Sketched woman portrait and hand on arm

The rain has got into the north tower again, so I am writing this at the kitchen table with my boots steaming by the range. Mr Pryce came up from Hereford on Tuesday with his easel and his box of pens, and he has spent every afternoon sketching Lady Maud in the ruined solar, where the wind comes through the window frames as if it had an appointment. He draws in quick, loose lines and then leaves them unfinished. He says the bits left out are where the truth gets in.

Yesterday she held her fan up against her chin and would not lower it, and he drew her anyway, her face half hidden, one hand lifted to her throat as though she had just remembered a word she meant to say. He worked until the light went. The ink in his wash bottle ran down the plaster in dark threads, and the old wall drank it like blotting paper. He laughed and said the castle wanted it that way.

This morning the pages were laid out on the table to dry. The fan had become a shell of black smudges, and beneath it three drips had run down the paper toward the edge, one after another, as neat as a clock. Maud was not at breakfast. Mrs Hobb says she has gone down to the lower gate to look at the river, which she has done every day since her brother was drowned.

I have put the drawing in the post with this letter. Keep it safe for me. When I come home at Michaelmas I want to see whether you can find her face in the lines, because I cannot anymore.

Your loving brother, Tom