Pamela was not finished. She set the poetry book aside and picked up a small portfolio from the table beside her. “And look at these! I have been practicing my sketches. This one is of the garden at dawn, and this...” She held up a charcoal drawing of a woman in profile, head tilted back in what appeared to be deep emotion. “I tried to capture the feeling of the poetry. The surrender to passion. Do you like it?”
Iris gently took the sketch, her fingers tracing the lines. The shading was soft yet bold, capturing the curve of the woman’s neck and her parted lips with surprising sensuality. It vividly reminded her of Blaise’s sketches and how he had captured her half-naked form with raw hunger. The charcoal strokes, the intimate focus, and the way light and shadow played across bare skin. Heat pooled low in her belly at the memory.
“They are lovely, Pamela,” Iris said, handing the drawings back with a slightly unsteady smile. “You have a real talent. The emotion in them is quite… powerful.”
Pamela beamed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Thank you! I feel as though the poetry has unlocked something in me. I want to draw more figures now, more scenes of people. Camelia says I should be careful, or I shall scandalize theton, but I think art should stir the soul, do you not agree?”
“I do,” Iris replied, her voice quieter than she intended. “Art can reveal truths we are not always brave enough to speak aloud.”
Camelia, who had been listening with an amused smile, leaned forward. “Pamela has been positively consumed by it all week. Between the art, poetry, and her riding lessons, she hardly sits still.”
“How do you keep up, Pamela?” Iris asked the young girl with genuine curiosity.
“I believe if you are passionate about something, you will simply make the time for it,” she said proudly.
Iris wished it were that simple.
The three ladies chatted comfortably for some time. Iris laughed at Pamela’s animated retelling of a disastrous poetry reading she had attended, but beneath the light conversation, her mind kept drifting back to the question burning in her chest. She wanted to ask Camelia something in private. But she was afraid that the words would not come.
I am not bold enough, yet.
As if sensing her distraction, Camelia set her teacup down and glanced at Pamela. “Pamela, darling, is it not time for your riding lesson?”
Pamela’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes! I nearly forgot.” She gathered her poetry book and sketches with youthful energy, pressing a quick kiss to Iris’s cheek and then Camelia’s. “Do not have too much fun without me. I want to hear all the gossip when I return!”
Once Pamela had bounded out of the room, Camelia turned to Iris with a knowing look. “You have beentooquiet today, sister. Is something weighing on you?”
Iris hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. The question she wanted to ask hovered on her tongue, but the boldness required still eluded her. She managed only a small smile. “Nothing I cannot manage.”
Camelia studied her for a moment, then rose gracefully. “Come. Let us go for a walk in Hyde Park, just the two of us. The fresh air will do the baby and us good, and Pamela will be occupied with her riding for at least an hour. We can loosen up properly without little ears listening.”
Iris nodded, relieved. “That sounds perfect.”
The sisters donned their bonnets and pelisses and stepped out into the mild afternoon. As they walked arm in arm toward Hyde Park, the bustling streets of London gave way to the greener paths lined with trees and fashionable promenades. Iris felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease, though her thoughtsremained tangled with memories of Blaise’s touch, his voice, and the dangerous bargain that loomed nearer.
“Oh! The baby is kicking!” Camelia suddenly squealed.
“Oh, dear!” Iris gaped and turned toward her sister. “Should I call your husband?”
“No need.” She grabbed Iris’s hands and placed them gently on her bulging stomach.
Iris gasped when she felt the soft push. “Oh, Camelia.”
Tears gathered in the sister’s eyes as they laughed. Iris could not imagine how it felt to carry a little version of yourself and your loved one within you.
It must feel heavenly.
Iris and Camelia continued to walk arm in arm, teary-eyed.
“Your husband will be so upset that I was the first one to feel the baby kick; perhaps you should not tell him,” Iris warned her sister.
Camelia laughed. “He will be so jealous! But enough about him and our little angel. Now, tell me, what is on your mind?”
Iris was not yet ready to confess everything that had happened between her and Blaise. But the weight of it all pressed heavily on her chest, and she desperately needed some form of guidance. After several minutes of silence, Iris finally spoke, but her voice was low and hesitant.
“Camelia,” she began, keeping her eyes on the path ahead. “Would you ever… do the things you do with your husband with someone you knew you would not end up marrying?”
Camelia’s steps slowed. She turned her head, studying Iris with those sharp, perceptive eyes that had always seen the unseen in everyone. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant laughter of other walkers and the soft clip of hooves on the nearby path.
