Free Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy) by Grace Elliot Page B

a wooden chair.
    “Over here, Mauvoreen. Sit!”
    Too bemused to argue, Eulogy stepped over discarded jars and stacks of newspaper, her skirts raising a cloud of dust and she sneezed.
    “Now, where did I put it?” Farrell grabbed at a sheath of papers, only to discard them like confetti. “I had it here a moment ago.” With a flourish he brandished a page in the air. “I have it!” But then his manner changed. The exuberance vanished, replaced by shyness. Quietly, he placed the paper in her hands.
    “Well? What do you think?”
    Eulogy followed his gaze to the page now resting in her lap. Her eyes dilated.
    “Why, this is me!” She studied a charcoal sketch of a beautiful young woman. She recognized her own features from the mirror, and yet this rendition was lovelier, breathtaking in fact. But the picture went beyond a neat rendition of her snub nose and plump lips…a deeper, intangible quality about the drawing…something about the open, curiosity burning in her eyes.
    “Well?” Farrell pulled at his graying hair. “Do you like it?”
    Eulogy had no need to spare his feelings. “This is amazing. I’m…speechless…”
    “Speechless in a good way?”
    “Oh, yes, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. This picture is so alive. And yet, I look so lost.”
    In a flurry of activity Farrell skipped around the studio, causing Eulogy to cough as he pulled drawers open and snatched at brushes.
    “I knew you’d see it! The scales have fallen from my eyes. The barren years wiped away and I can draw again.”
    “Oh.”
    “You have freed me. With you as my model, I can paint again.”
    Her excitement cooled and died. “I cannot be your model.”
    Farrell’s hand paused in midair. “Why on earth not?”
    “Because,” she took a deep breath, “because it isn’t decent.”
    Farrell’s face brightened. “Is that all? Piffle, this is high art. Not some penny peep show.”
    Eulogy bristled. “My good reputation is all I have.”
    “Don’t worry on that account. Mrs. Featherstone shall be your chaperone… she’ll be glad of the sit down.”
    “But I must find a job.”
    “Nothing could be simpler. I shall pay you. My paintings were once well regarded and will be again.”
    “I’m really not sure.”
     “Why your friend Mr. Huntley will surely be interested and that’s just the start. Sit for me for one week and if you still feel the same you can look for other work.”
    Eulogy weighed the options. She remembered Huntley’s words that Mrs. Parker was a decent woman making a respectable living. Her stomach felt unexpectedly hollow as she recalled that afternoon in the carriage and of her condemnation of Mrs. Parker, a woman earning an honest living.
    “Miss Foster, what say you?”
    “Very well, but on the condition I keep my clothes on.”
    “Oh that will never do.”
    Eulogy gasped.
    “That dress is hideous. Change it you must.”
    Eulogy regarded her brown dress despondently. No wonder Devlin had not believed her, a country mouse in a coal sack.
    “But I have nothing else.”
    “Then Mrs. Featherstone shall make something, but that can be sorted later. Now, I will draw you in profile. Sit by the window, so the light catches your hair just so.”
    In a daze, Eulogy did as she was bid. Her thoughts drifted as Farrell fussed about, angling her chin this way and that, and then stepping back and clicking his tongue.
    “Mauvoreen, my work will create a sensation. You will be the toast of town.”
    “I don’t want that.” Uneasy at the thought of London laughing at her, only her regard for Farrell stopped her getting up. “This isn’t for me. I had thought of earning a more conventional living as a nurse or companion.”
    “That would be a waste. On my life you have come here for a reason. When I’m finished, Devlin will beg to be acknowledged as you brother. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
    Eulogy swallowed hard. “Do you really think so?”
    “Yes, Mauvoreen, I