Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (87 page)

All of her canvases were small, a foot square or less. Most of them were of birds, and crude when compared to her drawings. They varied greatly in skill. The composition was simple and similar to her sketches, which is fine for a sketch but not sophisticated in a painting. Her usual attention to detail was best relayed in her colors, which were very natural. I was sure she had spent great care in matching the hue of each feather. In an attempt to obtain the detail she was familiar with in charcoal, she had endeavored to use very fine brush strokes. On canvases this small, it still appeared blotchy. In time, I was sure, she would refine her technique and work to the medium instead of trying to recreate her sketches in color.

She stood aside, entwining her fingers and shuffling about while we regarded her work.

“You need larger canvases, more paint, and time to practice,” I said.

“But you know all of that. Your colors match what I remember of such birds. I am sure you will discover how to make the brush produce the texture and detail you desire. And I have seen far worse hanging in great halls. You have talent, Agnes.”

She smiled, and the tension left her for a moment until she looked to Gaston.

I nudged him.

“I like the raven,” he said.

It was probably her first attempt, and contained the oddest use of color. The black feathers were streaked with green and blue. In thinking on it, I realized that raven feathers were iridescent in the proper light, much like those of the odd chicken Pete would find and adore.

“Did he sit to be painted?” Gaston asked of the bird.

Agnes giggled. “Aye, he surely does. He is often my subject. I bring bits of food for him and he sits somewhat still as long as I feed him.

He always seems to know that I am about something, and occasionally he sits closer or behind me, as if he wishes to see what I am doing. I wanted to capture the colors, but…” she sighed. “I do not know how, though I have made several developments since that piece.”

“And what are those three there?” I pointed at three canvasses wrapped in cloth and leaning in the corner.

She looked at them and made a rueful face. “Just whimsy.”

“Come now,” I chided. “Is not all art whimsy?”

She braided her fingers for a moment, until she decided. She unwrapped the three and then set them up very quickly in front of the others.

These did not match her drawings at all. They were ordinary objects portrayed in riots of unreal color, with compositions as dramatic as their palette. Her brushstrokes were large and heavily applied, in a rough fashion that sketched the object rather than cleanly delineating it. “They are striking,” I said. “In the bird paintings you are trying to imitate your drawing, here, it looks as if you are exploring paint.”

“I had just gotten the paints,” she said. “The colors are so pretty.”

“Paint a bird like that,” Gaston said. “There are birds I have seen with those colors.”

She smiled, but her fingers continued to twine about one another.

“I want to be able to paint people, like I draw them,” she said while still studying her work, “but when I play with color, it as if I am led by a different muse. You are correct, I do not… find as much interest in these where I have tried to paint exactly what I see, which is how my father taught me to approach drawing. I would love to be able to color a piece such as those, though,” she sighed, and pointed at the sketches on the wall behind her.

There were two larger pieces among the charcoals of birds and flowers: one of Christine and another of Sarah. They were gorgeous, drawn with an accuracy that made them appear as if she had captured her subject’s image in a fine mirror.

“Perhaps you will learn to view color differently, or perhaps the muses will lead you to do another thing with color,” I said. “The important thing is to practice and follow your heart.”

She nodded. “I will stay with painting ravens for now, and not people, but I think I will see where the colors lead me. It is hard to remember I need not fear the cost of the paints.”

“You need not,” Gaston said firmly.

My gaze was still held by her remarkable sketches, and I remembered a thing.

“I wish for you to draw Gaston,” I said.

He rolled his eyes.

She nodded amiably. “Now?”

“If you would,” I said.

“If I must sit for her, then you shall too,” Gaston said.

“Agreed.” I grinned. “Without our shirts.”

Agnes shrugged.

Gaston awarded me a withering glare, but he shed his weapons and then his tunic.

“Oh,” Agnes remarked when she first saw his scars.

He sighed and did not look at her, which was a pity, because her face held anything but pity. She was fascinated.

Her eyes darted between us and then narrowed as she looked about.

“I will need another lamp.”

