Suitors and Sabotage(42)

He made a slight growl in his throat as the rod he was drawing looked anything but straight. Iron was not known to be inconstant or malleable. Imogene leaned over his shoulder—smelling of roses—and, using her own graphite pencil, redrew the lines in two quick strokes. She made it look so easy. “Thank you,” he grumbled as she sat back. Scratching above his ear in frustration, Ben sighed, and then he traced her lines, trying to understand where he had gone wrong.

“You are doing very well, Ben. Making great progress.”

“That is very kind of you to say so, but the evidence”—he waved at his paper—“says otherwise.”

“Practice makes—”

“Yes, I know. You have said as much before, again and again. I will do as you suggest.… But I wonder if I will ever be good enough—soon enough.”

Silence emanated from the other chair, and Ben looked up to see Imogene shaking her head at him. “Yes?” he asked.

“You must throw away all these doubts; they do not help in the least. You have such an affable manner about you until you start to sketch. Can you not throw away your expectations and simply enjoy the process?”

“Enjoy?”

“Please do not tell me that you have an aversion to drawing.”

Ben shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Of course not.” When was the last time he actually appreciated this necessity? “Merely an aversion to inept drawing.”

“I would rather you squander paper than have your vexation affect your work. Perhaps it would be best to start again.”

Ben quickly turned his paper over. Recalling Imogene’s lesson on how to measure using the long edge of the graphite pencil, he closed one eye and stared at the ceiling for some minutes. When he began this time, he did so from the center, working his way out.

They sketched in silence, companionable silence, for a quarter hour or so, with Imogene casually looking over to his progress but saying nothing. This time the iron rod looked like the support it was meant to be, and the ridge didn’t veer off in the wrong direction. Another quarter hour and Ben lifted the paper to view it at arm’s length.

“Well. That is nearly, if I do say so myself, nearly recognizable.” He turned for Imogene’s reaction, pleased to see her grin. It was only a small sketch, five or six inches in diameter, but it illustrated the two most important aspects of the ironwork to his way of thinking—the supports and how they were joined. He would worry about the useless curling embellishments later.

“Might your enthusiasm for drawing be returning?”

“I believe it has.” To prove his words true, Ben looked around for another subject. Should he sketch the vent? Perhaps the transom? He decided on the door and set to work. “You have a gift for teaching, my dear Miss Imogene.” His words were imparted with far more warmth than he had intended. Shifting, not so much to see the transom above the door better but to avoid looking at his brother’s ladylove, Ben imagined Imogene to be flying her colors. He regretted bringing her to blush.

He stole a peek, apology on his tongue.… But there it stayed.

There was no doubt of Imogene’s discomfort—she was busy pulling at the leaves of the Ficus benjamina beside her, staring at nothing—but her complexion was not ruddy; her expression was pensive, not embarrassed.

“Imogene?”

“Hmm?”

“Is all well?”

“Yes, indeed. I am merely thinking.”

“I believe that to be evident. Might those thoughts be of a disturbing nature?”

For several minutes the only sounds in the brightly lit conservatory were the scratches of his graphite pencil, birds twittering from nests in the iron rafters, and the wind whistling under the door to the garden—and the rustle of leaves being yanked free and shredded.

“No. Not really. Why do you ask?”

“You are decimating that poor plant.”

“Pardon? I’m…” Looking down, she laughed and shook the detritus from her skirts. “I will blame you if Mrs. Beeswanger complains.”

“Me?”

“Yes, indeed. If you had not complimented me on my teaching ability, I would not have been distracted.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“I shouldn’t wonder. I am making no sense.”

She turned back to her drawing—a large, beautiful rendering of the conservatory, which included foliage, ironwork, and glass—so well depicted it seemed possible to walk forward into the picture despite the fact that it was black and white—

“I have a most impractical dream.”

“Ah … yes, having to do with your art. A showing in London perhaps? Acclaim? Not to be wondered at, really. You have an amazing talent. Perhaps we can find you a patron. I could speak to Lord Penton.”

Imogene laughed in true amusement; it was a pretty carillon. “Thank you, no. A great fuss would be mortifying. Acclaim? No, indeed. A showing? No, and no again.”

“I am getting the impression that you are less than enthused with the idea of renown. I’m rather astute in these matters. I understand small nuances … such as the word no.”

“Very perceptive.”

“Indeed. So if a showing is not to your taste, what has caused your consternation?”