Read Online The Golden Cross by Angela Elwell Hunt - Free Book Online
Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
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her. She was too old for school, too poor for a private tutor.
So why was he here with his arms loaded with parchments and pens?
“Excuseert u mij,”
he murmured again and again as he moved through the crowd. Half the faces around him were bleary with drink; at least a dozen men seemed moments away from passing out. How could they be totally inebriated before the sun had reached midday?
But these were not the kind of people he was accustomed to. These were men at liberty after a long voyage, eager for wine, women, and a bit of merriment. Perhaps he would understand them better after he had been at sea for several months.
He paused just inside the doorway and took a deep breath, his eyes searching the gloom, half-hoping that he’d see no sign of the red-haired woman. If he couldn’t find her, he could leave with a clear conscience, satisfied that he’d at least obeyed his impulse to help the ragamuffin. He had come to believe that the merest encounter on the street could be a divine appointment, and the girl’s talent and sincerity had convinced him that she should not be brushed aside. But other than giving her a few art supplies and a dozen encouraging words, he had no idea what else he could do for her.
All too quickly he ran out of distractions. He saw her sitting alone at a table in the center of the room, her fair skin stretched over high cheekbones, her eyes fixed upon the card game at the next table.
He wouldn’t even be able to slip in and cower in a corner, he realized, groaning under the burden of his parcels as well as the imminent blight upon his good name.
If anyone tells my children that I’ve been frequenting taverns even before dinnertime …
He glanced around and smiled grimly. Not much chance of that rumor spreading. None of his children’s associates would so much as venture into this part of town without some extremely compelling reason.
She looked up and caught his eye as he made his way through the boisterous crowd, and he gave her a smile, holding the bulky packages to his chest lest they be knocked from his arms. She blushed as he approached, and he wondered if perhaps his attentions embarrassed her. Or maybe she thought he was mocking her.
“I am glad, my dear, that you waited for me.” Schuyler dropped his parcels to the table where she sat. He placed his hand on the back of an empty chair, then lifted a brow. “May I sit?”
“Please do.” She straightened in her chair, her thin fingers tensing on the tabletop. After a moment, a flicker of a smile crossed her face. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d come at all.”
“Of course I came.” He unwrapped the largest package, a stack of parchments and assorted papers. “I promised I would help you, and I want to see you draw again. You show remarkable promise, my dear, and it would be a shame if you neglect the gifts God has given you.” He gave her a brief smile. “I particularly liked the butterfly sketch.”
“You saw that?” A pensive shimmer flickered in the shadow of her eyes. “I don’t usually go around drawing on buildings, sir. I only wanted to practice until you arrived.”
“Your drawings would greatly improve most of the buildings in this part of town,” he answered simply, smoothing the parchments. He slid the stack toward her, then produced a freshly sharpened pencil from a pouch at his belt. “Here, my dear. Draw for me.”
She took the pencil and frowned at him. “Draw what?”
“Whatever your heart tells you.” He folded his hands across his belly as he leaned back in his chair. “Forget I am here, forget everyone in this room. Just draw. Let your inner eye see what it will, and record that image on the paper.”
She paused, touched the tip of the pencil to her tongue in a strangely quaint gesture, then ran her left hand down the parchment, seeming to evaluate its texture, sight, and scent. Her eyes closed for a long moment, and when she opened them again theyburned with a faraway look.
So why was he here with his arms loaded with parchments and pens?
“Excuseert u mij,”
he murmured again and again as he moved through the crowd. Half the faces around him were bleary with drink; at least a dozen men seemed moments away from passing out. How could they be totally inebriated before the sun had reached midday?
But these were not the kind of people he was accustomed to. These were men at liberty after a long voyage, eager for wine, women, and a bit of merriment. Perhaps he would understand them better after he had been at sea for several months.
He paused just inside the doorway and took a deep breath, his eyes searching the gloom, half-hoping that he’d see no sign of the red-haired woman. If he couldn’t find her, he could leave with a clear conscience, satisfied that he’d at least obeyed his impulse to help the ragamuffin. He had come to believe that the merest encounter on the street could be a divine appointment, and the girl’s talent and sincerity had convinced him that she should not be brushed aside. But other than giving her a few art supplies and a dozen encouraging words, he had no idea what else he could do for her.
All too quickly he ran out of distractions. He saw her sitting alone at a table in the center of the room, her fair skin stretched over high cheekbones, her eyes fixed upon the card game at the next table.
He wouldn’t even be able to slip in and cower in a corner, he realized, groaning under the burden of his parcels as well as the imminent blight upon his good name.
If anyone tells my children that I’ve been frequenting taverns even before dinnertime …
He glanced around and smiled grimly. Not much chance of that rumor spreading. None of his children’s associates would so much as venture into this part of town without some extremely compelling reason.
She looked up and caught his eye as he made his way through the boisterous crowd, and he gave her a smile, holding the bulky packages to his chest lest they be knocked from his arms. She blushed as he approached, and he wondered if perhaps his attentions embarrassed her. Or maybe she thought he was mocking her.
“I am glad, my dear, that you waited for me.” Schuyler dropped his parcels to the table where she sat. He placed his hand on the back of an empty chair, then lifted a brow. “May I sit?”
“Please do.” She straightened in her chair, her thin fingers tensing on the tabletop. After a moment, a flicker of a smile crossed her face. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d come at all.”
“Of course I came.” He unwrapped the largest package, a stack of parchments and assorted papers. “I promised I would help you, and I want to see you draw again. You show remarkable promise, my dear, and it would be a shame if you neglect the gifts God has given you.” He gave her a brief smile. “I particularly liked the butterfly sketch.”
“You saw that?” A pensive shimmer flickered in the shadow of her eyes. “I don’t usually go around drawing on buildings, sir. I only wanted to practice until you arrived.”
“Your drawings would greatly improve most of the buildings in this part of town,” he answered simply, smoothing the parchments. He slid the stack toward her, then produced a freshly sharpened pencil from a pouch at his belt. “Here, my dear. Draw for me.”
She took the pencil and frowned at him. “Draw what?”
“Whatever your heart tells you.” He folded his hands across his belly as he leaned back in his chair. “Forget I am here, forget everyone in this room. Just draw. Let your inner eye see what it will, and record that image on the paper.”
She paused, touched the tip of the pencil to her tongue in a strangely quaint gesture, then ran her left hand down the parchment, seeming to evaluate its texture, sight, and scent. Her eyes closed for a long moment, and when she opened them again theyburned with a faraway look.
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