“Most contemplatives do not,” she said. “Or not at least in any God who can be named or described in words or pictured in the imagination.”
He chuckled. “I used to think it blasphemous,” he said, “to believe that I was more like to find God in the hills than at church. I used to delight in the blasphemy.”
“Tell me about Acton,” she said quietly.
And he did. He talked at length about the house and park, about his brother and sister, about the servants with whom he had had daily contact as a child, including his nurse, about his play, his mischief, his dreams, his fears. He resurrected a life he had long ago relegated to a dim recess of memory, where he had hoped it would fade away altogether.
There was silence at last.
“Jocelyn,” she said after a few minutes, “let it all become part of you again. Itiswhether you wish it to be or not. And you love Acton far more than you realize.”
“Skeletons, Jane,” he told her. “Skeletons. I should not have allowed any of them out. You should not be such a restful companion.”
“None of them seem very threatening,” she commented.
“Ah,” he said, “but you do not know what is crowding behind them, Jane.” He got to his feet and held out a hand for hers. “Time to put you to work upstairs.” But he grinned at her when her eyes sparked. “And time for you to put me to work. Will you, Jane? Hard, physical labor? I’ll show you how to ride me, and you can use me for your pleasure as long as you choose. Come and ride me to exhaustion, Jane. Make me beg for mercy. Make me your slave.”
“What nonsense!” She got to her feet and set her hand in his. “I have no wish to enslave you.”
“But you already have, Jane,” he said meekly, his eyes laughing at her. “And never tell me my words have not aroused you. There is a certain telltale flush in your cheeks and breathlessness in your voice that I am coming to recognize.”
“I have never pretended,” she told him primly, “that duty is not also pleasure.”
“Come and let me show you, then,” he said, “how very pleasurable it will be to do the riding rather than always to be ridden, Jane. Let me show you how to master me.”
“I have no wish—” But she laughed suddenly, a sound of delight he enjoyed coaxing from her. “You are not my master, Jocelyn. Why should I wish to be yours? But very well. Show me how to ride. Is it like a horse? I ride horses rather well. And of coursetheyhave to be taught who is in charge, wonderful creatures.”
He laughed with her as he led her from the room.
HE FINISHED THE PORTRAITon the last day of the first week, late in the afternoon. He had a dinner engagement during the evening, which fact was a disappointment to Jane, but she expected that he would come back for the night. One week of her precious month was already over, though. There were only three left. She coveted every day, every hour.
She loved to watch him paint even more than she loved watching him play the pianoforte. With the latter, he very quickly entered a world of his own, where the music flowed effortlessly. At his easel he had to labor more. He frowned and muttered profanities as much as he was absorbed in his task.
But finally he finished. He cleaned his brush and spoke.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose you have been sneaking peeks every time I leave the house.”
“I have not!” she said indignantly. “The very idea, Jocelyn! Just because it is somethingyouwould undoubtedly do.”
“Not if my word were given,” he said. “Besides, I would never need to sneak peeks. I would boldly look. Come and see it, then. See if you like yourself.”
“It is finished?” He had given no indication that he was nearing the end. She threaded her needle through the cloth and jumped to her feet.
“Come and discover the truth of my claim that I merely dabble,” he said, shrugging as if he did not care what her verdict was, and busying himself with the task of cleaning his palette.
Jane was almost afraid to look then, afraid that indeed she would find an inferior product about which she would have to be tactful. Though he would tear her to pieces, she knew, if she were less than brutally honest.
Her first impression was that he had flattered her. She sat at her work, every line of her body elegantly arched. Her face was in profile. She looked industrious and absorbed by what she was doing. But she never saw herself thus, of course. In reality it was a good likeness, she supposed. She flushed with pleasure.
Her second impression was that the likeness or otherwise of the portrait was really not the point. She was not looking at a canvas produced merely so that the sitter might exclaim at the flattering likeness. She was gazing at something—something more.
The colors were brighter than she had expected, though when she looked critically she could see that they were accurate. But there was something else. She frowned. She did not know what it was. She had never been a connoisseur of art.
“Well?” There were impatience and a world of hauteur in his voice. And a thread of anxiety too? “Did I not make you beautiful enough, Jane? Are you not flattered?”
“Where …?” She frowned again. She did not know quite what it was she wished to ask. “Where does thelightcome from?”
That was it. The painting was an excellent portrait. It was colorful and tasteful. But it was more than just a painting. It hadlife. And there was light in it, though she was not quite sure what she meant by that. Of course it had light. It was a vivid daytime scene.
