Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

" S o which book is your favorite?" Cressida asked Matthew.

The two of them were sitting in the library, having retired from breakfast after their conversation about the ball last night. Cressida was excited about the fact that Matthew had chosen to join her here. It had become an ordinary event for her to spend her mornings in the library, but Matthew usually went to his study or left the house altogether. It seemed that he'd heard what she had to say about the importance of the two of them getting to know one another better, and she intended to take full advantage of the opportunity.

"I haven't got a favorite," Matthew said. "I could no more choose a favorite book than I could choose a favorite star in the sky. They're all too different, and all too important to me."

"Then have you read all of them?" Cressida looked around her. It seemed to her that it would take a lifetime to read all these books.

"Not all," Matthew said. "Not yet. But I do mean to, someday."

"That's ambitious of you."

"I suppose it is, but I pride myself on my ambition," he told her. "And I never miss a goal I set for myself."

"That does sound like something to be proud of," Cressida agreed. "I wonder if I could ever read all these books?"

She expected him to chuckle at the idea. He wouldn't be unkind to her, but he would tell her that while his ambition might be a reasonable one for him, it would not be realistic for her. He would tell her that she would never be able to read all these books and that she ought to focus on pursuits more appropriate to a lady.

But he didn't say that. He adopted a pensive expression for a moment, and then he said, "You know, I wouldn't be at all surprised if you could, Cressida."

Her whole body felt warm. His acknowledgement felt like the highest compliment anyone had ever paid her. She wanted to thank him for what he'd said, but it also felt rather foolish to do so.

She settled for moving the conversation along. "What do you do when you aren't reading?" she asked him. "Do you have any other hobbies? Other goals?"

"You're very curious today."

"It's what we spoke about at breakfast," she explained. "I'm trying to learn about you so that I'll be better able to answer questions about you the next time I'm asked."

"And you think you're going to be interrogated as to my hobbies?"

"Not interrogated," she said patiently. "But what if someone asks me what you've been doing lately? Right now, I wouldn't know what to say. But if I knew more about your interests I might say, oh, Matthew has been diligently improving his skills on the pianoforte."

"The pianoforte!"

"It was only an example . I don't know what the right answer is."

"You've never heard me play," he told her, smiling. "If you had, you would know why that answer wasn't the correct one."

"Very well, but then what is the answer? What would I tell people that you have been doing, if they asked me?"

"I suppose you might say I'd been busy with my drawing," he allowed.

"Your drawing? Do you draw?"

"I do more of that than I play the pianoforte, certainly."

"But you must let me see your work," she told him.

Matthew shook his head. "I don't share my drawings with anyone," he told her. On the page was the one place he could be unrestrained, uninhibited. With a pencil in his hand, he never worried about keeping things under control or making things perfect, because he knew that nobody would ever see what he had done. He could make as much of a mess of his art as he liked, and he would always know that it had been for his eyes only. That made it safe.

"I'd like to see," Cressida pressed again. "I'm sure your work is very good."

"You don't need to see my work in order to tell the members of the ton that I've been drawing," he told her. "In fact, I think it would be perfectly reasonable if you're pressed to let them know that I simply don't allow you to look at my work. Nobody would question that. They would think it made perfect sense."

"I'm not worried about what people think of us right now," Cressida told him.

Matthew was having trouble keeping up with her. "I thought that was why you were asking me all these questions."

"Well, it was ," she agreed. "But now you're telling me that you're an artist."

"I didn't say that I was an artist. I like to sketch in my spare time, that's all it is."

"That's what artists do, Matthew. I'm not saying your work ought to be shown in galleries and sold for huge sums of money. I'm just saying I'd like to see it! Wouldn't you want to see if you found out I had a hobby like that? Wouldn't you be curious?"

"I'd like to think I would respect your wish for privacy if you expressed such a wish to me."

"I'm not trying to disregard your desire to be private."

"Then perhaps you ought to tell me about your hobbies instead."

Cressida could see that he was trying to redirect the conversation, but she wasn't going to allow it. "I read," she said. "I play chess. I actually do play the pianoforte. And now my latest hobby is trying to learn as much as I possibly can about my new husband. I want to be closer to you, Matthew. I know our marriage is not one of closeness, but it is a partnership, and for a partnership to be effective two people must build a sort of intimacy, mustn't they? Don't you think this would be better if you and I were…"

"Were what?"

