He looked at Miss Knightley. She was regarding him, her face expressionless, almost wary.
“This sketch of Grace . . . It’s beautiful.” He tried to find the words to express his admiration. “You’re an extraordinarily gifted artist, Miss Knightley.”
She colored faintly and looked down at the rug.
“Isn’t she?” Grace exclaimed, and alongside her Hetty Wootton nodded, her eyes as bright as the robin’s had been.
Adam flicked through the rest of the sketchbook. He saw the marbles at the British Museum and botanical studies from Kensington Gardens, labeled and dated. He examined the writing closely. Had Tom looped his letters so neatly?
The book was a medley of sketches: gardens, museums, street scenes. There were no more caricatures, but several studies of animals. One page was devoted to a mongrel dog. He saw it sleeping, scratching, sniffing a lamp post, and finally trotting off down a street.
On another page was a lean adolescent cat. Adam examined that page with particular interest, studying the cat as it slept, sat, and played in various poses. He looked at its tail, its paws, its whiskers. How did she create such a life-like creature with so few strokes of the pencil?
Adam touched the cat lightly. It was so real he almost expected to feel fur beneath his fingertip, not paper. He glanced at Arabella Knightley and knew, without any doubt, that it was she who’d drawn the cat at the bottom of Tom’s note.
He felt a profound admiration of her skill—and a fierce envy of the unknown Tom. I wish I was him.
Adam cleared his throat. He turned back through the pages until he came to the portrait of Grace. Its beauty almost took his breath away.
“May I have this drawing of Grace, Miss Knightley?”
She blinked, and then said, “Of course.”
“And may I have the one of me as a kitten?” Grace asked eagerly.
“Certainly.”
Miss Knightley labeled both sketches in a neat hand and cut the pages from the book with a small pair of scissors from her reticule.
“Thank you,” Adam said, taking the portrait. Grace St. Just in Richmond Park, Miss Knightley had written at the bottom of the page. May 16th, 1818. By Arabella Knightley.
“This is better than anything Sir Thomas Lawrence could do,” he said, meaning it. It was so alive.
The praise seemed to embarrass Miss Knightley. She glanced away, blushing faintly.
“Bella’s father was an artist,” Grace said, as proudly as if she’d announced he’d been the King of England. “Show him the locket, Bella.”
Miss Knightley hesitated, and then raised her hands to her throat. From beneath her muslin fichu, she pulled a small locket on a golden chain. She unfastened the chain and handed it to him.
The locket was warm from her skin. Adam held it in his palm for a moment, aware of an almost erotic sense of connection with her. He gave himself a mental shake and examined the locket more closely.
It was a simple oval, unembellished by curlicues, fashioned of gold and with the smooth, glowing patina of long use. He opened it carefully with his thumbnail. The locket held two portraits inside. On the left was a smiling young lady, with the same dark hair and eyes as Miss Knightley. The portrait was astonishingly detailed. He saw rosy lips and pearl-white teeth and a faint blush tinting the lady’s cheeks.
On the right, was the portrait of a young man. He had curling brown hair and a handsome, good-humored face. He was clearly a Knightley: pressed into his chin was the same indentation Arabella Knightley had.
“Your father painted these?” He glanced at her.
Miss Knightley nodded.
Adam studied the portraits again. Arabella Knightley’s parents had been a handsome couple. And happy, too, he thought, closing the locket. He turned it over. On the back was an inscription. Arabella Eloise de Martigny Knightley, born June 5th 1793. “Your birthday is next month.”
“Yes.”
Adam handed back the locket and chain. Their fingers brushed briefly. “I can see where you get your talent from, Miss Knightley. Your father was extremely gifted.”
“He supported us by painting.” Her eyes challenged him.
Adam studied her face. Did she expect him to look down on her father for needing to work for a living?
He didn’t feel disdain; he felt sadness—and a surge of anger towards the late Earl of Westwick. The man had had a son, a daughter-in-law, a granddaughter, and he’d thrown them away for the sake of what? Pride? “Your grandfather was a fool.”
The comment appeared to startle Miss Knightley. She blinked. Her fingers closed tightly around the locket. “Yes. He was.”
While Arabella Knightley fastened the chain about her throat, Grace and Hetty Wootton showed him their sketches. They were perfectly competent—and alongside Miss Knightley’s, quite lifeless.
“I thought you had business in town all day,” Grace said, sorting through her sketches. Unlike Miss Knightley, she’d drawn on unbound sheets of paper. Their edges fluttered in the breeze.
“It took less time than I expected.” He studied the portrait of Grace. She smiled up at him, youthful, happy, alive. “Is there room for this in your portfolio? I don’t want to crease it.”
“Of course.” She laid the portrait on top of her sketches.
A gust of wind flipped back the edge of the rug, sent the leaves in the oak tree above them spinning madly—and took the sketches from the open portfolio. The sheets of paper scattered.
“Oh!” Grace cried, starting to her feet.
Adam caught a glimpse of Miss Knightley’s portrait—the smile in Grace’s eyes, the soft ringlets lying against her cheek—before the page spun out across the meadow.
He abandoned his hat and set off in pursuit. The portrait danced lightly ahead of him, turning cartwheels, leading him halfway down the hill before coming to rest against a tuft of grass.
Adam picked it up reverently. He turned and looked back up the hillside.
The rug was empty.
