Catherine held her breath as a door she’d thought long shut cracked open, just a sliver; it was equal parts frightening and exhilarating. Bravery had done well by her in recent months—but when did one cross the line from bravery into foolhardiness?
Lucy, noting her dawning interest, pressed harder. “I’ve seen you create so many wonders these past few months. Tablecloth borders, chemises, gowns—you work in unusual stitch patterns, exotic plants, bold colors, unexpected mixes. I never thought about any of these things until you showed me your work. For example.”
She pulled off the stellarium shawl and stretched it out in front of them both.
“Look at this. It’s sophisticated and striking and absolutely lovely. Anyone who sees it is dazzled—and the more they know about how it was worked, the more they take away from it. Everyone can admire the sparkle—but only another embroiderer can recognize the skill it took to create the design, and to make it a concrete reality. I told you once your stitches looked like brushstrokes—and I’ve spent enough time around artists to know a gifted eye when I see someone use it. Catherine,” she said more softly, “this isart. You are an artist.”
A lifetime’s worth of struggle and frustration rose up around Catherine like a storm cloud. She fought back, instinctively. “The Academy would beg to differ. Barely any women were allowed space on those walls today. And not one—not one!—works in a medium so ephemeral and frivolous as fabric and thread.”
Lucy pulled back, folding the shawl up crisply, in precise, angry movements. Her tone was sharp as a stiletto. “Let me ask you something. Am I an astronomer?”
Catherine blinked at the swiftness of the subject change. “Of course you are.”
“The Polite Science Society doesn’t think so. They wouldn’t accept me as a Fellow. Mr. Hawley all but threw me out of his dinner party.”
Catherine shook her head, guessing where Lucy was going with her argument. “That’s different—”
“How?”
“Because science is about truth!” Catherine cried. “We have ways of measuring it. Numbers and data and cold, irrefutable facts. When you present a scientific theory, well, peoplehaveto agree with you or else they’re wrong, and if they’re wrong then nothing they try to do in their own scientific projects will succeed. But art...” She huffed out a breath, and quickly sucked another one in. Her heart was racing and her cheeks were flaming and Lucy was beginning to look slightly alarmed, which only made Catherine more agitated. “Art is only art because people call it so. Art is an illusion: a reflection of something, meant to communicate a thought or a feeling or the sense of a scene. There’s no possible way to be concretely, completely, objectively correct about it. Is the painting a sunrise or a sunset? And if it’s a sunrise, what does that mean? Six people fought about it for half an hour and no solid consensus was reached. Because no consensuscouldbe reached.”
Lucy’s hands were bunched in her shawl, spoiling the careful folds. “But they had to agree onsomethings. Essential things. You said it yourself: the Academy believes that embroidery is not art, and an oil portrait is.”
Catherine folded her arms. “So?”
“So why can’t you try to change those parameters?” Lucy said. “Why can’t you try to persuade them that embroidery could be counted as art on its own merits?”
“Because I am tired!” Catherine cried. She could hear the burn of unshed tears in her own voice, as the words tore themselves from her throat. “I am tired of twisting myself into painful shapes for mere scraps of respect or consideration. Tired of bending this way and that in search of approval that will only ever be half granted.”
The carriage turned a corner, and Catherine felt as if the whole world spun sideways around her.
She swallowed hard and tried to explain. “My mother sent men all over the globe to fetch trinkets for her, bits and pieces of the world that she tried to put together into something like the whole. They fought to bring her the best specimens, the rarest species from the farthest places. Her approval counted for something—but only briefly, and only as a result of her accumulation. As soon as her treasures were sold, her achievements—her learning, her science!—vanished with them. I tried for more: I went out into the wider world, and I tried to do work that lasted. Even if I could only help as an assistant, and not a full participant. And still I ended up as an outsider: I didn’t have the skills or the education or the experience of men like George, Mr. Hawley, or Captain Lateshaw. They dismissed me out of hand, and I can’t even blame them for doing it.” She dashed hot tears from her eyes, furious that her body was betraying her with this frailty, clouding her sight when it felt like she had a chance to look at her own self clearly for the first time in her life. “And then today, talking with your brother and his friends, I was an outsider again.”
Lucy shook her head. “You were the only one who knew that painting showed a sunrise.”
Catherine scoffed. “One brief moment where I could offer something of use—but as soon as it was over they began to talk about Lord Elgin’s pose instead, what it might signify about his character, referencing paintings from Exhibitions past that I hadn’t had a chance to view and therefore can’t offer thoughts about. And you—” She cut herself off, finally, more tears rushing to spill down her cheeks as she relived the horrible, helpless jealousy that had sent her fleeing the gallery.
Lucy gripped her shoulders, gray eyes soft and worried. “And I what?”
Catherine gulped in a breath. If she was going to ruin everything, best do it quickly. “And you knew everyone already, and Peter Violet made you laugh, and your brother said you might marry him.”
“Oh, love.” Lucy’s hands slipped up to frame her face. Those gray eyes never wavered, though sorrow lurked in the corners as they held Catherine’s gaze. “Peter Violet is miserably, hopelessly in love with Mr. Banerjee. He doesn’t want to marry me; I’m reasonably certain he doesn’t want to marry anyone. He has rather radical thoughts on the whole institution. He wrote a pamphlet once.”
Catherine couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her, a helpless, watery sort of sound.
Lucy bent down and captured it with her mouth. Catherine kissed her back desperately, even as her heart wailed in her breast with an unquenchable loss. It wasn’t enough—could never be enough...
The carriage jolted to a halt, and Catherine fumbled to put herself somewhat to rights. But being a countess was an old, old habit by now, and it helped that if she refused to acknowledge the tear tracks on her cheeks, nobody else would dare do differently.
There was but an hour until dinner; she announced her intention of resting in her room until then, and dismissed a worried Narayan.
As soon as they were alone, Catherine wrapped her arms around Lucy. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you,” she said, shaking.
Lucy’s slender shape stood firm against Catherine’s onslaught of emotion; she only twined her arms around her lover and held her close and steady. “Why would I go anywhere?” she whispered, her mouth hot against Catherine’s temple. “Everything I want is right here, becauseyouare here.”
She turned Catherine around, her mouth brushing over the countess’s nape, her hands undoing the line of buttons down the back of Catherine’s dress. Silk whispered encouragement as it slid to the floor, and Catherine trembled as cool air rushed in where she stood in only stays, petticoats, and chemise. Lucy brushed gentle fingers over her shoulders, thin lines of fire following her touch. Shivering, Catherine turned and tugged at the laces of Lucy’s gown, lavender and primrose opening beneath her hands to reveal the worn muslin beneath.
It cut her to the quick, that Lucy was still stuck with these old things when Catherine could easily have bought much finer fabrics for her to wear against her skin. She pressed apologetic kisses to Lucy’s collarbone.
