Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

E mily Ann Thompson inspected one of her paintbrushes by pushing the bristles against her palm. A swirl of white leaked out between the strands. She dipped the brush back into the mineral spirits and swished it around, working out the remaining paint with her fingers.

Mama shuffled into the kitchen. Her prim collar encircled her neck, and her beautiful chestnut hair, now more gray than brown, was pulled back into a lace cap. She waved her hand in front of her nose. "Emily, I do wish you'd wash those outside. The smell of mineral spirits is souring my stomach for the midday meal."

"I'm almost finished." Emily tested the brush. The fluids came out clear, so she toweled it dry and capped the jar of solvent.

Mrs. Hayes, their elderly maid-of-all-work who'd been with the family since long before Emily was born, leaned into the steam rising from the boiling pot and inhaled the savory aroma of simmering beef. "A bit more sage, I believe, and a pinch of parsley." She cracked open the earthenware jar of spices and sprinkled in the ingredients. "It merely needs to simmer for a wee bit." She removed the spoon and placed a lid on the pot.

Mama peered at Emily with a furrowed brow. One side of her mouth turned up into a dry smile that appeared more like a frown. "I do wish you'd stick to watercolors. It's much more ladylike. Painting with oils is a man's pursuit."

"Commissioned portraits pay the most coin, and they are done in oils."

"If your papa were listening, he'd tell you that God will provide."

Emily stuck a nail to cap her paint and placed it into the airtight earthenware jar. "God has always provided for us, and I know He will continue to do so, but I want to be a good steward of my talents. Some extra funds to help ensure Christian's proper schooling will take some pressure off Papa."

Mama sighed and crossed her arms. "Christian is very fortunate to have siblings who dote on him so. Speaking of your papa, Mrs. Hayes jarred more of her delicious preserves. I was hoping you could take some to him to give out at the church. The rest I'll distribute when I make my rounds to the parishioners." She glanced at the back door. "Oh, and could you take Mr. Mathis his bow and arrows? He popped in yesterday to say hello and left them by the door. I daresay he was disappointed he missed you."

Peter Mathis's hopeful eyes had searched the church sanctuary on Sunday before he spotted her. He was a gentleman farmer and a close friend of her older brother, Samuel. It was well known that he showed a partiality for Emily, and most assumed she would one day become his wife. She should be honored, for he was a good man, but the thought of marrying him left a weary lifelessness hanging on her spirit.

Mama pointed at the quiver, leaning in the corner against the doorframe. "I meant to ask Samuel to return them, but he left for Mr. Mathis's house this morning before I remembered it."

Emily untied her painting apron strings and dipped her head to pull it off. "I would be happy to take it to Mr. Mathis." She folded the smock and placed it on the counter. "Especially now that the painting is finished and I have a bit of time to myself again."

"It's done?" Mama clasped her hands under her chin. "Let me see."

Mama hobbled out of the kitchen and across the hall to where Emily had set up a small studio. Emily and Mrs. Hayes followed in her wake.

The finished portrait of young master Danbury rested on an easel in the conservatory. It had taken longer to paint than she'd hoped because Mr. Danbury, the subject's father, had decided upon a specific outdoor setting as a background. Winter had stayed overly long this year, and her fingers froze each time she'd attempted to sketch out a proper scene to recreate later inside the warm comfort of her home. If he'd only requested an indoor backdrop, such as the bookshelves of a library or, even better, a cheery fireplace, the portrait could have been finished a month ago. She sighed. No matter. It was finally done, and she could collect her commission. And without a moment to spare, for the materials she ordered for her next piece would arrive early next week and she'd need the coin.

"Oh, Emily." Mama stopped a few feet from the portrait and touched Emily's back. "It came out wonderfully. It is a perfect rendering of young Danbury. Look at the detail in the folds of his cravat."

"'Tis very well done, miss." Mrs. Hayes patted her shoulder. "He looks much like his father, but ya still captured the wee twinkle in his eye."

Mama chuckled. "I can imagine he was a hard one to keep still."

"Not as challenging as Christian, but Lord Danbury's son is also four years older." She smiled at Mrs. Hayes. "I had to keep bribing him with the promise of a freshly baked tart. Your confectionary skills were a blessing."

"Och, which reminds me, I have biscuits baking." Mrs. Hayes shuffled back into the kitchen.

"And I need to be heading out." Emily kissed her mother's wrinkled cheek.

