Roycroft Excerpt

Mr. Ahrens did not turn when they entered his studio, which struck Martha as odd. Then again, Claire never responded to his invitation to enter the room; he could not have known ladies were present. She watched him apply the final few strokes of a dark umber wash to his canvas. His movements were practiced, deliberate, as if accustomed to demonstrating the right way to do even the most mundane of tasks. He had beautiful hands. Long fingers, like a pianist’s. After Claire’s remarks about his health she expected someone older; his hair was thick and dark, with no trace of gray.

The studio was spacious, well furnished and mildly cluttered, smelling invitingly of turpentine and linseed oil. The fickle southern light was all wrong, though. She frowned, noting his window faced the campus lawn and the throngs of people gathered there. He had no door, only a thick curtain for privacy, and she recalled passing a blacksmith in the adjoining room. No artist could work through the clang of hammer striking anvil a few feet away. Yet there it was, the sound not only assaulting her ears but reverberating through her bones. She flinched as the violence continued, seven more blows in rapid succession. As the echo died away, she heard Mr. Ahrens mutter something under his breath. It was not in English, though the tone made his meaning clear. She stifled a laugh.

He turned, eyes widening. Swaying slightly as he stood, he gripped the back of his chair. “Mrs. Hawthorne, please excuse my abominable manners. I assumed you were Mr. Connor returning from lunch.” His clothing, simple and worn, hung from him as though made for another man yet his speech was genteel, his bearing both elegant and masculine. “I see you’ve a guest, too. My apologies to you both.”

Martha thought perhaps it was his remarkable height that made him appear frail. He had an aristocratic face; aquiline nose, chiseled cheekbones, and soft, shapely lips. Faint laugh lines gathered in the corners of shockingly blue eyes. With such arresting features, she imagined many artists desired to paint him.

“Mr. Ahrens, may I present Miss Martha Niles,” Claire said. “Miss Niles is an artist as well, a student of Sammy’s, come from Albany to work in the book-shop.”

He bowed slightly. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Martha Niles.” He said the name slowly, as though contemplating if it suited her.

“Likewise, Mr. Ahrens.”

“Mr. Ahrens is new here as well, just arrived from Toronto last month.” Claire touched Martha’s arm, leaning in like a confidant instead of a new acquaintance. “He runs the pottery department with his cousin, Miss Douglas, and the sculptor, Mr. Connor. Mr. Hubbard fancies nicknames, so you may sometimes hear Mr. Connor referred to as St. Jerome. Mr. Warner is Sammy the Artist.”

“And you, Mr. Ahrens?” Martha asked. “Do you have a nickname?”

“Elbert called me his ‘resident invalid’ last week, but usually it’s just Carl.”

She felt his gaze meander from her hair to eyes to mouth. Perhaps he painted portraits, and it was an occupational habit to visually break down and reconstruct the features of his subjects. She had never been called plain, but had no illusions of great beauty either. Surely his attention would not be held long. She willed herself to remain still; after all, she sketched him in her mind, it was only fair to allow him the same courtesy, much as it unnerved her. As if sensing this, he smiled warmly and invited them to sit. After a few moments of idle chatter with Claire, he turned to Martha.

“Which medium do you prefer, Miss Niles.”

“Charcoal. It’s bold and precise.”

“In that case, I’d like to see your work sometime.”

Male artists often said such things when she made that claim, always in a condescending tone or with a dismissive wave. Mr. Ahrens used neither.

“I’d be honored.” She paused, gathering her courage. “I’d be especially grateful if you criticize it as you would a boy’s of my age. I want to learn.”

She watched his face for signs of shock or annoyance. There were none.

“My most accomplished student is a woman.” He held Martha’s gaze. “I’ve no need to picture you in trousers to offer an honest opinion. Anything less would be disrespectful.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving behind faint streaks of dark umber on his forehead. They made him look startlingly like an Indian brave. “I never meant to imply I believed you required criticism, though.”

Claire was right. She liked him very much.