‘Have we not engaged in this conversation almost daily?’ Evelyn directed at her daughter. ‘That I mustperpetuallyremind you of your impending debut and warn against this fanciful time-wasting?’
Hannah exchanged a glance of foreboding with Sophia. When her Mother spoke to her with such irritability, she felt the age of nine and not her fully-grown nineteen.
‘Mother, I regret that you interpret my creativity as tarrying. However, I must protest that all preparations for my debut are complete. Lucy has hung up my gown. She practised my hair, including the fitting of my tiara, which she stated was impeccable. I cannot imagine one more thing outstanding…’
‘Your dancing, Hannah,’ Evelyn asserted. ‘Truly, Sophia – have you ever seen one so inelegant as Hannah in the ballroom?’
Sophia repressed a smirk and flicked her eyes up at her friend apologetically. Hannah rolled her eyes in mock response.
‘I can dance gracefully, Mother, and I can engage in eloquent discussions as well. However when the two are not exclusive and one is expected to blend these challenging activities into one seamless motion, I find synchronicity to be compromised,’ Hannah volunteered in admission.
Sophia giggled into the palm of her hand, much to Evelyn’s disapproval.
‘You girls do not take this business seriously. But itisa serious business and I insist it must be taken so.’
Evelyn’s eyes turned between the two of them, checking if either one of them had been impacted by her ferocity. Sophia looked amused. Hannah looked crestfallen.
‘What is this painting, anyway?’ Evelyn crossed the long room in just three assertive strides and stood before the canvas with Hannah shrinking back; her shoulders hunched and eyes averted.
Her Mother never asked to see her artwork. Perhaps, Hannah conceded, this was why she regarded it with such resentment and considered it a waste of her daughter’s time – because she had never taken the opportunity to appreciate Hannah’s talent. Perhaps, Hannah wondered, if she were to be impressed by her work, she might be a little more compassionate when Hannah invested her energy in it?
There was a weighted, tense pause as Evelyn scrutinized the piece. Hannah remained staring at the floor and Sophia’s eyes widened at the potential the moment held…
‘Why do I feel as though I am lying in the grass?’ Evelyn broke the silence.
‘Because….I was lying in the grass…’ Hannah began, instantly realising this was not an intelligent response to deliver to the Marchioness.
As Hannah looked up, her Mother’s fiery eyes bore into her.
‘Childrenlie in the grass, Hannah! You are aLady! Ladiesdo not lie in the grass!’
Hannah could hear Sophia snigger again at the conversation, but for her, it felt the opposite of comical.
‘I was simply being artistic…’ Hannah attempted to justify her actions.
‘Donotbe artistic! Be Ladylike! Be elegant, educated, eloquent, and serene.’
Hannah dropped her eyes back to the floor, thinking of all the things that she was not. Sophia’s laughter had abruptly stopped.
‘Why can’t you be more like your sister?’ Evelyn seethed under her breath as she turned to leave the room.
Hannah bit on her cheek inside her mouth as tears threatened at her eyes.
Evelyn paused at the door and turned back, her voice softer now. She took a deep breath.
‘You’re a good girl, Hannah but – please pack away your materials and have Lucy help you practise coordination of dancing and civil pleasantries.’
Hannah nodded without looking up at her Mother. Evelyn seemed to hang there in a moment of regret.
‘Thank you,’ she added curtly and left, closing the door behind her.
Hannah looked up at her painting and thought how foolish she was for having thought the perspective of the grass was innovative. It was preposterous for her to dream of her art being noticed for its eclecticism. She began to replace the tubes of paint in the polished wooden box she cherished, packing away her dreams where nobody could see them.
***
His Grace, Caleb Exley, Duke of Montwood, released a frustrated sigh as he stood waiting in the library of his London town-house. Absent-mindedly, he ran a finger along the leather-bound volumes packed into the shelves. Many belonged to his late Father, and he cherished those but most were his own and he treasured those too. It was natural that he should wander to the library to wait for his Mother and sister to be ready – the place seemed to draw him and they would know to find him there.
There were so many things he should be doing with his time – he needed to converse with his valet to arrange a carriage for the philosophy presentation he was due to attend early the next day. As he thought of this, he recalled the requirement to speak with the gardener regarding maintaining the lake on the southern edge of the Montwood Estate and checking the trees in the copse for blight. He sighed again at the prospect of the inconvenient evening ahead when he would much prefer to be advancing on his list of duties.
