“No.”
“Is that because you believe art should exactly replicate its subject?”
She grinned, having hoped he would ask that question. “What is art if not a mirror?” she asked.
“What is art if not truth?” he countered.
“Must truth always be a direct replica of the world? Or is it heart, intention?” She led him along to her favourite bench in Somerset House. “Now, what think you to this?”
He looked at it carefully, head tilted to the side. “It has a particular style to it,” he said at last.
“And what do you think of the style?”
The painting was of a young lady painting the portrait of another. A brush was in her delicate hand, and her eyes were focused on the other lady’s soft, blurred face. It was evident that she had been commissioned for this portrait. A small dog was curled at her feet.
“Domestic Bliss,” Henry read, and frowned.
“All the colours indicate domesticity,” she said, looking up at him. “And see the happiness of the artist?”
“It is a singular view of domesticity.” He glanced at her, the beginnings of a smile quirking his mouth. “I wonder if that is deliberate.”
“I expect so.”
“Tell me, Louisa. Did you paint this?”
“My mother doesn’t know,” she said, looking up at the painting. “Frankly, I’m amazed it was ever accepted. It has, as you might imagine, sparked some dialogue.”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “I can imagine.”
A party of ladies came to stand beside them, and she lowered her voice. “So many people believe a woman’s only value is connected to the children she bears.” The thought made something rise in her throat. She had given children little thought, save for the fact that she felt nothing when she sawothers’, but her body rebelled at the idea she was worth nothing more than to be a mother.
“Is that why you brought me here?” he asked, looking up at her painting again.
“Painted by a spinster, no doubt,” a lady remarked to one side. “And with a singularly weak hand.”
“One cannot but think that if she had married, she would not be obliged to paint.” This lady said the words with disdain. “Poor girl. I feel sorry for her. Painting is all very well, of course, but for it to be one’s sole source of joy? Well. She clearly hasn’t lived.”
“No indeed,” the first agreed.
Ire rose in Louisa’s chest, but Henry’s hand closed around her elbow. “You cannot throw a pebble into the ocean and expect the tides to change,” he murmured.
There was nothing she could do but simmer in annoyance, and she hated her impotence. Her initials were on the paintings; if one truly tried, they would be able to identify her.
As it was, no one ever looked close enough to care. After all, she was only a woman. Nobody of importance.
The air suddenly felt stifling, and she sucked in a breath. This had felt like a home from home, but although she hated that another’s opinion could affect her like this, there was a pit at the base of her stomach.
“Intriguing,” a gentleman said from their other side. His frown deepened as he looked at her painting, and his mouth twisted to one side. “Fortunate, I think, that most do not view domesticity in this way, don’t you agree?” he asked, looking at her.
Louisa tilted her head at him. He was dressed in a cheap suit, and she didn’t recognise him; likely they did not walk in the same circles. “Do you not think she appears happy?”
His nose wrinkled. “I was more thinking for the sake of mankind.”
Henry let out a bark of laughter. “You mean it would be unfortunate for men if their wives wanted something other than marriage?”
“Society would cease to function.”
“Why?” Louisa asked pleasantly, but she could feel that familiar tingle of anger inside her gut. “Do men want nothing more than to marry?”
