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Chapter 37
It was a Monday morning. Lucy went to the parlour right after breakfast had been cleared away and she put on her smock, buttoning it over her dress. Aunt Joan came to the parlour door just as she was opening a tube of Prussian blue oil paint.
“I’m going to visit Mrs. Trent,” Aunt Joan announced. She had her bonnet and Spencer jacket on and held her gloves in one hand. As was her wont, Aunt Joan was dressed in black. She had been ever since Lucy’s parents had passed.
“I’ll be here, working on my painting,” Lucy replied. She had that rush that came with starting a new piece.
“Very good,” Aunt Joan told her, waving goodbye. It was as things usually went. Aunt Joan had a very lively social life. She was usually out visiting someone, or she was in, receiving visitors or writing to her friends who had married and moved away.
Lucy began to work, mixing Prussian blue and Cadmium yellow to make green. She added a little red to darken it.
Aunt Joan was universally liked. Her vast network of friends, near and far, brought her much joy. Lucy was glad that she had such friends. She felt awful now that she knew that her aunt regretted never marrying. Aunt Joan wasn’t the sort to sit around and be bitter. It wasn’t in her nature.
Lucy looked at her painting. It was full of dark shadows and bright swathes of light. She had never painted with such passion and fervour before. But she had something in her mind, and she couldn’t rest—not until she had put it down on canvas.
She began to work, mixing a bright blue for the sky, which peeked through the branches of the forest. She lost herself in her work, her mind building the world of her painting. Lucy’s imagination was vast. She allowed herself to get lost in the fairytale forest.
She could feel the coolness of the shade, the warmth of the sun cutting through the leaves of the trees. She could almost smell the scent of the woods—the dirt and the foliage. If she tried, she could hear the sound of her feet padding over the paths, the sound of the leaves as they rustled in a slight breeze over her head.
She wasn’t alone. Silas was there, in the woods with her. She was dressed in a white gown, with flowers in her hair… poppies and lilacs. She could smell their sweet scents, feel the silk of their petals.
There was a knocking at the front door, pulling her out of her mind and back into the parlour in London. It jarred her, like a jangling bell. She paused, waiting for the person to give up and go away. But the knocking was insistent. She sighed, realizing that whoever it was, they were not going anywhere.
She put her palette and her brush aside, then she pulled off her smock, leaving it slung over the back of one of the armchairs. When she answered the door, she found Silas standing there.
“I knew you were home,” he said.
“How?”
“I could see you, standing beside the window.” He gestured with his chin in the direction of the parlour window.
“Aunt Joan isn’t home.”
“Has that stopped us before?” He raised his eyebrow and smiled at her. Lucy glanced over, to see that their next-door neighbour, Mr Falstrop, was just stepping out of his front door. Lucy thought quickly.
“Go around the back,” she whispered. He nodded, bowing to her. Loudly, she added. “My aunt isn’t at home today. I will have to see you some other time, Lord Thornbridge.”
“Good day, Miss Wilds,” he announced, bowing to her gallantly. Lucy closed the door, then walked slowly to the back door, which she held open to let him inside.
He came in, pressing his lips to hers as he closed the door behind him. As it always did, his kiss filled her up with light.
“What were you doing?”
“Painting.” She looked down at her hands, which were smudged with paint.
“Let me watch you.”
“I can take a rest.”
“No, I want to see you work.”
It had been a long time since her instructor had watched her paint. Lucy led the way upstairs, to the parlour, feeling self-conscious as she crossed the room to her easel. Lucy put on her smock, buttoning it up again.
She picked up her palette and brush. He stood behind her and she could feel his breath, warm on the back of her neck. Her pulse raced, and butterflies rioted in her stomach. She continued to work, pulling out highlights on the two figures.
“I didn’t know that you painted with such passion,” he murmured softly.
“It’s new.”
