Uncertainly, he nodded.
“Why don’t you dance?”
“The night before the battle…” His voice faded.
She’d a terrible feeling—a weight in her heart, a heaviness in her limbs. In her mind’s eye, she saw a glittering ballroom full of hundreds of soldiers and ladies in their best. Hundreds of soldiers. Many of them doomed.
“Did you attend the Duchess of Richmond’s ball?
He was quiet so long she thought she though he’d never answer.
His chest rose and fell. A million emotions flitted across his features. He held up his hand a few inches from the canvas, as if sensing for heat. Finally, he closed his eyes. A moment later, he hung his head.
Was the pain she felt his or her own? Usually, she felt only Cassandra’s sadness.
“I apologize,” she hesitated, “friend.”
He glanced up. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
“I sympathize, then.”
Briefly, he closed his eyes. He gave her a slanted, endearing smile. “When I asked you to be friends, I didn’t know you would be so insightful.”
“Intrusive, you mean?”
“I’m not in the habit of having my sentiments read.”
“I understand.” She inhaled sharply. “I will refrain—”
“No!” he interrupted. “If we are to be friends, you should feel free to speak your mind with me.” He lifted his brows. “Harbury always does.”
She chuckled half-heartedly. “I imagine he does.”
“I like your smile, Miss Wainwright…Eliza.”
Her name on his lips made her warm. “You like my smile…and you like me.”
“Have done, from the moment I first saw you.” A look of pleasure passed over his features. “You gave Harbury a very deliberate cut.”
That hadn’t been their first meeting. She had to remind herself not to correct him. “He ignored me.”
“Not ignored, precisely. He didn’t even see the cut. Too wrapped up in his own troubles. But I saw you. And I admired your pluck.”
If hercuthad sparked his admiration, perhaps they’d more in common than she’d suspected.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming back to rouse me from my reverie.” He held out his arm. “Shall we rejoin the others?”
She could get used to this. Walking by his side. Basking in his admiration.
Together, they entered the first gallery. Rows and rows of paintings, horizontally and vertically, were illuminated by light streaming in from the windows just beneath the ceiling. Taken together with the emotions he’d stirred in her heart, the effect was overwhelming.
They came to stand in front of another one of Turner’s paintings. This one, a landscape depicting a sheer cliff beside a river.
The perspective stole her breath. She felt as small as the tiny slashes of paint depicting the tiny, faceless people looking up from the riverbank. The subject of the painting was neither the rock, nor the river, not the boat, nor the people, but the awe-inspiring quality of nature.
“You are right,” she said. “Artists tell the truth.”
“The truth here…we are but wisps, with little power to meet the world around us.”
