CHAPTER ONE
Lady Hannah Haworth paused, narrowing her eyes in concentration before whipping the paintbrush in a sudden bold stroke of white oil across the sky-blue background. She leaned back, tilting her head to consider it.
The clear morning light streamed in through the third-floor window of the Haworth family London townhouse, bouncing off the polished mahogany sideboard to illuminate the area where she had located her easel.
‘A couple more perhaps…’ she leaned in to inflict another stroke of oil upon the canvas, when she was interrupted.
‘What is it?’ It was the voice of Lady Sophia Camden – her closest friend and trusted confidante, who sat upon the upholstered burgundy velvet armchair just behind Hannah, with a china cup and saucer in her hands.
Hannah clutched a palm to her chest ‘Oh, Sophia – I had quite forgotten your presence! You must pardon my neglect…’
Sophia rearranged her skirts upon her chair, ‘Come now, Hannah. The two of us are quite accustomed to your social oversight when engaged in your art.’
Hannah smiled fondly at Sophia’s generosity and returned her attention to the canvas.
‘My question went unanswered, however?’ Sophia prompted, teasingly.
‘Oh-’ Hannah gathered her thoughts. ‘A cloud formation I noticed the other day upon my afternoon walk, occurring shortly before the rain arrived.’
Sophia frowned ‘Although the image depicts sunlight?’
‘You and I both know how rapidly the world can change,’ Hannah justified.
Sophia nodded, satisfied. ‘It’s beautiful. Your paintings always are. I enjoy how the seemingly innocuous elements often have a story to tell…’
‘I appreciate your interest, Sophia,’ Hannah turned to face her friend in an effort to express how genuinely she intended this statement. She placed her paintbrush delicately down and clapped her hands together.
‘Truly – if it were not for your enthusiasm and encouragement, I should be tinkering atrociously on a piano and taking far too many walks,’ Hannah elaborated.
‘Nonsense,’ Sophia scolded. ‘If you were not to paint, you would not be Lady Hannah Haworth. A veritable rainbow of oils runs in your blood!’
Hannah smiled sadly, looking down and shrugging.
‘Does your Mother still restrict your accessibility to materials?’ Sophia queried, identifying the cause of Hannah’s reflection.
Hannah’s eyes flicked upwards as she grabbed a small malleable metal tube that was scrunched and flattened.
‘This is the final application of yellow in my collection and I cannot fathom how to convince Mother that I need more supplies. She will not hear of it.’
‘Hmm. Yellow…no more wildflower meadows, perhaps?’ Sophia suggested playfully.
‘Nor seaside scenes,’ Hannah added.
‘Nor bananas!’ Sophia giggled and the two burst into laughter.
Settling back to her art piece, Hannah concluded.
‘She will not accept my passion. I am an aberration within the Haworth dynasty.’ She sighed as she swiped another horizontal cloud across the sky.
Ever since Hannah had first been introduced to paint by her Nanny, at a tender young age, Evelyn had complained of the mess. She would roll her eyes as her daughter appeared for dinner with green smudged hands and Hannah could recall one occasion when the Nanny received a terrible admonishment when the flick of a paintbrush had bypassed Hannah’s apron and dotted her white collar that had been slightly exposed. Her mother had ranted at the poor Nanny and Hannah felt appalling as it had really been her fault. Hannah did not paint for a few days after that but became listless and sad. Avoiding art did not suit her – she needed it like flowers needed the rain.
It was not only the mess that Evelyn despised. As Hannah grew, she learned not to mention her love of painting to her mother’s friends. It seemed as a four-year-old, her hobby was celebrated by their friends, who commented how adorable and sweet it was. However, as she grew into her teenage years, the reception to her favourite pastime was colder; mention of it made people a little shifty. Hannah could never understand why, but she was perceptive and learned that it was something to be ashamed of; something she was expected to hide.
Hannah would always remember a time on a summer holiday by the seaside when a man sat along a path with an easel and paints. He wore rags and had dirt on his face and, grabbing her hand to walk along a little faster, Hannah’s mother had declared ‘You see, Hannah?Thoseare the sort of people who paint!’
Sophia cocked her head to one side, taking in the varying shades of green of the large blades of grass and the bright red poppies scattered about overhead.
‘May I pose a question?’
