“Sit down,” Bree said, hastily offering a hand. “Let’s see how much we can get done before our elevenses.”
The awe of actual oil paints—perhaps aided by the fumes of turpentine and linseed oil—seemed to calm Angelina, and while she sat with unusual rigidity, it didn’t really matter at the moment, and the studio was temporarily filled with a peaceful silence made up of small noises: children outside, dogs scratching and snuffling, muffled pot-banging and talk from the cookhouse, a thump of feet and murmur of voices overhead as the maids swept out the hearths, emptied the chamber pots, and aired the linens, the jingle and clop of wagons passing in the street.
A single distant boom came in on the breeze from the window and she stiffened for a moment, but as nothing further happened, she relaxed back into the work, though now with the thought of Roger hovering over her left shoulder, watching her paint. She imagined for a moment his arm about her waist and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, in anticipation of warm breath.
The mantelpiece clock in the drawing room down the hall struck eleven in an imperious chime, and Bree felt her stomach gurgle in anticipation. Breakfast had been at six, and she could do with a slice of cake and a cup of tea.
“R oo wrkg n m mth?” Mrs. Brumby said, moving her lips as little as possible, just in case.
“No, you can talk,” Brianna assured her, suppressing a smile. “Don’t move your hands, though.”
“Oh, of course!” The hand that had risen unconsciously to fiddle with her densely sculpted curls dropped like a stone into her lap, but then she giggled. “Must I have Henrike feed me my elevenses? I hear her coming.”
Henrike weighed about fourteen stone and could be heard coming for some considerable time before she appeared, the wooden heels of her shoes striking the bare floorboards of the hall with a measured tread like the thump of a bass drum.
“I have got to paint that floorcloth you asked for,” Bree said, not realizing that she’d spoken aloud until Angelina laughed.
“Oh, do,” she said. “I meant to tell you, Mr. Brumby says he prefers the design with the pineapples, and could you possibly have it ready by Wednesday-week? He wants to have a great dinner for General Prévost and his officers. In gratitude, you know, for his gallant defense of the city.” She hesitated, her little pink tongue darting out to touch her lips. “Do you think … er … I don’t wish to—to be—that is—”
Brianna made a long, slow brushstroke, a streak of pale pink mingled with cream catching the shine of light on the roundness of Angelina’s delicate forearm.
“It’s all right,” she said, barely attending. “Don’t move your fingers.”
“No, no!” Angelina said, twitching her fingers guiltily, then trying to remember how they’d been.
“That’s fine, don’t move!”
Angelina froze, and Bree managed a gray suggestion of shadow between the fingers while Henrike clumped in. To her surprise, though, there was no sound of rattling coffee things, nor any hint of the cake she’d smelled baking this morning as she dressed.
“What is it, Henrike?” Angelina was still sitting rigidly erect, and while she’d been given permission to talk, she kept her eyes fixed on the vase of flowers. “Where is our morning coffee?”
“Da ist ein Mann,” Henrike informed her mistress portentously, dropping her voice as though to avoid being overheard.
“Someone at the door, you mean?” Angelina risked a curious glance at the studio door before jerking her eyes back into line. “What sort of man?”
Henrike pursed her lips and nodded at Brianna.
“Ein Soldat. Er will sie sehen.”
“A soldier?” Angelina dropped her pose and looked at Brianna in astonishment. “And he wants to see Mrs. MacKenzie? You’re sure of that, Henrike? You don’t think he might want Mr. Brumby?”
Henrike was fond of her young mistress and refrained from rolling her eyes, instead merely nodding again at Bree.
“Her,” she said in English. “Er sagte, ‘die Lay-dee Painter.’” She folded her hands under her apron and waited with patience for further instructions.
“Oh.” Angelina was clearly at a loss—and just as clearly had lost all sense of her pose.
“Shall I go and talk to him?” Bree inquired. She swished her squirrel-fur brush in the turps and wrapped it in a bit of damp rag.
“Oh, no—bring him here, will you, Henrike?” Angelina plainly wanted to know what this visitation was about. And, Bree thought with an internal smile, seeing Angelina poke hastily at her hair, be seen in the thrilling position of having her portrait painted.