‘Oh, but—’
‘Sketch,’ she ordered her.
She swallowed. ‘I don’t do that any more either.’
‘Artist’s block,’ Naomi diagnosed. And at her words all three of them sprang into action. Naomi flipped the sketchpad open, while Helen selected a pencil and pushed it into Liv’s hand, neither woman giving her the chance to dither over the choice.
Dirk wheeled the baby closer. ‘Sketch the baby,’ he instructed. ‘She’s asleep, so it’ll be a doddle.’
She glared at him. ‘A doddle? Babies aren’t a doddle, they’re—’
‘Don’t think, draw,’ he ordered.
With a sigh, she gave in and started a sketch. As soon as they saw her pitiable efforts they’d retreat and leave her in peace. She started but soon made a mistake. Naomi turned the page of the sketchpad, not giving her any time to dwell on her mistake. ‘Start again.’
It happened twice more—stupid mistakes that in her heyday she’d have never made—but Naomi refused to allow her to dwell on the errors, just kept urging her forward.
The feel of the pencil in her hand was as familiar as the rise and fall of her own breath. And as she stared down at Jemima, remembering her in all her moods, the pencil started to fly across the page. She sketched and she shaded and then she turned the page, seized a stick of charcoal and did it all again in a bolder style.
And then she stopped to survey her handiwork. She stared at it and her throat closed over. She couldn’t have uttered a word if her life depended on it.
This sketch...it was a halfway decent effort. Better than anything she’d attempted in the last four years.
Her heart starting to beat hard. Actually, it was better than all right. It was...good.
She gripped her hands together so hard they started to ache. She was too afraid to hope, too afraid to let the wild exhilaration spinning through her free. But... Had her gift come back?
How?
Was it even possible?
Her mind spun.
The three other artists passed the pad from one to the other silently. ‘This isn’t just good,’ Helen finally said, her voice full of awe. ‘This... You have an amazing talent.’
She stared at them, lifted her hands and let them drop, absurdly close to tears. ‘I thought I’d lost it.’
‘You don’t just lose a gift like this,’ Dirk told her.
When had it come back? How? ‘If you three hadn’t bullied me I might’ve gone the rest of my life not realising I could still do this.’ And the thought now seemed too awful to consider.
‘That wouldn’t have happened. You’d have picked up a pencil again. You’d have not been able to help yourself. How long since...?’
‘Four years.’
The three artists stared at her in varying shades of shock and horror. ‘Four years,’ Dirk finally said. ‘Where were your artist friends? Why weren’t they pushing and nagging you?’
‘I...’ She’d pushed them all away, cut herself off from them, too ashamed to face them.
‘Never mind that now,’ Naomi said with a smile. ‘What’s your preferred medium—oils or watercolours?’
‘Oils,’ she whispered.
Naomi nodded at the sketchpad. ‘Would you like to give that a whirl on canvas?’
A smile rose through her. ‘Yes, please.’
* * *
Sebastian came to a halt, his foot resting on the last riser up to the mezzanine level in the refurbished barn. Brownie had sent him across to the co-op in search of Eliza...and it seemed his search had come to an end.
She stood in front of a canvas painting, and his heart started to thump. She somehow managed to look completely alien and totally familiar, both at the same time. Yet...he’d never seen her like this before—totally immersed in the project in front of her, her brow crinkled with a kind of intense concentration that was interspersed with bursts of fiery movement.
What on earth had happened to his sensible office manager? How could he have got this woman so wrong? For a moment he couldn’t move. All he could do was stare.
She looked... Powerful.
Energy coursed through her—setting her lips with purpose, curling her fingers about the brush and rag she held as if they were part of her. Energy crackled all around her, as if she had her own electrical force field.
A beat started up at the centre of him—a pulse that had the same intensity, the same sense of purpose. He didn’t know what it meant or what it signified. He only knew that for long, deep moments he couldn’t move, couldn’t look away, couldn’t even breathe, as he felt the world shifting and himself falling through space...all while his feet remained planted firmly on the floor.
