Maddie rose from her armchair and bit her inner cheek not to cry. “I’ll prove you wrong, Mother.”
“We’ll see.” Mother didn’t look at her.
She shuffled out, keeping her back straight and her chest thrust out. But when she entered her room, she sagged against the closed door. She allowed herself a moment to shake with anger and fear before striding towards her painting corner. She pulled the curtains, letting the morning sunlight in.
The painting set on the easel showed a couple dancing in the middle of a meadow blossoming with buttercups and forget-me-nots. Lots of bright colours on the front contrasted with the shadows in the background, creating a well-balanced—in her opinion—shade throughout the canvas. Weeks upon weeks of work. Corrections upon corrections. Tears, sweat, and blood. Would they be worth it?
“Maddie?” Verity’s voice came muffled from the other side of the door.
Maddie pinched her cheeks, not wanting to alarm her sister with her pallor. Although she probably didn’t look pale but red with anger. “Yes, come in.”
Verity slipped inside with a soft swish of velvet. She, Maddie, and their mother had the same looks, but where Mother’s mouth was constantly pressed in a harsh line of disappointment, Verity’s was soft and warm.
“I heard voices.” Verity walked over to her. “Well, Mother’s voice. Is something the matter?”
Maddie took out her paintbrushes and colours before turning the canvas towards the light. “We had an argument. Nothing unusual. I want to meet Mrs. Blanchet when she comes to London, and Mother believes it’s a waste of time.” She shrugged, pretending she didn’t care. “But I want to meet Mrs. Blanchet anyway because, if she likes my style, she’s going to help me receive a fellowship for the Royal Women’s Academy of Arts.”
“Good Lord.” Verity clamped her hands over her mouth. “This is fantastic news. I knew your talent would be recognised sooner or later.”
“Thank you.” Maddie faced the window, blinking away more tears. “Besides, this painting only needs a few more layers. Then it’ll be ready to be shown to Mrs. Blanchet whether Mother likes it or not.” She couldn’t completely remove the hurt from her voice.
“Maddie.” Verity took her hand. She opened her mouth to say something but then remained silent, smiling at the painting. “It’s beautiful. I’m sure Mrs. Blanchet will be impressed.”
Maddie tilted her head to have a better look at the leaves in the background. The river still needed a retouch, but the sky and the hills had a dramatic flair she approved of.
“I hope.”
“What’s that ghastly plant covering your window?” Verity opened the window, causing the long green stems to tremble. “Why didn’t you ask the gardener to pull it off?”
“Don’t touch it, please.” Maddie locked the window again. “The plant grew weeks ago. I guess it has its roots somewhere in the gutter. Anyway, it creates the perfect light, especially in the afternoon. Leave it be. The golden flowers are so pretty.”
“I’ll leave you to work, then.” Verity bussed her sister’s cheek. “I’ll ask Cook to have your lunch served here if you want to.”
Maddie smiled. Verity knew her so well. “And dinner. It’s going to be a long week.”
two
HECTOR’S DREAM TO achieve notoriety at the Royal Botanical Society had become true, and that was the problem.
He’d meant to become famous for his scientific achievements, not because the other scientists considered him the laughingstock of England. Famous for the wrong reasons. How undignified from a scientific point of view. How humiliating from a personal one.
He couldn’t even enjoy his daily walk through Hyde Park, so annoyed he was.
“Hector, for heaven’s sake, stop brooding.” Robert nudged him with the pommel of his Malacca walking stick.
Apparently, walking sticks were all the rage at the moment even among young gentlemen. Not that Hector cared about his brother’s fashion choices.
“And stop staring at the pavement,” Robert said. “We took this walk to lift your mood, not to ruin mine.”
Hector raked a hand through his hair. “I apologise, but three rejection letters in one day! It’s more than my mood can take.”
Every inch the duke, Robert touched his hat as they walked past a couple of smiling ladies. His blond strands of hair brushed against his jaw. The tree canopies in Hyde Park swayed in the gentle breeze carrying the fresh scent of the flowers ofLonicera periclymenum, or honeysuckles as people, who weren’t plagued by an obsession for botany, called them. Hector preferred the name of ‘luscious woodbine’ that Shakespeare had used. Flowers had such pretty names; one wouldn’t believe how brutal botanists could be.
“What happened this time?” Robert asked, smiling at another lady who bobbed a quick curtsy.
“I informed the scientists of the Royal Botanical Society that I found a rare specimen of golden pimpernel. It’s so rare that the discovery, once confirmed, would be sensational. My name would end up in the most prestigious journals. Oxford University would ask me to make a speech.” He clenched a fist. “But the scientists of the society demanded proof.”
Robert came to an abrupt halt on the gravel path, one hand behind his back. “How dare they! Scientists demanding evidence? What will ever happen next? Physicians requiring to visit a patient before producing a diagnosis? Oh, in what times do we live?”
