Thad motioned toward a shop at the next corner. “We shall need more for you at the rate you have been drawing. I would have already purchased some, but I thought you may like to select it yourself.”
Gwyneth tried her hand at lifting her chin, though she suspected it would lend her no air of mysterious authority. “Are you trying to distract me?”
The gleam of amusement in his eyes rivaled the sun. “Is it working?”
What, row upon row of creamy, decadent paper, all blank and pure and waiting for the whisper of her muse? “All too well.”
He laughed, a sound she had heard often enough in his house. Still, it tickled out a smile to think that she was the one bringing joy. A feat far too rare these past months.
For a moment she breathed it in, holding all other thoughts at bay. And then she let the smile bloom. “I have noticed a sad lack of art upon your walls, Thad.”
“Have you now?” He pulled her closer to his side to lead her around a sunken spot in the sidewalk. “Well, I suppose that is because until now I hadn’t an artist friend to fill them.”
“Are you unacquainted with the practice of purchasing art? Much as you did those rugs you so love?”
He made a dismissive sound. “Why would I do that? ’Twas inevitable that eventually I would make friends with an artist to give me a picture or two. But now, rugs—what were the chances I could charm a Turk into gifting me one?”
A light laugh surprised its way from her throat. “So that is where your powers of friend making end?”
“Of course not.” He pronounced it with exaggerated bluster and then ruined it with a boyish grin. “But I did not dare assume anything with them.”
“Oh, but you will with me?” Her nose in the air, Gwyneth sniffed much like her friend Eliza Gregory was wont to do. “And who is to say I will not charge you a fee? Perhaps I have been inspired by this capitalist land of yours.”
He chuckled and held out a hand to indicate they ought to cross the street before the stationer’s. “And who is to say you are the artist whose work I would like?”
How long had it been since someone had jested with her? Emitting a huff of exaggerated offense felt like pure bliss. “You would be lucky to have one of my pieces, Captain Lane.”
His sigh was long, the roll of his eyes slow, his gesture indulgent. “Fine, fine. Give me one, then. I will suffer it.” The grin winked out again. “Make it of the sea, will you? Something with frothing waves and glistening sun and a storm on the horizon.”
Were she not dodging the unsavory leavings of a horse in the middle of the road, she would have closed her eyes in delectation. ’Twas as if he looked into her very soul and saw the image she had already imagined. “And your ship. What is her name?”
“Masquerade.” His tone was the very one Papa had used when speaking of Mama. Pure, selfless love. “She is a brig.”
Gwyneth had never pretended to be an expert on things naval, to know the difference between a brig and any other type of ship, but the name she could appreciate. “My parents first met at a masquerade.”
“Did they?” Thad led the way onto the opposite sidewalk and reached for the door of the shop. “I suppose you thought that terribly romantic.”
“It was, by their telling.” She stepped inside, her breath catching in delight at the shelves of heaven. “Though I confess the one I attended did not live up to my expectations.”
“Ah, Captain Lane! Good day!”
He relaxed his arm, freeing her hand. “Mr. Hatcher, good day to you too. How is Susan this week?”
The proprietor made some reply, but Gwyneth took a step in the opposite direction. Her gaze had already latched onto a stack of creamy stock.
Thad caught her fingers and gave them a squeeze as he grinned down at her. “Look your fill and select whatever you please. I have some canvas at home we can stretch whenever you need.”
The kindness made her eyes sting. “Thank you.” After a smile at him, she headed toward the shelves and trailed her fingers over the different weights and shades. The parchments and vellums and linen-cotton blends.
Within a few minutes she had put together a fair pile of paper in various sizes and thicknesses and textures, fingers twitching already. She would need new pencils too. And perhaps some charcoal sticks. And—
A shadow crossed her path when she turned toward the writing implements, one that nearly made her lose her grip on the paper. One that sent a bolt through her, fear so brilliant she could not move an inch.
Uncle Gates.
No, it couldn’t be! Not here in some random shop in a random neighborhood in a city she had never intended to visit.
But yet… Her stomach twisting, she turned her eyes to follow the man who had just entered the store. He strode toward Thad and Mr. Hatcher, calling out a greeting.