Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) by Anya Wylde Page B

cooing at
the paper and caressing it with loving hands. If he could be quick, then she
too was efficient and practical. Romance would come later once she met her
darling Philly.
    The
painting was unrolled efficiently, not romantically, and she smoothed it out
and placed it on the table.
    They stared
at the painting.
    He picked
it up and turned it over.
    They
frowned.
    He brought
the candle closer, letting the light illuminate the back of the painting.
    They chewed
their lips.
    He made her
hold the painting and then walked across the other end of the room and looked
at it.
    They
strained their eyes.
    He walked
back towards her, and this time he peered at it with one eye closed and the
other open. He then switched things up by closing the open eye and opening the
closed eyed. He finally closed both eyes and fingered the paper testing its
weight and texture.
    They
scratched their heads and stroked their chins.
    He finally
asked, “Has he painted a camel hump? Hills? Mountains? A pig with a stick and
mountains?”
    “Don’t be
silly,” she replied irritably.
    “Then why
don’t you explain it to me?”
    “Well,” she
frowned, “I haven’t figured it out yet. If I had I wouldn’t need your help.”
    “You must
have some ideas?”
    “I suppose,
but they are not very good.”
    “Tell me
one.”
    “No.”
    “You have
to. Otherwise how am I supposed to help you? You know him best. Now what could
it be?”
    She
fidgeted for a moment and then said, “This here is a man with a crown on his
head. See these points.”
    “The only
thing I see is a pig. Those points are ears. If it was a crown, then it would
have more points. Now, what about this here?”
    “I suppose
it could be a kidney?” she offered hesitatingly.
    “A kidney?
    “Yes, a
kidney.”
    “Why a
kidney?”
    “It looks
like a kidney.”
    “A human
kidney?”
    “A fish’s
kidney.”
    “Do fish
have kidneys?”
    “Well, then
a human one.”
    He tilted
his head to the side, examining the painting anew. “Do you know doctors dig
corpses out of the grave and then cut them up? And then they pull out all the
innards and draw them.”
    “How do
they know that a living person’s innards are the same as a dead person’s? What
if they shrivel up the moment a person dies?” she asked curiously. “Do they
also cut up people who are alive?”
    He looked
at her bright, eager face and said hastily, “Let’s stop speaking of shrivelled
up innards. It is making me feel queer. Instead, let us discuss why your poet
would draw a kidney suspended in empty space over a pig. I for one don’t think
it is a kidney. It looks more like an inverted hill.” He looked at her again
but this time from the corner of his eye. “Why did you think of a kidney and
not an inverted hill? Tell me, do you have violent fits? Have you ever woken up
in the stables or a guest’s bedroom with blood on your hands and no idea how it
happened?”
    “Are you
calling me insane?”
    “If I am,
then do you feel a bloodthirsty urge to pick up the letter opener and pepper my
body with bleeding holes for revenge?”
    “No, and
you asked me what I thought the painting depicted. I was trying to help. No
need to criticise.”
    “Amy—”
    “Celine,”
she automatically corrected.
    “Amy,” he
repeated, springing out of the chair. He started pacing the room, “Are you sure
your poet wants to be found. I mean, he knew you could understand his poetry. Hence,
shouldn’t he have written you a poem with his address in it? Or better still,
tell you directly and clearly without the need for rhymes. Why did he paint
it?”
    “I received
the painting with a note attached that said that if I ever wanted to contact him,
then he could be found at this place. He said if I truly loved him, then I
would be able to decipher the painting.”
    “I think I
need to know more about your love story,” he said looking baffled.
    She
hesitated, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.
    He looked
away and cleared