He didn’t want to paint her in particular, he just wanted someone—anyone—to stand in for Fiona while he attempted to see if he could paint without her. It made sense. Perfect sense in fact. And she was pleased for him, thrilled that he was even thinking about painting again. It was wonderful. It was exactly what she’d wanted for him.
She blinked hard, wiped her cheeks and took a deep breath. She needed to focus on her job and not on Duncan’s sudden desire to paint again. He’d hired her to take care of the mansion, and that’s what she planned to do. The first thing she needed to do was check up on the contractors, to make sure they were on schedule with the carriage house. And there were emails to send. A new batch in her fake conversation with the Fine Arts dean at Glasgow School of Art. They were ironing out the details of Duncan’s lecture. The lecture he knew nothing about and she had no idea how to get him there to give it.
She pushed open the door to her office, and her eyes went to the painting Duncan had given her when he’d found her admiring it. It was one he’d done early in his career, and showed a winter scene with an isolated house surrounded by snow-covered hills. A woman walked in front of the house, her head down as though deep in thought. But you only really saw snippets of the scene, because the surface of the canvas was criss-crossed with lines that made you feel like you were glimpsing the scene through a forest. It reminded her of hand-sewn quilts she’d seen during a school trip to the museum. The colours had been pale—washed out almost—but the feeling evoked by the quilts had been magical. Duncan’s work was like that. He wasn’t only one of the greatest painters of his generation—he was also a storyteller. His images pulled you into the narrative until you felt like you were part of them, and in the midst of all those swirling brush strokes, you felt like you were touching beauty.
Her chest tightened, and it became hard to breathe. He had such an incredible talent. A gift. He’d find a better subject than her.
Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t.
She blinked several times as she reached for her handbag. Where had she left that copy of The Hobbit she’d been drawing in? She wanted to take it with her, just in case she found a minute to lose herself in it. She checked under her desk.
“He didn’t mean it, you know,” Grace said from the doorway.
Donna forced a bright smile. “Mean what? Isn’t it fantastic that he wants to paint again? I honestly thought this day would never come. You should pose for him. It’s a great honour.”
Grace stepped into the room and suddenly it felt far too small. “He didn’t mean what he said. He’s just a man. And a daft one at that.”
Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied as she kept the smile on her face. “You haven’t seen a copy of The Hobbit lying around have you?”
The cook heaved a sigh. “No. No, I haven’t. You should think about taking him up on his offer to paint you though. It would be a good way to keep him busy while the Women’s Institute is here.”
Donna froze. “I forgot all about them.”
“Aye,” was all Grace said.
A wave of dizziness overcame her, and she had to sit down. “Maybe you could offer to pose instead.”
“He doesn’t want me.”
“He doesn’t care what he paints. A person, a bowl of fruit, a tree—it’s all the same to him.”
Grace pursed her lips. “Seems he isn’t the only daft one around here. I need to deal with the institute’s caterer. I don’t have time to pose for an instant photo never mind a painting.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I suggest you clear your busy schedule and sit for the idiot unless you can think of another way to keep him occupied while you scheme behind his back.” She turned towards the door. “And for goodness’ sake, stop listening to what he says and watch what he does. He’s a man. He’s genetically programmed to put his foot in his mouth every time he opens it.”
With a huff, she left Donna alone to try to figure out another way to keep Duncan occupied for the day. Any other way. Unfortunately, none came to mind.
***
Duncan’s studio was on the ground floor at the north-eastern corner of the house, overlooking the garden and the driveway. He wasn?
??t sure what it had originally been used for, most likely as a music room. It was one of the many rooms the original Georgian owners had used for entertaining, and the irony of him owning a building that was designed for socialising wasn’t lost on him.
The room had escaped Fiona’s restoration. And for this, he was grateful. A studio was an artist’s blank canvas, a place to rest his eye and let his imagination reign. Something that couldn’t be achieved with burgundy walls or red flocked wallpaper.
No, his studio had white walls, a bare wooden floor, a double sink in the corner, and uncovered windows. And that was it. The rest of the space held an assortment of tables, trolleys, drying racks, easels, and shelves housing paints. The only seating was a high stool he used when he was tired of standing at his easel, and a sofa he sat on to think.
At least, that was what his studio had looked like the last time he’d set foot inside it.
As he reached the end of the corridor and stood in front of the door, his hands began to sweat. This time, he was going inside. He wasn’t going to pace the corridor and chicken out. This was it. As he reached for the handle, he remembered the last time he’d been in the room, and he stilled.
“Are you comfortable there? No’ too cold?” he asked Fiona as she reclined on the sofa in the corner of the room where the windows met, and the light bathed her in a soft white glow.
“I’m fine.” She adjusted the blanket he’d tucked around her. “I have my scrapbook and I plan to keep busy making notes for the renovation slash restoration.”