“It is. But I discovered that I like working with my hands. I have concentrated primarily on learning how to make busts. I start by fashioning a model out of clay, then create a final version in stone or bronze.”
It was hard to explain the joy of creation, shaping and carving the clay, replicating a specific facial expression. Then choosing the best stone and deciding on each chisel stroke. Her hands would be covered in clay, her apron smeared and spattered as she became lost in her work. When it came time to convert the model to stone, a fine sheen of dust would replace the bits of earth.
“Fortunately the academy I attended had some excellent tutors who were not averse to training ladies.” She made a wry face. “Had I attempted to sculpt here in England, it would have tarnished my reputation even further. As you know, female artists are not welcomed by society and in fact shunned in most circles. Having the freedom to explore my artistic talents was one of the few benefits of the scandal.”
“A pity women are so limited in their choices—as my sister and cousin regularly remark.”
“Yes it is—”
His fishing line jerked just then, and Traherne turned his attention to his catch, but by then her nervous tension had been broken. When ironically he hailed his triumph over the small carp wriggling on his hook, Venetia found herself laughing with him.
The amiable mood continued for the remainder of the afternoon. Indeed, she felt more comfortable and in tune with Traherne than she ever thought possible.
Their camaraderie even lasted into that evening when they returned to the cottage. In keeping with his wish to remain informal, Venetia kept on her gown of blue kerseymere. When she joined him in the parlor before supper, she noted that Traherne had donned a comfortable-fitting coat but that he had shaved for the occasion. They dined together on three courses this time—beef consommé and braised lamb, followed by rhubarb tarts for dessert.
After dinner they again retired to the elegant parlor, where a cozy fire now burned. Once again Traherne spread out his sheaf of papers on the small writing desk while Venetia read on the sofa.
When the tea tray was brought in, he joined her on the sofa. To distract herself from his nearness, she ventured to make conversation.
“What are those documents you have been studying so intently?”
“Specifications for a new ship design.”
“Your sister mentioned your endeavor with a steam engine for sailing ships.”
He shot her a glance. “Oh, you spoke to Skye about me?” There was a slight note of provocation to his voice.
“I was curious in a general sense. I know so little about you. It is only natural to have questions about the man I was about to marry.”
“What did she say about me?”
“That you are driven to pursue this design in an effort to save lives.”
His lips pressed together. “It grates that I cannot be present for the final stages of construction. The engineering can proceed without me, of course, but I like to be kept abreast of our daily progress.”
So he was not as sanguine about his confinement as he appeared. On the contrary, a moment later he confessed to being impatient with his injury and more than a little restless.
“I despise feeling weak and dependent, but I detest even more feeling impotent. It seems cowardly to be forced to hide in the country.”
Indeed, Venetia thought, more than most men, Traherne would dislike feeling helpless and vulnerable, but she disagreed with his characterization. “It is not the least cowardly to withdraw from the battlefield while you recuperate,” she countered. “A wise general would say to marshal your resources and regroup and live to fight another day.”
A faint smile twisted his mouth. “How obliging of you to champion me. Will wonders never cease?”
She formed a retort, but Horton appeared just then to inquire about any further needs they might have. Traherne dismissed the caretakers and servants to return to their own homes. When they took their leave, Venetia became highly conscious that she was alone in the house with her new husband.
Traherne continued sipping from his glass of port while she
took a large swallow of tea. Suddenly the parlor seemed far too intimate. And yet she couldn’t prevent herself from watching him, admiring how the firelight found the threads of gold in his hair and illuminated his blue eyes, his sensual mouth….His sensual, magical mouth…
When a quiver ran through her, she tried to cover up her weakness by rolling her shoulders.
“Are you cold?” Traherne asked. “Shall I stir the fire?”
“No, I am merely stiff from the long hours of travel.”
“Come here,” he commanded and caught her arm to draw her closer.
“Why?” she asked warily.