"Where has Phoebe been this past week? She hasn't come by to visit."

Emily froze. Phoebe's betrayal still stung, but she hadn't explained their falling out to Mama. "She has much to prepare for her London Season, and her mother has been keeping her busy with fittings and such. I ran into her yesterday."

"Well, if you see her again, give my regards to her and Lady Dorsham."

Emily strode back to the kitchen and removed her bonnet from the peg near the back door.

She glanced out the window at the bright sun. Drips of ice ran off the roof into the rain barrel, proving the temperature had warmed. "I think I shall do some sketching while I'm out." She grabbed her pelisse from off the hook and shrugged it on.

Mrs. Hayes passed Emily her satchel with her sketchpad and charcoal.

Emily slung it over her shoulder.

Mrs. Hayes walked into the pantry and returned with two jars of blackberry jam. "Are ye gonna take the road and go through town?" She wrapped the jars in cloth before handing them to Emily, who carefully tucked them in with her art supplies.

"Unchaperoned? Definitely not."

"Ah, I keep forgetting you've come of age. You'll always be a wee thing in my eyes. I'd go with ye, but someone must stay and watch the stew."

"I'll take the path through the woods," Emily said. "That way, no one will know. I shall not tarnish the Thompson name by setting tongues a-wagging."

"You've always conducted yerself as a lady." Mrs. Hayes bent to peek on the biscuits.

Emily's younger brother scurried into the kitchen and slid to a stop, eyeing Emily's coat. "I want to go with you." Christian implored her with tilted brows, a look that only puppies and small children could master.

She resisted the urge to scoop him up and kiss his neck until he belly laughed. "You don't know where I'm going." Emily ruffled his blond locks.

He shrugged. "You're going out."

She chuckled. "Indeed, but to sketch. You'll be bored and listless. I can't get a thing done when you keep running off."

"I won't. I can stay still." He froze, pretending to be a statue. "See."

"Ya can't stay that way fer long," Mrs. Hayes said.

Emily removed her bonnet from the hook. "If ever there was a boy of five who couldn't sit still, 'tis you, Christian."

"Your mama and me wear out trying to keep up with the lad." Their elderly housekeeper moved to the window, the soft light illuminating her face.

Emily instinctively reached for her sketchbook, but it was already tucked away in her satchel. "Besides, you haven't finished your chores yet. Samuel asked you to have the wood stacked before he returned."

Christian released a sigh. "I shall do it later. I promise. The sun is still rising."

"Do not procrastinate." Emily turned and issued him one of Mama's famous looks. "The best way to get something done is to begin."

He tipped his head back and drooped his shoulders in a pout.

"When I return," Emily said as she tied her bonnet strings under her chin, "perhaps we can stroll over to see how the Edinburgs' new colt is faring."

‘"Huzzah!" He leapt about the kitchen, imitating a horse's gallop.

Emily smiled as she seized Mr. Mathis's bow and quiver and slid the strap over her shoulder. She exited through the parsonage's back door, hurried past what would become their herb garden, skirted the pond, and moved onto the well-traversed path that led into the woods.

A few hours to herself seemed lovely. Sunlight filtered through the pines, creating a beautiful contrast of lights and darks. She inhaled a deep breath of air, crisp like the bite into a cold apple. The homey scent of burning firewood hung in the breeze.

Turtledoves cooed and skylarks chirped among the tree branches. The damp sod cushioned the soles of Emily's kid boots as the familiar scent of oak and pine embraced her like a hug. A lock of hair escaped her coiffure and dangled between her eyes. She shifted the pack on her shoulder and swiped the errant hair back behind her ear with her index finger. A palette of colors spread out before her. The sky's phthalo blue contrasted against the tree branches' dark umber. Fresh sprouts, a cadmium green, pushed their way through the yellow ochre color of the pine needle mulch. The bright sun cast highlights on the eastern side of the trees. Someday, after Christian was through his schooling, she'd have the luxury of painting for enjoyment instead of for commissions.

The heavy moss that lined the north side of the trees grew thinner as she approached the clearing. She quietly snuck to the tree line and peeked her head around a trunk, hoping to spot a deer drinking from the nearby stream. The higher vantage point on the small wooded hillside afforded her a glorious view of the winding ribbon creek. Perhaps she could bring out her charcoals and get a quick sketch in before she met with Samuel and Mr. Mathis.

