She captured it perfectly.
Because it felt like that. Like she was staring at Lady Rosalie with no one else in the garden,somethingthere between them.
It’s startling to see it laid to canvas. Alarming, she should say.
“She’s talented, isn’t she?”
Catherine jumps. “Stop doing that,” she says loudly, turning to find Lady Rosalie smirking at her.
Lady Rosalie steps up beside her to look at Lady Jones’ painting. Catherine watches her look, waiting. Will she see what Catherine does? Will she comment? Will she pretend it’s not there, and nothing’s strange or revealing about their poses?
She can tell by Lady Rosalie’s soft inhale when she finally sees it.
“Doesn’t miss a thing, does she?” Lady Rosalie says softly.
Catherine blinks, not sure how to respond. If she even could without making some embarrassing sound, or saying—God, what would she—should she—even say?
But Lady Rosalie’s a step ahead. She reaches out and picks the painting up.
“I’ll keep this. I’ve got a collection of my aunt’s best paintings. A wall of gossip, if you will, up in my hallway. You can get a whole season’s worth of stories just by walking down it.”
Catherine still doesn’t know how to respond. Are they gossip?She decides avoiding the topic altogether is likely safest. “You should hang yours as well.”
“Mother can put it with the rest. We’ve a graveyard of my paintings in the basement,” Lady Rosalie says, dismissive.
“You should hang that one. Somewhere Mr.Dean will see it,” Catherine insists. Lady Rosalie meets her eyes, surprised. “If I cannot overcome the allure of a portrait, I’m a poor competitor,” she decides. “And you’re talented.”
“Oh, that I know,” Lady Rosalie says, fluffing her hair.
Catherine laughs, startled, and Lady Rosalie cracks a real smile. She wants to say something else, make Lady Rosalie laugh too. Something to end this afternoon well. To give them both something more than this strange feeling of limbo between them, and Mr.Dean’s droning voice.
Which has stopped.
Catherine glances toward the tea tables and finds her mother walking toward her, Mr.Dean on her arm. Mr.Sholle is nowhere to be seen.
“Catherine, dearest, we should see Mr.Dean out,” Mother says. “Lady Rosalie, you have a true gift. Your mother should have you painting more often.”
Catherine watches Lady Rosalie smile genuinely back at her mother. “Thank you,” she says sweetly. “I know it meant a lot to my aunt for you to be here, and MissPine was delightful competition.”
“Perhaps you’ll beat me next time,” Catherine says.
“Perhaps,” Lady Rosalie says, meeting her eyes before curtsying to Mr.Dean and Mother and then taking her leave.
Catherine watches her go until Mother takes her arm, guiding her back over to her painting while discussing details for a walk Lady Jones is apparently going to chaperone for all theyoung people next week. Mr. Dean is looking forward to attending and seeing Catherine.
Watching him pick up her painting like it’s precious should ignite something in her. Feeling his lips along the back of her still-ungloved hand should make her blush. She never remembered to put them back on.
But there’s nothing there in her chest. No tingles, no anticipation.
Nothing like the feeling of Lady Rosalie’s eyes on her when they leave a few minutes later. She can feel her gaze all the way up the back walkway and onto the street, long past when she’s no longer in sight.
Chapter Nine
Rosalie
“It’s not just that the poem was bad, Rose. It actually gave me a headache!”
Rosalie dabs her face with her lace handkerchief, which does very little to wipe away the sweat and humidity sticking to her skin.
