He nodded. “I suppose I can understand that. I got the impression when she was forced to introduce us, oh, a few weeks ago now, that she was not happy about it. I thought it might be because of my time spent in the asylum, but then I realized it was also because she didn’t wish to share her new friend. After that I tried my best to avoid meeting up with them so that Miss Remmington would not feel I was intruding.”
As Will gave this speech, I realized that the sunshine and fair weather must have been having the same effect on him as it was me. He spoke more freely, more easily. And he smiled, albeit softly and slowly—something that had been rare even a decade ago during our drawing lessons—especially as he talked about Miss Wallace. I watched his expression closer.
“But you met her at other times?”
“Yes. We stumbled upon each other during our walks.” And when he said ‘stumbled’ I knew he meant that it had not been entirely by chance. “I know you would like her. She is kind and quiet, and she listens.” He tilted his head, contemplating me. “She’s a bit like you actually. You both have something that makes you hold back and observe rather than taking part. In you, I think people suspect it’s boredom or disinterest, and in Mary, they think it’s shyness, but they’re wrong on both counts. You simply don’t know how to participate without revealing the differences you so try to hide.”
I didn’t quite know how to respond to this speech. That Will had so much insight into who I was surprised me enough, but the fact that he had compared me to Miss Wallace, a woman who claimed to have the second sight and was now missing, bothered me more. Perhaps it shouldn’t have. A hundred years ago we might have been burned at the stake together. She because of her ability to see future events and me because of my ability to see into the heart of a person and render it in paint and ink. My unnatural stillness and “witch bright” eyes, as they’d been called by others in London, also did not help.
But Will wasn’t privileged to these thoughts, so he did not know how unsettled his comments had made me. “Kiera, you’re the same as you ever were,” he added with a crooked smile. “Just maybe a bit . . . sadder, lonelier. I’m sure your marriage to Sir Anthony Darby did not help.”
I sighed. “No. It didn’t.”
“Why did you marry him?”
I gave a huff of humorless laughter. “I didn’t want the bother of picking a husband, so I asked Father to find a match for me. My only stipulation was that I be allowed to continue painting.” I glanced up at Will, a wry curl to my lip. “Sir Anthony failed to tell any of us just why he was so elated with my artistic talents, or that there would be a condition to my being allowed to continue to paint portraits.”
“Your father was a good man, but he wasn’t, perhaps, always the most astute judge of character.”
I glanced at him in puzzlement.
“He hired me to be your drawing master that last summer, didn’t he?”
“Now, that’s nonsense,” I protested. “You were an excellent tutor. Quite possibly the best I ever had. Did you know that?”
“I doubt it,” he replied. “But, anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’ve become a fine artist. A brilliant one, at that. If you were a man, the royalty of Europe would be clambering for you to paint them. But I suggest you trust your own judgment in choosing your next husband.”
I opened my mouth to tell him there wouldn’t be a second husband, but his next words cut me off at the quick.
“I know my opinion hardly matters, but I like this Mr. Gage of yours.”
I couldn’t manage to say anything for a moment and then I spluttered, “Gage is not mine.”
Will gave me a chiding look that made my heart begin to beat faster.
“The man barely tolerates me,” I protested.
He shook his head. “Oh, Kiera, for a woman who is normally so astute, how can you be so blind?”
I frowned. “You’re wrong. If Gage were seriously interested in me in that way, I’d know.”
“Kiera, a man does not have to kiss you for you to know he’s attracted to you.”
I felt a blush burn its way up into my cheeks. I snuck a look at Will out of the corner of my eye, and, seeing him narrow his eyes like an outraged older brother, I decided it was time to change the subject before I was forced to admit to something I didn’t intend to.
“How often do you go for walks?”
He still eyed me suspiciously, but answered my question. “Whenever I can. Every other day or so if the weather is fine.”
“Does Mac always go with you?”
“Or Donovan.”
I studied his innocent expression. “Or you go by yourself?” I asked leadingly.
His jaw hardened in stubbornness. “If I can manage it.”
“Is that safe?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t be caged.” He looked at me, determined to make me understand. “Do you know what that’s like?”
My chest tightened at the evidence of his distress.
He shook his head. “I spent nearly ten years locked up like an animal, and I can’t live that way. I have to know that if I wanted to I could get free. I need that assurance.”
I nodded, thinking I understood. However, his admission did nothing to comfort me.