“I am sorry for that. My sons are among my greatest joys.”
Gates nodded. “It has been an eternal sorrow to Mrs. Gates. Fortunately, my niece Gwyneth has long been like a daughter to us. I am most eager to be reunited with her now that she is parentless, to make her a part of our home.” Over his shoulder he sent the closest thing to a smile Arthur had seen from him. “At least for the short time we shall have her before she makes her own.”
A day that could not come soon enough. Arthur could only hope they would find her in time to keep her safe from whatever danger stalked her.
Twelve
If there were such a thing as a muse, she had taken over the house with a fury. Thad leaned against the trunk of the tree and watched the same basic activity he had been viewing for the past five days. Father dashing in and out on the quest for a new variation of a pigment he had concocted in his laboratory. Mother reading aloud to keep their guest soothed. Rosie emerging every hour to refresh drinks and all but force-feed the artist. Henry raising makeshift canopies to soften the glaring light.
And Gwyneth. Thad could scarcely take his eyes off her and counted it a blessing she was too absorbed to notice.
“She is a pretty thing, isn’t she?” Arnaud leaned into the bark beside him, his eyes on her too. “Jacques cannot cease talking about how she let him use some of her paints.”
Pretty? Nay. Pretty was too tame a word for the way she looked as she stood before the easel Thad had made her, eyes focused on the canvas with unwavering intensity. They fairly glowed with concentration, like the water of the Caribbean when the sun shot through it. Her hair, gold spun with fire, had tumbled down again and, again, been tied into a knot and secured with a brush. Which he now knew would last until she needed said brush, at which point she would pull it out and send the curls down her back again, until one had the audacity to fall into her face. Then out would come another brush to play the part of a pin.
Thad drew in a breath, watching as she made a broad, sweeping stroke in saffron. Then his friend’s words fully penetrated and he frowned. “You like her.”
Arnaud’s lips twitched. “Certainly. Who would not? She is sweet and kind, and lovely besides.”
Sweet, kind, and lovely? Those were the best words Arnaud could come up with to describe her? Thad shook his head and let his gaze drift her way again. She was more than those, so much more. She was heady honeysuckle, a wide open azure sky, pure sunshine gleaming through snow-white clouds. She was tossing waves and frothing whitecaps, churning tempests and searing lightning.
And if Arnaud was smitten…the thought pierced. But if his interest was kindled by this nymph before them, then Thad would have to put aside his own intrigue.
He had no choice. Not with all he owed him. With all the pain he had already caused. “Will you…come to call on her?”
The twitch gave way to a grin. “Do I look daft? Non, admiration here is stayed by practicality. Something our charming Miss Fairchild is sorely lacking.”
Thad’s straight spine stiffened. “She is not impractical.”
Arnaud snorted a laugh. “You said yourself you keep coming home to find her near collapse, with that blasted brush still in her hands. That thrice this week you have had to carry her up to her room when she fell asleep on her feet. She hasn’t so much as a dash of temperance. Which is fine and well in a friend but not at all what one needs in a wife. The house would go to ruins in a week.”
Thad’s house seemed to be ticking along just fine, but he saw no reason to talk his friend into paying her court if he weren’t so inclined.
Arnaud’s snort turned to a full-bred chuckle. “She baffles you, n’est-ce pas? Unlike with every other man, woman, and child in these United States, you cannot look at her and divine exactly what she needs because she is far too scattered.”
Yes, that was it. That was why he had found so many occasions this week to simply stand here and watch her. He was trying to determine what she needed and not just memorize the way her eyes narrowed or her teeth caught her lower lip, that curve of her shoulder when she made the smallest of motions with brush on canvas. “I will figure it out eventually.”
“Hmm. Well, mon ami, you keep up the study. I need to get home. Find me when you return from Washington City tomorrow.” Arnaud clapped a hand to his shoulder and disappeared.
Father emerged from the house yet again, stirring a pot of something or another. “Try this one, Gwyneth. Ground cochineal as one would expect, but I tried a different method of heating it with the linseed oil.”