She hurried out and I doffed my tunic.

“I will have her prove you are not ugly,” I teased him.

He shook his head with that look he always got when confronting my devotion.

Agnes returned with another lamp, and then made great work of positioning him and the light. I guessed she was seeking the maximum display of the texture of his scars. We ended up with me still upon the chest and him sitting sideways in the chair, his arm draped across the back and his head resting upon it, looking at me.

She settled in, and propped her feet upon a small crate, with her paper on a board across her legs. Her gaze roamed all over us, but in the way of artists which I had come to understand. She did not see us as people anymore, but as studies of lines and shadow.

“May we speak?” I asked.

“Aye,” she said distractedly.

“Do you speak French?” I asked. I could not remember.

“Nay, speak it, then I won’t feel I have to listen,” she said.

I grinned at Gaston and spoke French. “She has developed quite the spirit these last months.”

“Oui. It suits her,” he said.

His eyes narrowed with mischief. “In truth, if a thing were to befall the Damn Wife, I would have you marry this one. I feel she would give us very fine puppies: intelligent and talented puppies.”

I was surprised, and then I vaguely recalled his saying something of the sort before. “You do not see her as an opponent in the least, do you?”

He smiled. “Non.”

I glanced at Agnes; she was oblivious to us. Other than my prior laudanum-induced imagining of her with charcoal stains all about her, I had never felt any interest for her.

“She is young yet,” I said.

“She is merely skinny,” he said.

“I have little interest in her, or she in me,” I countered.

He smiled knowingly.

I sighed and smiled. “All right then, if something were to befall the Damn Wife, I will endeavor to marry this one and give you intelligent and talented puppies.”

Then I grinned. “What is she? She is not a centaur.”

He thought on this for a time. “She is a dryad.”

I liked that: there was something very much like a tree in her long limbs and fingers.

“Hold your faces still,” she said suddenly.

Gaston and I gazed upon one another as we first had in the room in Puerto del Principe, but this time there was much mirth leavened into the love in our eyes.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, she stopped working at her furious pace; and she sat back and stretched.

“May we move?” I asked.

She nodded, her eyes still on the piece. She made some small smudges here and there, and then eyed it again with her head cocked.

Gaston and I stretched.

“It is not my best,” she said. “I would need more time, and I was attempting to do too much to do parts of it true justice, but…”

“Hush,” I chided gently. “Let us see it and judge.”

With another sigh, she turned the paper to us.

Even though I have sat for two painted portraits, and with my habit of associating with artists, seen many a sketch of my likeness, I am always surprised to see myself rendered on the page. Thus, I regarded her work with surprise, but that alone was not what held the breath in my lungs for a time. Agnes was truly extraordinary, and possessed of an uncanny ability to capture a subject.

The piece showed both of us above the waist. I sat with my back to the left edge of the page, as if I leaned back upon it while gazing at Gaston, who occupied most of the right side of the paper. I was seen in a three quarter frontal view, whereas Gaston was seen from behind at the same angle. She had shown only a crescent of his face, while spending great detail upon his left arm and back. There, she had rendered beautifully the way the scars appeared as a cat’s stripes upon his flesh. The chair he was draped over stood between us. It appeared as if it kept him from me. And even more, as if he were reaching for me over it. All the while, we gazed upon one another with love I would not have thought possible to capture, especially since not all of Gaston’s face was available in the picture.

Gaston took a long shuddering breath, and I looked to find him nearly in tears.

Agnes seemed dismayed by his reaction.

“It is beautiful,” I said quickly to ally her fears. “We will wish to preserve it.”

“Truly?” she asked, her eyes flicking to Gaston.

“He is overcome,” I said gently. “He has not seen himself captured thus before.”

“Nay,” Gaston whispered. “I have not.”

He stood and kissed her lightly on the temple before leaving the room.

“He feels he is ugly,” I said quietly in his wake.

She frowned. “He is not.”

“I know.”

She smiled. “I will take very good care of it for you until you return.”

