Page 59 of The Duke Undone

“She never had formal instruction.” Her voice came out huskier than usual, but steady. “She learned how to draw from her father. He did illustrations for book publishers, mostly children’s books, volumes of nursery rhymes and things of that sort. She worked with him and then she worked for newspapers. I loved to watch her draw. I wanted to see how she did it, but it was impossible. The pictures seemed to appear all at once on the page. She was so fast. She had to be. The deadlines were relentless.”

She’d tried to meet them even on her deathbed, hers and Lucy’s father’s as well.

Weston shifted behind her, leaning closer to the drawing. Her throat tightened. She’d never looked at it with someone else, someone seeing it for the first time. She felt oddly vulnerable.

His voice was soft. “So much life in it. I can smell the rain.”

She cleared her throat, not looking at him.

“I’ll show you the back court. If you can walk.”

• • •

The sun was setting, which relieved the bleakness of the scene. At least the light was good, the grime touched up with gold.

“Privies,” she said, beginning her tour. Slowly, she led him around the perimeter. The court backed up against another house, also condemned. It wasn’t empty—but neither was it teeming with human and animal life. Mrs. Stavely was taking in her laundry. Mr. Pritchard stood in a doorway talking with two other men, their voices tense. No doubt discussing the evictions.

She ignored the curious glances.

As she pointed out the house drains, she realized that she’d lost her audience. He’d wandered toward Mr. Chesney’s old backhouse, which seemed to have crumbled dramatically in the night. Surely it hadn’t looked quite so derelict yesterday, with that fallen beam and the bricks tumbled into what, in summer, was a pretty little garden. He walked a few paces to the right, then the left. Was he weaving like that out of interest? Or was it drunkenness? She sighed.

“Mr. Chesney’s donkeys lived there. Noisy creatures. I don’t miss them, although I do miss Mr. Chesney.”

“Donkeys,” he mused. “They deserve more respect.”

She snorted. “You love donkeys in addition to horses?” It seemed unlikely. They weren’t very gentlemanly creatures. “I suppose they have four legs,” she said dubiously, recalling his main criterion for approbation.

He laughed and squatted by the fallen beam. His jacket was not quite long enough to hide his haunches. She averted her eyes and noticed Mrs. Stavely gawking. She resisted the urge to make a face.

“Nothing pestilential in that old heap, although I wish it wasn’t dripping bricks and beams onto my herb patch.”

He stood and came toward her.

“You were saying something about drains,” he suggested.

“Look here,” she said, and began again. He listened as she talked about drainage, ventilation, refuse, water, dustbins, asked questions. His thinking seemed alert, orderly, efficient. The solid bread had counteracted the liquid.

“So,” she said, concluding, “if inspectors come, they may recommend repairs, but they won’t find the structural and sanitary defects that spurred the order to close the house. There’s adequate water. The walls are plumb. The roof tiles keep the rain out.”

Where roof tiles were missing, of course, rain came in. But the roof tiles were heavy and well secured. They didn’t dislodge easily. She knew from experience. She’d made a hole in the roof herself, for the light, which she covered with oilcloth. Luckily, the dark patch was invisible from this angle.

They stopped and turned toward each other.

“I will convey the information to Mabeldon,” he said. “I don’t know what he’ll make of it.”

She nodded. A gust of wind came up at her back, rushing between the houses, and she stepped into him. For a moment, too brief a moment, she hoped, for anyone to have taken note, he gripped her elbows. Then he’d set her back and was off and running, reaching out to catch a white square of cloth as it sailed through the air. A handkerchief, ripped from a line. He caught it low, just before it hit the ground.

Giggles exploded behind them.

Two of the Cantrell children, the youngest girls, each clutching a handmade doll, cloth but with clever little leather boots, courtesy of their mother.

“Hello, Beth. Hello, Mary.” Lucy called out to them and they waved at her shyly, eyes glued on Weston.

He was folding the rescued handkerchief over its clothesline. As the girls stared, he removed a clothespin. Instead of pinning the handkerchief, he held the clothespin high in the air, then attached it to the tip of his nose.

“My ladies,” he said, bowing deeply to the little girls, who shrieked with laughter.

He removed the clothespin from his nose and attached the handkerchief with a fluid motion. Beth and Mary clambered onto an overturned barrow, facing him with saucer-eyed eagerness, waiting to see what he’d do next. He smiled at them, with a touch of uncertainty, she thought. He looked at her then, waiting for a cue.