“How expensive,” murmured Sephi. “You should draw it.”
“Oh, no, I don’t…”
“Why ever not? You were dilly-dallying over what to draw earlier.”
“Well, I…”
Aunt came to inspect the flower also. “You must draw it, Verity darling. And no matter the myth, ’tis best to hasten before it fades. That means now. No faffing.” She patted Verity’s shoulder. “I’ll find Darcy, then ring for tea.”
As she left, Verity gazed at the flower in wonder. She had seen drawings in catalogues but never the real specimen. Why, even the stem was purple red, the flowers bright crimson in long racemes, like catkins on fire. “Oh, there’s even a leaf.”
Sephi frowned. “That’s good?”
“It is for a botanical artist. They say what truly makes one is the skill in illustrating the leaves rather than the flowers, for they are not easy.”
“Well, I’ll wash your brushes out and the oil palette, and you can fetch your watercolours and drawing pencils instead.”
“Oh, thank you, but I don’t think…” Sephi stole the brushes without so much as a by-your-leave.
Verity bit her lip, looked to the large oil canvas of rain and death and pain.
She was so tired of painting such scenes.
So, with a deep breath, Verity headed to the cabinet where yesterday she’d placed her newly purchased watercolours. Instead of reaching for them, however, she opened the bottom drawer. It stuck a little, having not been opened for so long, the wood runners groaning in protest.
Within were a measuring stick, ruler, pencils, tweezers, string, a curved knife for slicing stems, and an old battered oblong tin. The latter she pulled out and opened the hinged lid.
Memories assailed her.
The smell of her youth…
A dried honeysuckle sprig rested upon the cracked surface of the pigments and she lifted it to her lips.
Miles had picked it for her all those years ago. He’d pinned it to her bodice and kissed her, and they’d dreamed of faraway places and of being together, day and night.
Her breath caught, sharp and sudden.
She rose and placed the watercolours to one side, then seized her sketchpad and pencil, for she would start simply.
With reverence, she drew forth the flower from its protective tissue paper, unwrapped the wet cloth from the stem, found a simple vase and placed it on a table before a white wall.
She twisted the vase this way and that.
“I thought the other side prettier,” remarked Sephi, twiddling a brush in a cleaning pot.
Verity smiled. “Ah, but botanical art is not about prettiness. It’s more…scientific, capturing the form and size. That way is prettier, you’re right, but then I could not see the leaf joint or the underside.” She fussed with a raceme. “I should really make accurate measurements first. From the length and width of theflowers to how many ribs are on the leaf and how far apart, but I shall forego that, just this once.”
“Such measurements must take ages.”
“More than the painting on occasion but it is essential for scientists to have an accurate representation. If a plantsman abroad just sends a packet of seed to England, the gardener here will not know how big it grew or what fruit it bore in its native land.”
Verity cocked her head and dragged her stool near.
Wiggled the pencil.
And then began to draw.
It felt awkward at first.