A glance about the room told him he wasn’t the only one mesmerised. A crowd stood around in an expectant hush—the three artists and several potential customers. The only one not the least concerned was Jemima, who nestled in Dirk’s arms—he had three little ones at home—intently sucking on her bottle.
Naomi glanced across at him. Putting a finger to her lips, she beckoned him over. As a child he’d learned to walk silently to avoid his parents’ notice. He brought those skills into play now as he moved to Naomi’s side several feet behind the absorbed artist at work, where he’d get a partial view of the painting in progress.
What he saw made the pulse in his throat pound while his lips parted to drag in more air. He didn’t need to be fluent in art appreciation to realise that what he saw on that canvas wasn’t just good—it was amazing. He raised an eyebrow at Naomi, who shook her head and shrugged.
Eliza had all but completed a painting of a sleeping Jemima, but the bold strokes and the texture of the paint didn’t just capture the innocence and peace of the sleeping baby—it also captured Jemima’s mischievousness, her laughter...but something darker was hinted at too in the colours bleeding out at the edges of the canvas. Those colours suggested turmoil...mourned a paradise lost. He couldn’t capture or explain all of the emotions that flashed back and forth through him—he only knew that Eliza’s painting seized him in a fast grip and then shook him like a rag doll.
Jemima finished her bottle and Sebastian gave up silent thanks that Eliza refused to sally forth without a ready-made bottle to spare...just in case. Dirk lifted the baby to his shoulder to burp her, but Jemima saw Sebastian and gave a squeal of delight, making everyone jump.
Eliza didn’t jump, but it did pull her from whatever world she’d inhabited. She turned slowly as if emerging from a dream. Those golden eyes rested on him for a moment before surveying the rest of the room. She had a smudge of pink and white paint on her cheek, and her right hand was covered in the stuff. He watched as astonishment and then consternation passed across her face, before she swung back to her painting and stilled.
All of them held their breath as she surveyed her artwork.
She set the brush and rag down to a nearby workbench and folded her arms. She unfolded them a moment later to plant her hands on her hips. She moved from one side of the painting to the other—bent at the waist to examine a detail here and there, moved back to study it from a distance. Eventually she turned to face the small crowd behind her and lifted her hands before letting them drop back to her sides. ‘It’s good.’
‘Good?’ Naomi sprang forward. ‘It’s amazing!’
And then Sebastian found himself holding the baby while the other two artists rushed to join Naomi, the four artists hugging each other and talking at once, and all Sebastian could do was watch and wish he could be a part of it.
Which was crazy. He shifted and jiggled Jemima.
‘I want to buy it!’ One of the customers leapt forward, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. ‘How much?’
Every muscle he possessed stiffened. ‘It’s not for sale!’
The customer bristled. ‘I offered first and I’m not going to let you unde
rcut me. Let the woman speak for herself. Who do you think you are anyway?’
Helen pointed back the way Sebastian had come. ‘He’s Lord Tyrell’s son...he owns this place.’
‘Oh.’ Crestfallen, the customer shoved his wallet back into his pocket.
Eliza met Sebastian’s eyes. ‘It isn’t for sale.’ And he realised that she was talking to him, telling him he couldn’t have it either.
He opened his mouth to protest. He wanted that painting with every fibre of his being. But the customer—who evidently wanted it as much as Sebastian...and, who knew, maybe they had identical expressions on their faces?—leapt forward with a second wind. ‘I’ll pay good money.’ And then he named a sum that made Sebastian’s eyes water.
Eliza shook her head. ‘I’m sorry this particular painting isn’t for sale. But if you come back next week, who knows what you might find?’ she said with a smile to soften her refusal.
Dimly he was aware of her making arrangements for the painting with the other artists and then she was at his side, taking Jemima from his arms and settling her back in her pram.
