Page 10 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Eliza sat before her table, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks could use a little more color. A part of her laughed at the irony of that thought, and the other part thought of her encounter with Tristan that afternoon.

She thought of how rigid his words had felt and how firm he wanted to be when he spoke to her. Her gaze remained fixed on her face in the mirror again, and as a momentary thought broke out of her.

Would he notice during dinner that her cheeks needed more color?

She shrugged off the thought and let the memory of his eyes take over instead. She remembered how grey and watchful they were and how they seemed to linger in her head even after he was gone.

She pressed her palms together, steadying herself.

If this dinner was to happen, she needed to be ready to make a request of her own.

If she could explain herself, perhaps he would grant her one small space.

She did not need much, just a room with light and enough space to sketch.

She needed somewhere she could be herself. That was all.

Her lady’s maid entered and fussed with her gown, fastening the last button at her sleeve.

“You look very well, my lady,” the maid said.

Eliza forced a smile. “It will do.”

When she was ready, she walked down the hallways toward the small dining hall. She paused at the door, drew a breath, and stepped in.

The table was set for two, and the polished silver candlesticks glowed on the table. Tristan stood at the head of the table, tall and composed, as he turned to her as she approached him, a smile on his face.

One she could tell he had to force.

“My lady,” he said evenly. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” she replied, her voice quiet.

He gestured toward the table. “Mrs. Teague has prepared some pie. Apparently, she has been trying her hand at it for some time.”

Eliza nodded but barely registered the words. It was the first time they had sat so close since the wedding, and his calmness unsettled her. It was almost like she was sitting next to a statue.

They sat and watched the servants place the dishes before them. When they retreated, Eliza picked up her fork. She took a small bite, even though her appetite was long gone.

Nothing could be heard except for the clinking of cutlery against porcelain. Eliza counted the minutes in her head and wondered how long it was going to take for one of them to eventually break.

At last, he spoke, turning to her. “We should talk.”

Her fork paused, and she lowered it slowly. “About what?”

“Our circumstances,” he said. His tone was measured, the words firm in his mouth. “I will be direct. I do not expect you to do anything.”

Her hand tightened in her lap. “What?”

“I want you to feel at home here,” he continued. “As much as one can, and I know this marriage cannot be what you hoped for. It was not what I hoped for either. This is not a fairytale.”

Her throat tightened as she continued to listen to him.

“However,” he said, his eyes fixed on her, “you will have security here. You will want for nothing. And in time, there must be an heir, as that is required.”

The words cut through her. He spoke of children as though they were an obligation, not a choice. Perhaps they were an obligation for a man like him. She looked at him, searching for any trace of warmth.

She found none.

“I hope you understand,” he finally said.

Her chest ached as she stared at him. Those damn eyes again. She could let the silence swallow them one more time, but she steadied herself. She had come prepared.

“Then may I ask something?”

He lifted a brow. “What is it?”

“I would like a room,” she said carefully. “A small one. With enough light. I could use it as an atelier. A place to keep my paints, my sketches. It would occupy my time, and I promise it would not disturb you.”

He studied her, his gaze unreadable. The candles flickered against the sharp lines of his face, and she forced herself not to look away.

“I … I would not disturb you. I only ask for a place where I can paint. My sketchbook is small, and it is not enough. I need … more.”

Still, he did not speak, and the silence pressed down harder. She could not tell if he disapproved, if he thought it foolish, or if he was simply indifferent.

Finally, he placed his fork down with care and said, “You will.”

Her breath caught. “I will?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “It will be arranged.”

Relief broke through her chest, though she kept her expression composed. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me,” he said, voice still clipped. “If it keeps you occupied, it serves us both.”

His words carried no softness, but she clung to the agreement.

The silence that followed no longer felt as heavy. She picked up her fork again, taking another small bite. The food tasted stronger now, though she could hardly focus on it.

Across the table, he watched her in that same calm way, like he was still deciding what kind of woman now sat across from him.

Deciding to pay him less mind, she lowered her gaze to her plate. Whatever else he thought, she would have her space. That was enough for tonight.

***

Later that evening, after dinner, she sat before her mirror while her maid unfastened the back of her gown. The day’s heaviness clung to her, but she felt lighter now, almost eager and unable to hold back her thoughts.

