Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [47]
“It is more like this one,” I say finally, pointing to the third. “But the forehead should be broader as well.” He picks up his charcoal and begins to sketch anew, this time incorporating the changes I’ve suggested.
“Like this?” he asks. I hesitate.
“I believe so, yes.” In truth I am not certain.
“Once we add the features it will become clearer,” he says, sensing my doubt. “The eyes you said are similar to the boy’s. I take this to mean that they are large and fairly round and deeply set, like so.” He sketches while I watch, and suddenly the boy’s eyes are there, staring out at me from the page.
“Hers were not so round,” I say slowly. “And her eyebrows were heavier.” He adjusts the sketch and the transformation begins. At length I see the shadow of her eyes appear before me.
“Like this?” he asks.
“It is very like,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. It is as if he raises her from the dead in my presence, and the fact unnerves me slightly. He stops and I feel his gaze upon me, but I find it hard to tear my eyes away from those on the page. When I do he is staring at me so intently that I blush and look away.
“You are certain?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Good.”
We continue like this for a time: him questioning me closely, probing and pushing me toward a response. Twice he starts anew, believing he cannot correct his errors, and each time my heart quickens with regret to see him tear the sheet and throw it to the floor, as if I am losing her all over again. But he is tireless, re-creating her time and again, adjusting, altering, shifting. Eventually he stops and reaches for the cloth to wipe the charcoal from his hands.
“We will stop here,” he says. “Sometimes if you look too long upon a thing, it becomes difficult to see. Tomorrow the errors will be more apparent.” I nod, feel a pang of disappointment that we will not complete the likeness now, but he is right, as I can feel that I am beginning to lose my focus.
“Perhaps we could have a drink?” he asks.
“Yes, of course,” I say, rising to my feet. I slip out the door and once outside I feel the sweat trickle down my sides—my face feels hot and my throat dry. I hurry along to the kitchen and am relieved to see that only Cook is present, for I do not wish to confront the jibes of Alice, Rafe, or Lydia. But even Cook is curious as to my prolonged presence in the library.
“You’ve been long up there,” she says.
“The master wishes me to assist with the portrait,” I say. She raises an eyebrow.
“Take care he does not steal your soul,” she says. I pause and smile at her. Cook is old-fashioned in her thinking, believes that portraits have the power to diminish one’s essence.
“You need not worry,” I tell her with a laugh. “It is not me he paints.” She looks right at me.
“Aye,” she says. “I know.”
Back in the library I pour a glass of wine for us both. Now that we are no longer working, I suddenly feel as if I am trespassing in my master’s place. And too, when the painter and I do not speak of her, the awkwardness between us returns just as quickly as it did the previous evening. It is as if she is a bridge between us all—my master, the painter, and myself—joining us together in her absence. We drink in silence for a minute, until the quiet becomes oppressive. Then the painter stands and crosses to the window.
“Why did you leave your country?” I ask.
“I had no choice,” he says, turning back to face me. “Had I remained, I would have almost certainly been killed.” He says this easily, as if the fact of it does not unsettle him. There have been many killed on the Continent for their beliefs these past few years, and it is said that the streets of London are lined with those fleeing religious persecution in their homelands.
“So you did not wish to leave?” I ask.
“I would have preferred a choice,” he replies. “Perhaps I might have left anyway. There are many opportunities here for someone of my profession.”
“Where did you learn to paint?”
“My father was a cobbler. From the age of seven I worked as his assistant. I was clever with