‘I’m starving! It must be time for lunch.’
He kicked himself out of his stupor. ‘Brownie sent me to find you. She said you’d been gone for hours.’
She flicked a glance at her watch and her eyes widened. ‘She’s right. Heavens! Come on.’
He helped her manoeuvre the pram back to the ground floor, noted the friendly waves she exchanged with everyone, before turning in the direction of the hall. They were halfway along the gravel path and his pulse still hadn’t returned to its right rhythm, the ground beneath his feet still hadn’t stopped shifting. ‘Are you going to explain that?’ he finally burst out.
She halted to stare up at him. It was only then that he realised her appearance of calm was a sham. Behind the gold of her eyes everything raced and boiled.
‘I mean I thought you were a super-cool and efficient PA.’
The gold in her eyes dimmed a fraction.
‘But then you transformed into... Mother Earth.’
‘Oh, that’s hardly an apt description.’
‘And now...now you’re an artist?’
Those eyes were abruptly removed from his. ‘Not...not an artist, but... I used to like to paint. A lot.’
‘Of course you’re an artist. I just witnessed it with my own eyes!’
Her shoulders inched up towards her ears. ‘Well, as I said, I used to like to paint, but... I stopped for a while and...and I thought... I thought I’d lost it.’
How could you lose...that?
‘But it appears I haven’t.’
In an instant her shoulders unhitched and it was as if she couldn’t keep her smile in for another moment, it blazed out full of life and hope, and Sebastian found his heart beating hard and fast. For the briefest of moments she tossed her head back to beam at the sky and as he stared at the long, lean line of her throat something pierced into him, making him hungry for...for something that was more than sex. Something he couldn’t name.
‘Thank you for bringing me here, Seb.’ She reached forward to seize his hand. ‘You’ve no idea what it means to me.’
‘I’ll accept the painting as payment.’ He had no idea he’d meant to say that until the words shot out of his mouth, but that painting had reached out and grabbed him by the heart, much as Jemima had.
She dropped his hand and he immediately wished the words unsaid. Her hair fanned out about her face as she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but that painting is mine. You’ve no idea how hard-won it was.’ Clouds chased themselves across her face. ‘That painting will make sure I never forget.’
She smiled so suddenly it momentarily blinded him and he wondered if his heart would ever return to normal again.
‘But I’m awfully chuffed you like it so much. I’ll paint you something else,’ she promised.
An ache started up deep down inside him. ‘You say you thought you’d lost it?’
She nodded and started pushing the pram again.
‘What did you mean? Will you explain it to me?’
She bit her lip. ‘Oh, I’m not sure there’s much to explain. I...’
He didn’t buy that for a single moment. ‘Over lunch.’
* * *
Brownie seated them out in the courtyard in the sun and served them steaming bowls of vegetable and barley soup, crusty bread and a jug of beer before whisking Jemima back into the kitchen with her.
Liv grinned at the food. ‘This doesn’t exactly look like lord-of-the-manor fare.’
‘Brownie knows what I like.’ He poured her a glass of beer, and then paused. ‘If you’d prefer something else—’
‘No, no!’ She sampled the soup and closed her eyes in appreciation. ‘This is perfect.’
He didn’t want to waste time on preliminaries. ‘So...what did you mean earlier?’
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him but nor did she allay his curiosity. ‘You first.’
She had to be joking! Seeing her paint had shifted something inside of him, changed him in a fundamental way he didn’t want to examine too closely. And it had changed her too. He sensed it. And yet she wanted to talk about—
‘Did you get those names from Mrs Brown?’
And just like that the world slammed back into place—the way it had been before he’d seen her paint. She was right. They were here to find Jemima’s mother. Anything else was of little importance, and yet he continued to let himself get distracted.
He let her distract him.
