Page 12 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Now, he spied a group of men at the far side of the public, gathered in a striking arrangement near the fire.

With a few deft flicks of his hand, he captured them in charcoal on another piece of his paper, and then, on another still, he drew the proprietor, red-faced and portly, standing near the door to the kitchens, hands on his hips as he laughed with an old man in an older hat.

It was a prodigious waste of good paper, but it was a necessity.

He enjoyed this, taking some time not to create art, but to let his mind free, to capture vignettes and images, to preserve these little moments that passed otherwise unnoticed. He flipped to a clean sheet and waited for something to appear that tempted his fingers.

“Whatcha doin’ there?” a voice asked from behind him.

“Drawing,” he replied. Cornelius turned around to smile at one of the fishermen who was now staring over his shoulder. “Shall I draw you?”

“Aye, that’d be a laugh!” the man replied. He struck a pose, and in moments, Cornelius had captured his essence.

“Sit, good chap, and let me draw your face, if you will.”

The man did so, and when Cornelius handed him the page, with the two sketches on it—an outline of the man standing, and a more careful portrait—he roared in good humour.

“By gum, that’s me! Or, what the little mirror tells me is me. Won’t the wife wish she could see this. She’ll never believe it.”

“Keep it. My gift,” Cornelius replied. “Let her see it with her eyes.”

“Well! That I will. I’ll buy you an ale for your trouble.”

“Draw me too, if you will,” the fisherman’s mate requested. “There’s another ale in it, or a bowl of that good stew.”

By the time the sun sank below the horizon, half the men in the pub brandished portraits or sketches, and Cornelius was the most popular man in town. The forest of ale mugs on his table stood testament to that, although—he reminded himself—not all had been his.

“A good hand you have there, mate,” a more cultured voice proclaimed.

Cornelius raised his eyes to see a sandy-haired man of middle years and nondescript features approach his table.

The man wore the clothing of a merchant of comfortable means, or a modest gentleman happy with his rural life.

It would never do in Town. Here, it was more than presentable.

“May I?” The man gestured to an empty chair, and at a welcoming wave of a hand, sat down.

“You are no dilettante,” the man said. “I have taken a glance at these little pictures you passed out to these fine fellows. They cannot know what treasures they now possess. The name is Rainham. I am here on doctor’s orders, resting.

” He spoke loudly, drawing the eyes of the surrounding townsfolk. Cornelius shook the hand he held out.

“Robertson. As you see, I am an artist. I have been engaged to instruct the children at a nearby estate, and to capture this glorious part of England in paint.”

“An artist! Well, I never. And in this neighbourhood. Fancy. You are no amateur. Where did you study? For there is a precision to your skill that goes beyond raw talent.”

Cornelius grinned. “Indeed, I am lucky to make my living at this. If you fancy a portrait for the front hall, I am for sale.” He laughed, and several of the men at surrounding tables chuckled along with him, for his voice was raised in the noisy space.

“I have studied with excellent tutors. First, with some masters in London, and then I was fortunate to travel to Italy after the war to continue my tutelage there.”

“Admirable. Do you know the works of Bisi? Young fellow still, must be about your age, not much older. What do you think of Constable? Do you prefer oils or watercolour?”

“Those are a great many questions, sir! Let us have another ale, and I shall enjoy a conversation about art.”

They talked long into the night, drawing others into their conversation as various men drifted in and out of the pub. By the time Cornelius and his companion staggered out, the moon was high and bright in the sky, and any men of sense were long since in their beds.

“I have a chaise and a short drive ahead,” the other man announced as they stumbled down the street.

“With the moon out, it will be an easy ride. If we are heading in the same direction, I shall drive you to your home. The horses will run straight, even if I am a bit sideways.” He guffawed at his joke.

“A fine thought!” Cornelius replied, equally loudly. His bag, much lighter now that he had given away most of his paper, bumped against his back as he followed his companion to the stables at the top of the rise.

They stumbled to the chaise, which was prepared in short order, and managed to climb aboard without too much trouble.

With a nod to the bemused stablemaster, they set off rather unevenly under the dark night sky, laughing rather inanely.

The moment they were out of the town, however, Cornelius straightened his back and his companion’s hand on the reins became precise.

“Did you bring it?” Rainham asked.

“That I did. We put on a fine show. Do you believe anyone suspects?”

“I cannot imagine it so.”

Cornelius pulled at his satchel and withdrew a smaller bag from within. “Here it is. The best brandy this side of Cognac. What is it worth, do you think?”

Rainham’s eyes slid to the bottle, as much as could be seen at night, and clucked his tongue. “More than most of those fisherfolk down there earn in a year, I would wager. Come, let us get you back to Brookview. You can tell me your tale as we drive.”

“And our secret will stay with us.”