“Humph.” With a superior sniff, Emmy lifted her chin and folded her arms over her bulge. “After hearing how he insulted me, I’m not sure Thaddeus deserves a pretty little thing like our Gwyn. Three noses…”
Chuckling, Gwyneth looked up at the sky to gauge the angle of the sun. The ideal morning light had shifted, and so she might as well pack up her oils and brushes and finish the painting tomorrow. Emmy would be happy to sit for her again, she knew. Not that Gwyneth really needed a model before her, but it had been pleasant, these past five mornings, to chat and get to know each other while she put color to canvas. An easy, beautiful time. No heavy-handed muse breathing down her neck and forcing oddities into her work, no burning to paint anything but the image before her.
To make a friend. To learn more about the Lanes, what it had been like to grow up in their house. To hear about how so many frowned upon Emmy because of her mixed blood, but how love had finally found her when Thad decided to take to the seas and so had met Henry, who had come home with him one night, seen Emmy, and fallen head over heels.
The paths of their lives could be so unpredictable, so seemingly random, but always the Lord led them where they needed to be. And He had led Gwyneth here. Right here, at this point in time. Chased away by horror, yet ending up surrounded by friends.
Philly stood slowly and came to Gwyneth’s side to look at the canvas. “Nearly done and so very breathtaking. What will you do with this one?”
Gwyneth swished her brushes around in a jar of turpentine. “I am not certain. Give it either to Henry or Rosie, though I have not decided who should have it. Or perhaps I shall let them fight for it.”
Emmy laughed and gathered up the lacy shawl that had slid from her arms to the ground while she modeled. “That could be sporting.”
Reaching for a jar of paint and its lid, Philly sent Gwyneth an almost hesitant look, which was strange for her. “Gwyn…if you mind my teasing about you and Thad, you have only to say so.”
She could not resist the twitch of her lips. “And you will do what—stop? I find that very hard to believe, having seen this family interact for several months now.”
Philly grinned too. “Well, I wouldn’t stop teasing him, but the last thing I want to do is scare you off with it.”
Scaring her off—a valid concern not all that long ago, but at this point? She wanted to be nowhere else. The thought of Uncle Gates finding her here still lit a fuse of panic, but she would give that, too, to God, and trust His leading.
Gwyneth screwed a lid back on another pot. “You needn’t fear that, Philly. I have no intention of going anywhere, certainly not before that brother of yours returns and answers a few questions about why he didn’t see fit to tell me about Peggy yet thought to kiss me senseless.”
Philly’s eyes lit with mischief. “Senseless, you say?”
“Phillippa!” Emmy’s tone was admonishing yet ended on a laugh. “Don’t pry.”
“Why ever not? ’Tis a matter of scientific investigation.” Still grinning, she leaned close. “Have you not ever wondered why one man’s kiss can leave us cold and another make us melt like wax?”
Emmy slapped at her friend with the end of the shawl. “And when have you conducted that experiment?”
“Not since I met Reggie, I assure you. Or, well—he was the final installment of said experiment. Which, granted, did not have enough data to be thorough.” She closed up another color of paint, that light still glinting in her eyes. “It is an intriguing phenomena, though. And one of chemistry, which we all know is my area of expertise.”
Gwyneth slid the paints into their box and angled a saucy grin at her friend. “Were your brother here, I imagine he would say that his library rug contests your claims of expertise.”
“That was entirely his fault, startling us like he did.” Philly added another jar to the lot and then sighed. “I think I shall go find Mama. And Gwyn?”
“Hmm?”
Philly leaned over and gathered her close. “I hope you keep him, so we might keep you.” With those whispered words, she turned and bustled her way into the house.
Gwyneth glanced at Emmy, who smiled and followed her friend inside at a more sedate pace. For her part, she finished storing her supplies, carried everything in, and headed toward the kitchen with a light step. As soon as she entered the warm room, she snagged her apron from its hook and clapped her hands together.
“What will you teach me today, Rosie?”
The housekeeper looked up from the sink with the same frown she’d given her every other day she had asked the question—as if that would deter her. “I’m baking bread today, and you will just be in the way. Get on out of here and go make a picture.”
Instead, Gwyneth laughed and moved over to the counter, where two bowls were already sitting. “What kind of bread?”
“Nothing special. Just regular ol’ wheat. You don’t need to be gumming up those smooth hands of yours with the dough, now.”