“Thank you.” Then I too kissed her lightly on the cheek.

I took up the candle and our weapons and tunics, and left her.

I found him in the front room sitting in the dark. I set our things on another chair and the candle on the table, and went to kneel before him with my arms on his knees.

“I am not ugly,” he whispered as if it were a wonderment.

I grinned. “Did you truly think me blind or delusional?”

His smile was slow in coming. “Oui.”

I chuckled.

He leaned down to kiss my forehead. “Thank you.”

I kissed his lips, and then let mine trail down his body, showing him how very beautiful I found him.

We woke to my name being called. We had crawled under the familiar table to sleep. Sarah now stood beside it in her nightgown, with bare feet and a lamp. I glanced at Gaston; he thankfully did not have a pistol aimed at her. Now that we knew it to be she, he lay back with his hands behind his head. I rose on my elbow to regard her.

“Is something amiss?” I asked.

She leaned down to whisper. “Whatever are you doing here on the floor under the table? You could have slept in Uncle’s room.”

“Well, my dear, to be precise, we could not,” I said.

“Aye, I know,” she sighed. “The smell makes me retch.”

She lowered herself gingerly to sit next to us. I did not miss her indrawn breath as her arse touched the floor. I grimaced in sympathy and she froze. Even in the lamplight, I could see her flush.

I sighed. “Pete told us, reluctantly, and in confidence, that he had d forsworn himself to partake of a woman in the normal manner and… I had hoped he would overcome it, but…”

“He was not… coarse… in the matter,” she whispered. “And I suppose I suffer no more discomfort than is necessary… Yet, I do not understand…” Her eyes were hard upon me now.

“It is an acquired taste,” I said quickly, and shrugged.

Behind me, I could feel Gaston rumble with amusement.

Sarah was quiet and looked away, though I did not think it due to Gaston’s finding humor in the matter.

“I suppose it is one I must acquire,” she said softly.

“Sarah,” I said with concern, “if this is a thing you do not wish, then…”

“Nay.” She met my gaze again. “He is a handsome man, exceedingly so, and willing to be kind to me; and James loves him, and you obviously care deeply for him, and I can truly see the qualities you wrote of… and… I feel I can grow fond of him, or perhaps even more.”

“Pete is a unique man among men,” I said. I did not wish to explain about wolves and sheep, but I needed to impart it in some fashion. I mulled words around and settled on, “Pete is a great lion of a man. He is a king in this forest, and he bows to no one.”

She smiled warmly. “I see that. And truly, I admire him for it. It is just that all of it is something I did not expect of life and must become accustomed to, like this place, and how I live here, and…”

“Was your heart set on a manor house and servants?” I asked.

“Nay,” she said with a smile. “I was hoping I would not be saddled with all of that, and here, look, I get my wish. And, I get two handsome men and…”

Her smile did not flee, but it changed.

“And?” I prompted.

She sighed. “There is a thing I must tell you. Only you two, and Agnes, and Pete, and James once he receives my letter.”

“We will hold it in confidence,” I said.

“I know.” She took another deep breath. “I feel I am with child.”

Gaston sat to peer over me at her. “Why?”

“They say a woman can tell,” she whispered. “Of course, others say a bride as new as I, who has spent but a brief time with her husband, will come to the conclusion by wishful thinking, but… Truly, I feel different, and I have not had my monthly bleeding, and I retch in the morning.”

My matelot nodded. “Have you seen a midwife? Do not rely upon a physician for the matter.”

“I know, but nay, I have not seen a midwife, nor have I wished to…

yet…” She shook her head.

“Why?” I asked.

She gave a throaty huff of frustration. “It is your damn wife.”

I chuckled. “Funny, but that is what we call her. What has she to do with it?”

“She claims she is with child,” Sarah said.

I snorted.

“Could it be yours?” she asked carefully.

I frowned. “What is your meaning? To the best of my knowledge, I am capable of begetting one. And… I am usually capable of lying with a woman, but…” I sighed. “In this case, the woman was far too cold to warm me to the event.”