“I will finally have something to do here,” she said. “A room of my own. I can set out my brushes and paints and not have to clear them away each time. Can you imagine? An atelier, right here at Evermere.”

The maid smiled as she folded the gown. “It is good to hear you speak so happily, my lady. I have not seen you this bright since you arrived.”

Eliza leaned forward against the table. “I was afraid I would never find a place here, that each day would feel the same. But this … this could change everything. I might even feel alive again.”

“And what will you paint first?” the maid asked.

“Perhaps more of the gardens,” Eliza said, her eyes softening. “They are always changing, and I could spend hours watching them. Or perhaps the hallways and the wall panels. They look like something out of a Gothic novel, if I have ever seen one.”

The maid tilted her head. “And for your colors and brushes? Do you have enough?”

Eliza shook her head. “Not nearly. My sketchbook is small, and the paints I brought are almost gone. I would need fresh ones and proper canvases, too. Do you think such things can be found here?”

“That should not be hard,” the maid said quickly. “The marketplace has stalls with supplies, and I can fetch them for you myself. All you need to do is tell me what you want.”

Eliza turned toward her, her eyes bright. “Would you really? That would mean so much to me.”

“Of course, my lady. Only …” The maid paused.

Eliza’s smile faded a little. “Only what?”

“You must be careful,” the maid said in a lower voice. “Lady Howard may not approve.”

Eliza blinked. Evelyn had already struck her as sharp, her gaze weighing and measuring. Still, she laughed lightly, though her throat tightened. “Why? Does Lady Howard frown upon women painting?”

The maid shook her head quickly. “Nothing of the sort. She has her ways, that is all. She sees much and says more. Best to mind yourself around her.”

Eliza swallowed and nodded. “I see. Thank you.”

The maid straightened. “Do you need anything else before I leave you, my lady?”

“No, that is all.”

The girl curtsied and slipped away, leaving Eliza alone. The room felt too still, the silence too heavy. She tried to steady herself, but her thoughts pressed in. She needed air, she needed to move. She lifted a candleholder from the table and slipped into the hallway.

The house at night was quiet, her steps echoing against the wood. She let the flame guide her, moving up staircases and into the upper rooms she had not yet seen. The air was cooler there, and dust lingered in the corners.

At last, she pushed open a door into the attic. The space was filled with draped furniture and forgotten things. Her candlelight fell on a tall frame leaning against the wall, covered by a sheet. She set the candle down, stepped closer, and pulled the cloth away.

A portrait stood before her, damaged and faded, but the woman’s eyes still shone through. They were gentle and kind, looking out as if waiting for someone to see her again.

Eliza’s breath caught. She touched the frame, feeling the cracks in the paint. She knew at once what she would do. This portrait would be hers to restore, her first project at Evermere.

She lifted it carefully, heavier than she expected, and began the walk back toward her chambers.

“My lady?”

The voice made her start. She turned, the portrait held close, to see Mrs. Yarrow standing at the end of the hall.

Eliza steadied herself. “Mrs. Yarrow … I did not mean to disturb anyone. I was only … exploring.”

The housekeeper’s gaze shifted to the portrait. “And you found something.”

Eliza looked down at the woman’s painted eyes, then back to her. “Do you know her?”

Mrs. Yarrow stepped closer, studying the canvas with calm interest. She shook her head. “No one has paid attention to that one in years.”

“Would it trouble anyone if I restored it?” Eliza asked quietly.

“Trouble? Not at all,” Mrs. Yarrow said, her tone gentle. “If it gives you purpose, then do it. The painting has waited long enough.”

Eliza felt warmth stir in her chest, a spark of joy. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Shall I have a place prepared for it tomorrow?” the housekeeper asked.

“Yes,” Eliza said, smiling faintly. “Yes, please.”

Mrs. Yarrow inclined her head. “Goodnight, my lady.”

“Goodnight,” Eliza replied softly.

Back in her room, Eliza set the portrait against the wall. The candlelight flickered across the woman’s face, softening the cracks. For the first time, she felt she had found a purpose of her own.

She felt like she had something to look forward to.