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God, if she had been born a boy, her life would have been much different. She gazed at Caroline, feeling the ache of secret love pressing on her. In more ways than one, it would have been easier.
“My parents might have been willing to help me pursue an artistic career if I had been a boy, or if they thought I had exceptional talent. But of course I wasn’t as skilled then—I couldn’t see as well. I have improved since I got my spectacles, but by then, they had already moved to be closer to my grandparents.”
“Do you miss them?” Caroline missed hers every day.
“I was never as close to them as you were to your parents. I am content to see them twice a year, but I am much happier with Rachel and Matthew than I ever was in their house.” Her stomach dipped. It was hard to reconcile her feelings of gratitude with the desire to have her own space. “I have been accustomed to people telling me mywhole life that my art isn’t valuable. Even the visitors consider it to be no more than a quaint reminder of their travels.”
“The paintings represent memories. Ones they will wish to treasure, which they will always see when they look at them,” Caroline said. “It means something important. Don’t discount the joy you bring to people with your work.”
“That may well be, and I appreciate it. But all I do is paint the same scenes over and over. What I am selling is almost nothing more than a copy of hundreds of paintings that I have done before. Many visitors could accomplish the same work, if they thought to bring their paint sets with them on holiday and spend an afternoon or two by the sea painting instead of being dipped or sipping on tonics.”
“Is this different?” Caroline asked, nudging the closed sketchbook on Arabella’s lap. Her eyes were sympathetic, and Arabella felt the tension ease out of her shoulders.
She pulled the quilt up and moved to sit closer to Caroline. “I love drawing people. I love sketching the expressions on their faces, and painting with all the different colors of hair and clothes and skin. I have drawn the grocer’s wife, and the maid-of-all-work.” She smiled. “And Grace, and Maeve.” She fiddled with the sketchbook again, and then decided to open it, flipping the pages to the one she wanted. “And you. Of course.”
Caroline took the book from her, her face shining. “Bell! It’s—why, it’sme!”
She had drawn it the night that Caroline had her over for dinner with Mr. Taylor when he had arrived in Inverley. The night they had shared their first kiss. She hadn’t painted it until the next day, but she had sat up in bed with her pencil and sketchbook, reliving the sweet press of their lips together. The portrait showed Caroline in her old patched evening dress, with a soapy dish in one hand and a cloth in the other. There was a look of yearning and wonder on her face.
“This is magnificent,” Caroline whispered, her eyes wide. “Bell, I remember that moment so perfectly when I look at this.”
A thrill went through her. “So do I. I love it.”
“I don’t understand. You are a brilliant portrait artist. Why don’t you show people?”
She laughed. “Who would want a painting of the grocer’s wife scowling when she told me there were no more potatoes to be had for love or money? Who would want to look at the expressions on the bored socialites’ faces from that first assembly we went to?”
“I would! Please could I look through the rest of the book?”
Absurdly pleased, Arabella nodded, hugging herself as Caroline touched the pages as gently and reverently as if they meant something. As if they were worth something.
As ifshewere worth something.
“These are stunning. You have such a way with expressions—why, I can almost hear what they’re thinking. Oh, you should consider selling these.”
Happiness bloomed in her chest. “Maybe I should.” She straightened her back. She had been trying to take more chances this summer, hadn’t she? She made her decision. “In fact, I will.”
* * *
Caroline thought about Arabella’s paintings on the walk back to the townhouse. Everything was changing around her. Even Arabella was changing, and she had always been as reliable as the north star. She was astonished to find how much she was learning this summer about a woman who she had thought she knew inside and out.
Arabella was flourishing these days. She seemed more confident when out in society, more comfortable. More settled. Caroline was delighted to watch Arabella realize just how wonderful she was.
Caroline had wanted to show Arabella by her touch how much she valued and cared for her. She had wanted to let her body express her emotions, when she wasn’t certain how to put anything into words. All she had expected was an intimate and private side to one of the most important relationships in her life.
Butprivatedidn’t feel like enough anymore. Caroline wanted to support her in everything she did. She wanted to knock on all the doors of all the houses of Inverley and shout how wonderful Arabella and her artwork were.
It felt so easy and natural between the two of them that sometimes Caroline forgot that no one would be happy to discover what wastranspiring between them. Why could she not stand beside Arabella proudly and take her hand in public without fear?
It wasn’t fair.
She sighed. In a way, perhaps it didn’t matter whether or not it was fair. It was reality, and they were forced to accept it.
But no one would fault a woman for staunchly supporting her friend. Caroline resolved to cheer her on at every step of the way if she wished to pursue her portraiture. She would sharpen every pencil and refresh every pad of paint if it would help Arabella with her work.
She would do most anything she could, artistically or not, for more nights to hold her.
But she was starting to worry about what it meant for her heart when the summer drew to a close.