She straightened her spine. "Friends," she said. "I'd like the two of us to be friends. Do you think that's possible?"

Matthew nodded slowly. "We can be friends," he said. "I would like that, I think."

Cressida had to admit to herself that she hadn't expected he would give in quite that quickly. She'd anticipated more argument, and truth be told, she had been prepared for it. "I'm glad," she said. "I think it's what's best for the both of us."

"But that doesn't mean I'm going to show you my sketches," he told her. "I don't show them to any of my friends."

"You know that I live in this house. How long do you think it will be until I see them without your wishing me to do so?"

He frowned. "I thought you had learned not to go snooping around anymore."

"I'm not talking about snooping. I'm talking about…things happen. Mistakes happen. I wasn't snooping when I saw your ledger. It was open and I noticed it. Do you want this house to be a place where you're constantly worried about locking things away in case I should catch a glimpse of them? A place where you have to hide from me when you want to draw something, lest I should walk in on you in the process? Wouldn't it be better if this didn't need to be treated like a secret? Just show me your drawings now. Just a few of them. And then, if I should happen to see one later, it won't be very significant."

She watched him closely to see how he was responding to that suggestion, aware that he might realize she was only trying to create an opportunity for herself. She wanted to see the drawings. She was appealing to his practical side, which she knew was very strong, but that didn't change the fact that her reason for wanting to see his pictures was based on curiosity more than practicality. She had just learned that her husband was an artist—though she suspected he wouldn't use that word to describe himself—and she wanted to know more.

Matthew sighed. "Very well," he agreed. "I'll go and get my sketchbook, and you can look at a few of the drawings. Only a few."

She nodded. "You can select them."

"Very generous." He strode from the room.

Cressida settled back in her seat. She could tell that he wasn't really angry. And sure enough, he returned quickly, almost as though—once he'd gotten out of sight of her—he had hastened to get the drawings and bring them back as quickly as he could. As if he had been eager, in spite of his protestations, to show her.

Cressida pretended that she hadn't noticed anything. She accepted the sketchbook when he handed it to her and opened it to the first page.

He had drawn a landscape. "The grounds of your home," she said, recognizing it.

"That's right," he said. "The maple tree, and down there is the river."

"It's very good," she said. "You can tell just what it is—I almost feel as if I'm looking out the window."

"I drew it from a window," he said.

"The one in the conservatory?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I recognize the view. And the angle." She turned the page. "What horse is this?"

"Do you remember being told I had sold one?"

"Yes, I remember. I didn't know what that was about."

"Well, this is that horse," Matthew said.

"You drew the horse and then you sold it?"

"I know it seems strange, but I knew that if I had a drawing I would be able to hold onto the memory," Matthew said. "I often draw things I'd like to remember."

She flipped through a few more pages, exclaiming at the pictures she found there. As she did so, Matthew began to relax, and it became more and more apparent that he was glad he had chosen to share his work with her. She was glad she had pressed him on the matter.

She turned to the back of the book.

As she did, he stiffened, and she had the impression that he was coming to some realization all at once. His hands twitched as if he meant to reach out and take the book from her.

But it was too late. She had seen what was there.

She knew at once that she was looking at herself. The sketch wasn't perfect. It wasn't like looking in a mirror, nor was it rendered in exact detail the way the drawing of the horse had been. He had not done this one out of an attempt to memorize her face. It looked more to Cressida as if he'd simply had something at the back of his mind and let it out through his pencil.

He had been thinking of her.

She looked up at him. "This is beautiful," she murmured. "Matthew…this is exquisite."

"You weren't meant to see that one," he said. "I forgot it was there. I wouldn't have…"

She shook her head and interjected quickly. "I'm glad I saw it, Matthew. I love it."

She found herself leaning toward him, almost as if drawn into him by gravity. She couldn't have pulled away if she'd wanted to. But she didn't want to.

Would this be the moment everything changed between them? Could this drawing mean…could it possibly mean what she hoped, what she couldn't even allow herself to think? Could he feel…something?

She leaned in.

But he took the book away from her and rose quickly to his feet, putting a gulf of space between the two of them. Whatever this was that she was feeling, it was obvious that he wasn't feeling the same thing at all.

"Better put this back," he said, and hurried from the room, leaving Cressida to her thoughts.