His heart pounded with a sick realisation. He’d been wrong about Eliza Gilmour. She wasn’t some cool and efficient, buttoned-up office manager, no matter how much she might assume that façade at work. It didn’t mean she couldn’t be trusted, but it reminded him of all the ways he’d misjudged Rhoda, of how he’d let his desire for family and belonging blind him.
He wasn’t making that same mistake again.
He had to be careful. Lust and desire were evolving into a dangerous fascination he couldn’t afford to entertain. He had to resist it. He set his spine. He would resist it. For God’s sake, Eliza was an employee. He did not take advantage of his staff. He was not his father.
‘Seb?’
He pulled in a breath. ‘Soup good?’
‘Delicious.’
They sipped their soup, eyeing each other over their bowls with watchful caution. He reached for the bread, cutting off a wedge and slathering it in butter. ‘Brownie provided me with the promised names first thing this morning. An internet search hasn’t kicked up any additional clues so I’ve given the names to Jack, my PI.’
She stared at him but he had no idea what was going on behind the golden amber of her eyes. He recalled the way she’d cried the previous afternoon and had to swallow.
‘So...you might have two siblings.’
His mouth dried. ‘It appears a possibility.’
‘Do you, um...want to know them?’
Once he’d ached for family, but now... ‘I don’t know.’
‘It must be a lot to take in.’
He didn’t want to talk about it. ‘I just want to find Jemima’s mother. That’s all I’m prepared to focus on at the moment. We now have two potential candidates, which means we’re closer to the truth than we were yesterday.’
She abandoned her spoon to slump in her seat. ‘These are only the women Mrs Brown knows about, the ones who’ve come forward. There could be others.’
Countless others.
She grimaced. ‘Another thought occurred to me while I was up at the co-op.’
She picked up her spoon again, ran it back and forth through her soup, not meeting his eye. He set his bread down. ‘What is it?’
She pulled in a breath. ‘Mrs Brown explained to me earlier that to save the estate you had to sell off a
large portion of land.’
He promptly lost his appetite. ‘I sold hundreds of acres of farmland. To a conglomerate.’ He’d needed to find a large sum fast.
‘I understand that created hardship for...for some of the farmers who’d been leasing the land from you.’
‘Yes.’ The single word coated his tongue in bitterness.
‘Oh, Seb, it’s not your fault.’ She reached across the table towards him, but stopped short of touching him. ‘You saved what you could.’
It wasn’t how it felt. He should’ve found a way to curtail his father’s spending years ago.
‘Is it possible that Jemima could belong to one of them?’
He stared at her. The thought had never occurred to him. Had he made some young mother homeless? He shot to his feet and made for the house.
‘Where are you going?’ she called after him.
‘To ring Jack.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
LIV WAITED, BUT Seb didn’t come back to finish his barely touched lunch. Famished, she ate her soup and a good portion of the bread. Losing herself to a painting always made her hungry. She contemplated the events of the morning, trying to make sense of them, swinging between euphoria one moment and fear the next.
What if it was a one-off and the next time she picked up a paintbrush she froze again?
What if it wasn’t and what if she didn’t?
Had her gift been there all this time, hiding from her, just waiting for her to put in the effort to unearth it?
Why hadn’t she kept trying? Why hadn’t she proven herself to her muse sooner?
She swallowed. Why had she let shame and guilt conquer her so completely?
‘“The bad stuff is easier to believe,”’ she murmured, quoting a line from one of her favourite movies. It was easier to believe the worst of oneself rather than the best.
And still Seb didn’t come back.
She glanced around the walled garden—the kitchen garden rather than the more formal gardens on the other side of the warm grey stone. The staked tomatoes and runner beans provided a flourishing backdrop for feathery carrot plants and other vegetables she couldn’t identify. Heads of lettuce gleamed in the sun and lemon balm and thyme scented the air from nearby pots. Everything looked lush and vigorous. She felt lush and vigorous. She felt full rather than empty.
A Baby in His In-Tray Page 10