Read Online The Secrets of Mia Danvers by Robyn DeHart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robyn DeHart
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lay down at night to sleep, she could see
him
.
He didn’t have a face, at least not one with discernible features, but he had a shape and a presence, and darkness covered him like a heavy woolen cloak. And she saw red. She remembered colors and knew red, still aware of its vibrancy. It was the color of blood, the symbol of life. And there had to have been so much blood on that poor girl, and mixing with the chilled rain. Mia shook her head to remove the offensive image and again focused on the clay beneath her hands.
She’d gotten the goddess’s hair completed, intricately carved curls, and the shape of her head, the gentle slope of her neck. What remained were the actual facial features. The elements that would make her different from any other woman, the precise shape of her eyes and angle of her eyebrows, the arch of her nose and curve of her lip.
Mia tried to remember, in that moment, what her own face looked like. It had been so long since she’d seen her own reflection and she’d been but a girl then. She wondered if she’d grown into beauty. Her mother had been a rather handsome woman and both her sisters had been very pretty. But Mia’s figure had been more similar to their father’s. As an adolescent, she’d been tall and thin and angular. Perhaps it was best she could not see her own reflection.
She had carved a bust in her own likeness. At least how she imagined herself. It was the first piece she’d created when she’d decided to try her hand at a different medium of art. She’d never shared it with anyone save Rachel. It simply sat in her own bedchamber, a constant reminder to her of what she was capable of, despite her own family’s disbelief in her worth.
With her carving knife, she gently shaved off clay near the jawline, using her fingers to smooth the lines, softening the face as she progressed. She knew Diana was the goddess of the hunt so in most pictures she was depicted carrying a bow and arrow, often with an animal. But with only a bust to work with, that would be more difficult, to add in those elements without the full-scale image.
It was more challenging to sculpt women than men, but they were also in far more demand as best she could tell. And mistakes were expensive; she couldn’t afford to carve off too much. She dipped her hand in the water and dampened the clay.
“What are you doing out here in the chill?” a voice asked from behind her.
Startled, she grabbed the tool with her other hand to prevent it from digging into the clay. “Lord Carrington,” she said.
His footsteps moved from behind her to stand in front of her. She didn’t rise from her seat at the table, and she made no move to set down her sculpture. But she also didn’t intend to keep working while he stood there and watched her. His presence was distracting, not that she wanted him to know that, so she held tight to the clay in one hand and her carving knife in the other.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
“What are you doing?” he repeated.
“Sculpting.” She frowned at him. “I had hoped it was obvious. Perhaps I’m not as talented as I’ve been led to believe.” She set down the knife, then wiped her hand on the towel she kept draped across her lap.
“No, that’s not it. I didn’t know, that is, I simply didn’t realize,” he continued to fumble over his words and she had to admit that in that moment there was a sort of boyish charm about him, lurking just beneath the exterior gruff. She could almost imagine him standing there shifting his weight from one foot to the next, trying not to say the wrong thing. “I mean how can you? . . .”
“How can I sculpt when I cannot see?” she finished for him.
“Yes,” he said, not backing away from his inquiry. She imagined then he would round his proud shoulders as he uttered the word with boldness.
“It is a legitimate question,” she said. “I was an artist before. Before I lost my sight.” She smiled.
him
.
He didn’t have a face, at least not one with discernible features, but he had a shape and a presence, and darkness covered him like a heavy woolen cloak. And she saw red. She remembered colors and knew red, still aware of its vibrancy. It was the color of blood, the symbol of life. And there had to have been so much blood on that poor girl, and mixing with the chilled rain. Mia shook her head to remove the offensive image and again focused on the clay beneath her hands.
She’d gotten the goddess’s hair completed, intricately carved curls, and the shape of her head, the gentle slope of her neck. What remained were the actual facial features. The elements that would make her different from any other woman, the precise shape of her eyes and angle of her eyebrows, the arch of her nose and curve of her lip.
Mia tried to remember, in that moment, what her own face looked like. It had been so long since she’d seen her own reflection and she’d been but a girl then. She wondered if she’d grown into beauty. Her mother had been a rather handsome woman and both her sisters had been very pretty. But Mia’s figure had been more similar to their father’s. As an adolescent, she’d been tall and thin and angular. Perhaps it was best she could not see her own reflection.
She had carved a bust in her own likeness. At least how she imagined herself. It was the first piece she’d created when she’d decided to try her hand at a different medium of art. She’d never shared it with anyone save Rachel. It simply sat in her own bedchamber, a constant reminder to her of what she was capable of, despite her own family’s disbelief in her worth.
With her carving knife, she gently shaved off clay near the jawline, using her fingers to smooth the lines, softening the face as she progressed. She knew Diana was the goddess of the hunt so in most pictures she was depicted carrying a bow and arrow, often with an animal. But with only a bust to work with, that would be more difficult, to add in those elements without the full-scale image.
It was more challenging to sculpt women than men, but they were also in far more demand as best she could tell. And mistakes were expensive; she couldn’t afford to carve off too much. She dipped her hand in the water and dampened the clay.
“What are you doing out here in the chill?” a voice asked from behind her.
Startled, she grabbed the tool with her other hand to prevent it from digging into the clay. “Lord Carrington,” she said.
His footsteps moved from behind her to stand in front of her. She didn’t rise from her seat at the table, and she made no move to set down her sculpture. But she also didn’t intend to keep working while he stood there and watched her. His presence was distracting, not that she wanted him to know that, so she held tight to the clay in one hand and her carving knife in the other.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
“What are you doing?” he repeated.
“Sculpting.” She frowned at him. “I had hoped it was obvious. Perhaps I’m not as talented as I’ve been led to believe.” She set down the knife, then wiped her hand on the towel she kept draped across her lap.
“No, that’s not it. I didn’t know, that is, I simply didn’t realize,” he continued to fumble over his words and she had to admit that in that moment there was a sort of boyish charm about him, lurking just beneath the exterior gruff. She could almost imagine him standing there shifting his weight from one foot to the next, trying not to say the wrong thing. “I mean how can you? . . .”
“How can I sculpt when I cannot see?” she finished for him.
“Yes,” he said, not backing away from his inquiry. She imagined then he would round his proud shoulders as he uttered the word with boldness.
“It is a legitimate question,” she said. “I was an artist before. Before I lost my sight.” She smiled.
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