Yes, along with sewing and needlework, painting was one of her finest skills.
At least her governesses and parents had said as much. Often they’d spoken those words with pride and wonderment, and well, she’d always felt proud, because it was a rare day when Cassia was commended for absolutely anything.
And yet, as she stared at the white wall, she could not fathom that her latest work was so very bad that even kindly Mr. Hayes should fault her efforts.
In fairness, he’d seemed uncomfortable doing so. By the strain at the corners of his warm eyes and the way he’d wrung his hands together, he’d not wanted to disparage her work. Nor was he deliberately cruel and mocking, as the deckhands had been when they’d seen her painting.
But . . . they were surely expecting miracles of her. The paint collection from which she had to choose was certainly not vast. Why, even Sir Joshua Reynolds would have been hard-pressed to compose a mediocre work with that selection before him.
And it certainly did not help that the boat was pitching and swaying, and her stomach along with it, and—
Not for the first time, Cassia slid her eyes shut and prayed for the sensation to pass. Prayed for her stomach to settle so that the bile in her throat would retreat. She swallowed it back several times and drew in slow, steadying breaths.
“Gone all green, ’e ’as,” one of the boys in her audience announced loudly.
“Oi know,” another little one piped in. “But then ’e can add some greens to whatever work o’ art ’e starts next.”
More laughter went up, echoing around the too-narrow, crowded corridor.
Cassia forced herself to ignore the miserable buggers behind her and their crude talk, and not just because they were harshly mocking her.
She hated casting up the contents of her stomach. Not that anyone truly liked it.
Ever since she was a girl of four who’d fallen ill and emptied the contents of her stomach on Arran’s feet, she’d lived in fear of the day when she’d again experience that horrible feeling. And now, since boarding Jeremy’s ship, she’d felt it unceasingly, and yes . . . well . . . they couldn’t fault her for struggling with the task they’d assigned her when she not only felt quite ill but also didn’t have much to work with.
The subject options for an artist were limited when the materials themselves were limited.
She froze.
Of course.
Why had she not thought of it?
Inspired for the first time since Hayes had pointed her to the art supplies and handed out her assignment, Cassia set to work. She let her arm fly, surrendering herself to those always-soothing strokes, and as she did, dipping her brush and returning to her work, even the queasy sensation in her belly receded somewhat.
Cassia painted, throwing herself fully and completely into her rendering, until the boys’ mockery faded to a dull hum in her ears. And then . . . even they fell silent. With awe?
Why, she’d silenced her detractors. Pride and an ever-growing confidence in her skill lent her an added enthusiasm.
And this was not so very bad, after all.
This was quite . . . lovely.
In fact, this was how she’d even imagined herself spending her days aboard Jeremy’s boat. It was why she’d packed her sketch pads. When she’d thought of her days of sea travel and exploration, however, it had always included thoughts of her above deck and not banished below.
Not that she was banished, per se.
The moment she revealed her presence on board to Jeremy, he’d surely allow her free rein of his boat and the freedom to wander about and take in the sights of the ocean. Until that moment, however, Cassia was relegated to painting the walls. Not that this was so very terrible, after all.
She—
“Oh, my God.” That horrified whisper split the quiet, and she gasped, her hand jumping and leaving an errant stroke across her work. “What in hell are you doing?”
Another detractor.
By the surly, gravelly tone of his voice, a grown man this time.
Different from that of Jeremy’s friend, Mr. Hayes.
He really did need to go about providing his crew with some edification on their manners. From boys to grown men aboard the Waltzing Dragon, they were all atrocious, and it was all she could do to keep from telling each of them precisely what she thought of them.
“Did you hear me, lad?” the man bellowed.
Cassia frowned at that accidental mark he’d startled her into making upon the country scene she’d begun. Her tree had been perfect. The sky was a soft pink and blue with a perfect cherub painted onto a puffy-looking cloud, and annoyance filled her at his having caused her to commit that error on an otherwise perfect canvas. “You really should not go about using the Lord’s name in vain, you know. It is both bad form and a sin.” Cassia turned to deliver the rest of a deserved scolding.
Every thought went clear out of her head.
She swallowed hard.
Oh, God.
It was just because the corridor was so narrow and the ceiling so low. That was all that accounted for the sheer breadth and size of the man dwarfing the corridor.
And yet, Cassia recognized the lie there.
She knew she merely sought to reassure herself. She knew she wanted to believe the enormously tall man glaring blackly at her was still human, and not this . . . towering figure he, in fact, was.
At five inches past five feet, she wasn’t so short that she struggled to look a person in the eye when she spoke. With this man, however, she found herself having to crane her neck back to get a better look. He possessed broad shoulders and a heavy, square jaw; his muscles strained the snug-fitting fawn breeches on his corded legs.
The planes of his cheeks were sharp slashes, as though in crafting him, the Lord had taken care not to omit a single bit of anger from his person.
She shivered.
Even his eyes were a shade to rival the darkest sapphires; they were nearly black.
Why, she’d never known eyes could be black.
The stranger sharpened his gaze on her face, narrowing his eyes so that his sooty black lashes swept down and all but swallowed those menacing irises.
She attempted to swallow once more, but the once reflexive movement had become a chore. Think of pups and paintings. Anything but the fury teeming from this man. A fury which she gave thanks was directed at the crew of nasty boys who’d been bullying her. Cassia reminded herself of that reassuring detail.
“Is something wrong with your ears?” he snapped.
And just like that, Cassia found her voice. “I assure you, they hear quite well,” she said archly when the young boys still failed to answer. Yes, they’d been miserable buggers, but she’d not see them bullied by this one.
The man’s eyes thinned all the more. On her . . . ?
If this surly crew member was going to be a cur to the boys around her, she’d have him take them to task for the real violations they’d committed. “I’ll have you know, sir, they also dole out rather rude opinions unkindly, too . . .”
The boy Oliver scratched at his brow. “Oi . . . don’t think ’e’s alroight in the ’ead, Captain.”
Captain?
Cassia tipped her head sideways. “There are two captains?” Because that was an unexpected detail. When the audience gawked at her, she bristled. How was she to know? This was only her first time aboard a sailing vessel. “It’s just, I would expect it gets very confusing if there are two captains,” she said defensively. Or mayhap not. “Unless you require two captains so that—”