A murmur sounded down the steep slope of the one-sided ravine to her left. Two men, less than thirty yards away, tromped through the field toward the creek bank. Two other men hung back near the road. Emily frowned. Drat. Their commotion would have scared away the deer.

Sunlight glinted off something metal, and Emily squinted for a better view. What was that? One man wore a mask and pointed a pistol into the other man's back.

She gasped and flung herself out of sight against the rough bark.

Her chest tightened, reducing her breathing to quick abrupt pants. What could she do? Should she scream? If she did, the footpad would know her location. Should she run home to get help? But the victim could be dead by then.

Oh, dear Lord. Do something. A man is about to be killed.

An arrow shifted in the quiver and tapped the side of her head.

The bow and arrows. Emily's heart stilled. Oh, Jesus, give me the strength.

She carefully slid an arrow from the quiver and notched it to the bow as Samuel had taught her from a young age. Her toes tingled, and her knees were weak as she forced her foot to step out from behind the tree, careful to keep most of her body protected.

As the men reached the creek's edge, the masked man shoved the other to his knees. "This should be far enough. The wild animals will take care of your body before anyone even knows you're missing."

Emily forced her lungs to breathe. The captive's hands and mouth were bound, yet he didn't cower. He held himself erect. His snow-white shirt gently ruffled in the light breeze.

It might soon be covered in blood.

A cold sweat chilled her body as she lifted her bow. Thank You, Lord, for blessing me with a steady hand.

The masked man paced erratically back and forth behind his captive, yelling until his face turned scarlet as a ripe tomato. Emily couldn't make out a word the man screamed over the rush of her own blood in her ears. Papa had always said anger can run like acid through a man's veins. If this man spit, surely the grass would die.

The cur raised the gun to the back of the bound man's head.

The captive closed his eyes.

Lord, guide me.

Her brother's instructions filled her mind as she exhaled a slow breath, focused on the target, and released the bow's string.

Her arrow sliced through the air, landing a few inches below his shoulder. The man grasped his upper arm where the arrow remained lodged and hollered in pain. His pistol dropped to the ground.

The captive threw his body on top of the weapon, the tall reeds obscuring her view of him except the crown of his head.

Two other men ran over, coming from the direction of the road. They must've seen the arrow stuck in the man's arm because they retreated.

Emily notched another.

Blood dripped off the masked man's elbow. He scanned the forest, and Emily dropped back behind the tree. She could sense the man's outrage, which felt like a tangible blast. He cursed in words that Emily had never heard and she hoped would never hear again.

The captive righted himself onto his knees, the pistol clutched in his hands. Little good it would do him with his wrists tied behind his back.

The masked man kicked his captive upside his head, knocking him facedown into the creek.

The man didn't move or struggle. Merciful heavens . Was he unconscious and drowning in the water?

She let a second arrow fly. It hit its mark as she intended, directly at the man's feet as a warning that he'd better run. The man turned and sprinted toward the road still clutching his arm.

Just in case the man changed his mind, she notched another arrow. Each second seemed drawn into long minutes as she waited for the man to flee far enough for her to come out of hiding, all the while knowing the captive might be dying.

She glanced at his partially submerged body. The slow current dragged him into the water well past his waist. Soon he'd float downstream.

He needed her.

She skidded down the embankment, lifted her skirts, and leapt across a narrow section of the stream—a feat of which her brothers would be proud. When she reached his side, the man's body hung limp. His shirt and hair undulated with flowing water.

Emily grabbed his boot to keep his body from slipping farther into the running stream. With a strength she hadn't known she possessed, she heaved him from the creek and rolled him onto his back. She yanked his gag down around his neck. His face was tinged an eerie pale blue, and the sight ripped a startled yelp from her lips. She dropped to the ground beside him and listened for any sound. Nothing. He wasn't breathing. She pushed on his chest. His shirt clung to his broad shoulders, and the water chilled her hands. Matted dark-blond hair stuck to his forehead.

"Don't die!" God, please don't let him die!

She pushed again, applying more pressure. Come on. She stilled, listening for breaths. The scent of wet male invaded her senses.

Please, please, please.

Emily leaned farther over him, raising her knee onto his stomach for better leverage. She jammed her hands repeatedly onto his chest, risking cracking his ribs, desperate to get the water out of his lungs.

"In Jesus's name. You will live!"