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Chapter 54
Lucy had been working on a different painting. She had forsaken the lurid work of the two lovers in favour of a still life. She had managed to go out to the market to buy some pears. She had also stopped by the flower stall, purchasing a bouquet of daisies to complete the composition.
It was, on the whole, innocuous, safe from any heady, romantic notions or feelings. She arranged it so that natural light spilled across her model—five pears arranged in a bowl, with the pure white daisies and their bright yellow centres spilling out of their paper wrapping on the table beside it. It was cheery and light.
For the first time, she began to feel like herself. The best thing about painting was that it took her out of herself and her grief. She was entirely focused on recreating the colours and the shapes before her. She was working, and that brought her some peace.
She slowly began to paint, her brush moving slowly as she began to mimic line and form on the canvas. She hadn’t felt this well since before she had gone to Thornbridge Manor.
He set me off-balance, she reasoned.He swept me off my feet, and I lost my sense of self.
She was slowly returning to the Lucy she had once been. There, in the quiet peace of her own home, she was finding her way back. It was a promising feeling. That nothing—no one—could ruin her. She was able to heal herself. She didn’t need a man. Nor could a man destroy her. Lucy was strong.
Aunt Joan was wrong, she thought.It will do very well that I will be never be married. I will never see him again.
Her throat tightened at the thought. A traitorous tear fell down her cheek. Before she knew it, she was kneeling on the floor, sobbing. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to hold herself together.
Aunt Joan came running from wherever she had been inside of the house. “Lucy,” she said, pausing beside her niece. “What’s the matter?”
“I loved him, Aunt Joan. I loved him,” she cried.
“Oh, Lucy.” Aunt Joan knelt on the floor with her, holding her in her arms, just like she had when Lucy was small. “My poor dear. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.”
Lucy cried until she couldn’t anymore. She leaned her head against her aunt’s shoulder, allowing herself to be held and comforted. She sniffled.
“I don’t know what I would do without you, Aunt Joan.”
“You’ll never have to know, dear Lucy.” Her aunt touched her fingers beneath Lucy’s chin, as she had done since Lucy was small. “It’s us against the world,” she promised. “Always.”
