“You look,” Henry said quietly, “as if you’re memorizing the room.”

Ellen started in surprise. “I am,” she found herself admitting. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Then, impulsively, she found herself admitting, “As soon as I get back to my room, I shall draw it all.”

“Marvelous. What are your favorite subjects to sketch?”

“Anything that takes my fancy,” she told him. “People, animals, an empty room.” She smiled faintly, surprising herself by elaborating. “I like to catch the unexpected moments, the little thing that you wouldn’t think of unless it was right there in front of you, on the page.” Ellen’s cheeks warmed and she balled the napkin in her lap, embarrassed. Why was she talking like this to this man? The only other person she’d shared her art with really was Lucas—and Jed.

Suddenly she felt a wave of longing—for the island, for family, for home—that crashed over her and left her feeling breathless and spinning, wondering why she was sitting in a strange hotel in a strange city, with a strange man.

“That’s all very interesting,” Mr. McAvoy murmured, and Ellen’s gaze slid away from his own speculative one.

They gazed down at the menus, and Ellen read of the unfamiliar dishes with a faint sense of unease. She had no idea what to order, and she’d a feeling her dining partner knew it.

Consommé Olga, paté de foie gras, roast squab... it all sounded elegant rather than appetizing. Ellen swallowed, scanning down the menu with mounting panic. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself, and yet...

Henry McAvoy knew she was out of her depth. She’d just told him her father laid rails! She glanced up and met his bright gaze with a candid smile. “I’ve no idea what any of these things are. Can you order something simple for me?”

Henry, charmed, smiled easily. “Of course.”

It was only after their first course was served—paté for Henry and cream of celery soup for Ellen—that he asked her again about her drawing.

“Have you ever been to art school?”

“No, although it’s been mentioned to me. I’ve just never felt...” She paused, unsure what she wanted to say. “I suppose it’s a bit terrifying, to think of it. Sharing my drawing with the whole world over. It’s always just been something for me.”

“I understand, of course. And yet such gifts should surely be shared.”

“You haven’t seen my sketches, Mr. McAvoy, not really.”

“Would you show them to me?”

She swallowed, her heart beginning to beat rather hard. “I’m not sure.”

“Is it just a hobby to you, then?” he asked. “Something to do as you like, and discard at will?”

“No,” Ellen said slowly. “It’s not like that.” She’d ‘discarded’ her drawing for several months that year, and it had felt like part of her soul had gone missing. It was only once she began again, the images and memories and ideas returning unbidden, that she realized how much she’d missed it. How numb she’d been, almost lifeless, and she knew she didn’t want to experience that again.

“Well?” Smiling, Henry raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Why do you want to see them?”

“Because, as you know, I’m on the Board of Governors of the Glasgow School of Art, and we are always, Miss Copley, looking for new talent.”

Her mouth dropped open and she hurriedly snapped it shut. “You think I should go to your school

?”

“Possibly. I can hardly make such promises at this juncture. But would you be interested in such a thing, Miss Copley? Because you seem uncertain.”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Drawing—it’s like breathing to me. You don’t go to school to learn how to breathe.”

Mr. McAvoy was silent for a moment. “Indeed not,” he finally said, “yet perhaps you can learn to—breathe—better?” He laid down his own fork, so they were gazing quite openly at one another, Mr. McAvoy in interest and Ellen in amazement. “Let me be frank, Miss Copley. I’m here on business with the Art Institute of Chicago—we are attempting to establish ties with American schools and their emerging artists. Finding a diamond in the rough who sketches scenes of Americana is precisely the kind of thing I'm looking for.”

Ellen gave a little laugh of disbelief. “Do you mean me?”

“As I said before, possibly. Show me your sketches, and we can take it from there.”

“What if they’re terrible?"

Tags: Kate Hewitt Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net