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Chapter Sixteen
Arabella had always loved the seashore. On sunny days, it was filled with people and birds and donkeys and an air of holiday. On stormy days, it was a private sanctuary, a place perfect to wrap a shawl around one’s shoulders and cry into the sound of the waves.
Always, it was a place she felt was home.
Today, however, she felt decidedly out of place.
“Why did I agree to this again?” she asked Caroline as she struggled to carry her paints and brushes in her canvas bag in one hand, and a pair of stools in the other.
“Because you’re a brilliant painter, and you deserve to have clients say lovely things about your work. People will adore having their portraits taken on the beach. You’ll see. Give that here,” Caroline said, and made a grab for one of the stools.
“You shouldn’t risk your new frock to carry my old furniture! What if there was a stray nail or wood splinter to catch in your muslin? Besides, I need to be able to do it by myself. You won’t always be around when I set up on the beach.”
“You needn’t fret over my gowns. You never had a regard for them before.” Her eyes danced and she hooked a hand under the stool leg, stealing it away.
She had a regard for them now. Caroline’s new dresses were frothy and filmy and fanciful, like the whitecaps dancing on the waves.
“I appreciate you meeting me here,” Arabella said.
“Where else would I be?” The easy sincerity in Caroline’s voice tugged at Arabella’s heart. “I want to be right here for you. I want to help you achieve your dreams, Bell. Now, where would be the best place for you to set up?”
Arabella scanned the beach. A pie seller strolled by, calling out his wares. A peaky-looking man was riding a donkey led by an attendant. Bathing machines in the distance were on their last round for dipping. The aroma of salted nuts, hot enough to scorch one’s mouth, and the scent of sweet buns tangled together in her nose. A group of singers caroled down the beach, their voices indistinct beyond the crash of the waves and the general hubbub.
It was the very picture of summer in Inverley.
“Here is perfect.”
She set her stool in the sand, digging the legs deep, and snapped open her easel. She withdrew her paints and a jug of water from her canvas bag. She sat down and settled the jug into the sand and the paintbox on her lap.
“You look wonderful. Exactly as a lady painter ought to look.”
She laughed. “Flummery. A lady painter ought to look exactly as she pleases. And really, I thinkpainterought to do.”
Now that she was set up, she felt excitement rushing through her. She was here, about to take an artistic leap of faith.
But no one approached.
A pit of anxiety opened in her belly, and she popped a ginger comfit into her mouth. Caroline put a hand on her shoulder. “People will come,” she said. “There are vendors all up and down this beach. Someone will want their portrait done any minute now.”
But the minutes ticked by.
“Perhaps they think I’m here to paint the ocean,” Arabella said with a start. “Caroline, I should have brought a sign! How will anyone know that I am here for portrait work? This is all wrong—and I’ve wasted your afternoon on top of everything.” She wanted to sink into the sand.
“Then we will make a sign for next time, but we are not giving up.” Caroline looked fierce, her brows low and her jaw set. She set her hands on her hips and scanned the crowd. “Look, there’s a young lady and her mama. I can charm them into a portrait.”
Caroline strode over to speak to them. The tips of Arabella’s ears felt hot as she saw the lukewarm reception of the mother, and then they walked away. This was unbearable.
She rose and joined Caroline, catching her hand. “You don’t have to do this. No one wants a painting. It was a fool’s dream, best tucked up in my sketchbooks in the attic. Come, let’s go home.”
“We are going nowhere!” Caroline cried. “You are too talented by far and I will not have your light under a bushel.”
“There are many other things we could be doing,” she cajoled her. She wanted the press of Caroline’s lips against hers and to feel the crash of pleasure engulf her, forcing her to forget the embarrassment of the afternoon.
“We can do those things later,” Caroline said. “We need to show people what they could have.” She brightened and grabbed the stool, repositioning it so that her back wouldn’t be against any onlookers. “I have it, Bell. Paint me!”
She sat with her chin up, her hands folded on her lap, and a defiant look on her face.
She was magnificent.
