flickering past him to his work table. “So many sketches! What were you working on when I came in?”

  He stepped between her and the table, even though it put him far too close to her for his comfort. “Charlotte . . . please. This is only making it harder.”

  “Good.” She smiled up at him, and he was surprised to see flecks of gold in her blue eyes, reflected from the gray, rainy light. “If I’m to be forgotten, I don’t want it to be done easily.”

  Overhead, the rain thrummed, while the scent of lily filled the space between them. He rammed his hands back into his pockets. “The rain is getting harder. If you want to reach Nimway without getting soaked, you should—”

  She darted around him, grabbed a handful of sketches, and dashed away before he could do more than curse.