Nora opened her mouth to say something, but chose instead to instruct the rest of the children so they might start. When she finished, she noticed Colin was still watching Becca draw, with few words being spoken. Satisfied that everyone could put something on the paper, she put down her brush and wiped her hands on her apron. Carefully edging nearer, she could hear their conversation.
“Is that a picture of your last home?” Colin’s voice was gentle but laced with concern.
“Yes,” she mumbled. “I lived with my aunt when my momma left.”
“Who is that with you in the drawing?” he asked.
“It’s my aunt and her friend.”
Nora had heard enough. Coupled with the recent conversation she had had with Alice, it overwhelmed her curiosity. She quietly moved behind Colin and peered at the drawing taking shape in front of her. The dark-haired little girl was no stranger to paper and charcoal. Even though they were primitive, the faces held more detail than one might have expected from a child of seven. Nora recalled that there had been very little information about Becca and wished to know more. She noticed the drawing of a man with black hair and a moustache. Curious, she had to ask.
“Becca, my child, who is the man?” Nora inquired gently.
“Aunt Sarah said he was a friend.” What a curious statement, Nora thought.
Becca looked up, her little face grimacing with concentration. “He said he was Aunt Sarah’s beau.”
“Do you recall his name?” She could not help persisting. Can he be the same man? Impossible! You are grasping at straws, Honoria Mason.
“She called him Tom when he was nice to her. He was mostly mean and caused her to cry a lot. When he was horrid, she would tell me to hide and not make a sound unless she called me. I heard someone call him Mr. Sneed. I am not sure, though.” She looked back at her work. She had drawn a room with the three people standing side by side. The child had drawn herself looking away from Mr. Sneed.
Nora smiled and nodded. “That is a very good drawing, Becca. You have so much detail. Have you drawn before?”
“A little,” she said quietly.
“Did your mother or your aunt show you how?” She noticed that the expression on Mr. Sneed’s face was one of anger. He stood on the other side of what must have been her aunt. It was hard to miss the dark smudge on her aunt’s arm. Is that supposed to be blood? She itched to ask, nonetheless resisted the urge, deciding not to stir a potentially painful memory.
“Aunt Sarah drawed a lot, and I watched her. Sometimes she would give me a piece of paper and a block of charcoal to draw with,” she responded casually. “I had to put it in the woodpile when I finished.”
Colin stood up and gave Nora a quick glance before returning his attention to Becca’s drawing.
“May I ask what happened to your Aunt Sarah?”
“She died. Somebody found her floating in the river and said I had to leave before Mr. Sneed came for me. That’s when they brought me here.”
Nora gulped. Afraid to ask anything more about the picture, she changed the subject. “’Tis a perfect first effort, Becca.” She looked around the room at the rest of the children working at their easels, some with more success than others. This morning’s exercise had certainly been enlightening. Giving a hurried nod towards the door, she said, “Perhaps such a big effort deserves a surprise.” As if on cue, Mrs. Simpkins entered, carrying a tray of small sandwiches, biscuits, and a pitcher of milk.
Chapter 14
Colin found himself both amused and alarmed by various things he learned during his time with the children. The process made him more beguiled with Nora. His head swirled with thoughts of both her and the children. The drawings had been informative, and it had been joyous to watch them. Becca’s drawing had been thought-provoking and sad. It had gripped his heart. Now he was standing next to a small, thin, blond boy who was drawing what looked like a chimney. Curious, he bent slightly over him to take a closer look.
To his surprise, the young boy looked up at him and smiled. “Good ‘ay, Uncle Colin,” he said in acknowledgement. “I ain’t never met a fancy gentleman afore. You are a lucky cove to have yer own home.”
Colin’s heart immediately engaged with the child. “What are you drawing with your charcoal stick?”
“Miss Nora said to draw what we know. ’Tis a chimbley,” he said, smiling.
“What inspires you to draw it, if I might ask,” Colin persisted.
“I think it’s because I wanted to look at it from this angle.
“What do you mean, this angle?” The boy and his talent intrigued Colin. The child possessed a vivacity about him that made one happy in his company.
“’Tis so much nicer than from inside.” The child grinned.
While he understood the darker meaning of what Benjamin had said, Colin smiled in return. The child seemed not to let his past dampen his mood.
“I can understand that lad.” The boy’s drawing stirred his interest. “What is your name?” he asked.
“They call me Benjamin, sir.”
“Ah. That explains your picture more.” A sadness gripped Colin’s heart.
“I cleaned chimbleys afore I found my way ’ere,” the small boy explained. “A lady what paid me to clean ’er chimney, tol’ me I reminded her of someone she once knew. She was a nice lady and said I should not clean chimbleys and brought me ’ere. I gave it a chance, like she asked. Truth is, chimbleys made me feel bad. I like Miss Nora.” Benjamin coughed—a dry hacking sound—almost as if it punctuated his point.
“That cough sounds painful. How long have you
