“Is that how it was done with your mother? A Mr. Geraldson presented a proposal.”
“It was. Better if my father had gone himself. His man was no match for my mother. She knew her worth, and drove a hard bargain.” He imagined Eva tucking the information away in her head. Ever curious, she probably found the protocol fascinating.
“Did you have a nice day?” she asked, turning the subject. “I did. Well, part of it. I visited Mary Moser, the famous painter. Miss Neville gave me a letter of introduction. Can you believe she received me?”
“I was not aware she still lived in London.”
“I regret to say she is very ill. She was able to hold a conversation, however. We talked about art. She gave me some advice, again. She had some years ago when I wrote to her. Sensible advice, I realize now.”
“What sort? Work hard, draw daily, keep your brushes clean?”
She gave him a playful nudge with her elbow. “Not nearly that boring. She told me I needed to draw from life. Do you know what that means?” Her eyes glistened with naughty humor.
“I do indeed. Perhaps you can bribe your sister to—”
“Oh, that won’t do. I must draw themaleform from life. I can never fulfill my potential otherwise.” She crossed her arms and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder who, and how could I convince him? Erasmus? A few coins should win him over.”
“Or Mr. Trevor, the architect. I think he would be happy to do it and get in your good favor.”
“Because of the property, you mean.”
“Because of the scandalous possibilities.”
“Mr. Trevor? What nonsense. Nor is there anything scandalous about it. It would be like looking at a statue. Or a fountain. Or a vase. An artist just studies the form and does not engage in sensual speculations when working from life.”
“How do you know if you have never done it?” He did not believe for a minute that artists never were aroused by their models. That part of a man did not disappear when he picked up a brush.
“I just know. I have had the experience of drawing other things, and how the mind works while so engaged.”
“What other advice did Mary Moser give you?”
“She reminded me that marriage and art do not go well together. She had written as much to me when I was a girl, and I did not believe her. I was sure it would be different for me. Then, when I had to care for my brother— I did less and less with my art, and eventually stopped. I was too busy. I had no time I felt was my own. It is the same when one marries. Duty crowds out all other ambition.” She did not appear at all sad. “Whoever thought my singular state would be advantageous to my plans.”
The way she embraced Mary Moser’s decree did not sit well with him, for reasons he could not name. “Surely, it could be different, the way you thought when a girl. With the right man it could be.”
“I hope you are not going to suggest Mr. Trevor again.”
“Heaven forbid. He would probably give you ten children and no servants, and be jealous of your talent. It would have to be a man who knew your plan, and accepted it.”
“You sound almost serious, Gareth, and quite sentimental for a man so cynical about marriage and its purpose.”
He did sound sentimental.
“There are few men such as you describe. Moreover, if I chanced to meet one, he would have to be very wealthy in orderto relieve me of the duties most wives know, except the rich ones.” She raised her face to the lowering sun. “Even then— If you think about it, the women with the most freedom for art are women like your mother. She had no duty except making your father happy, and even that was not all the time.”
Clever lady. She was correct, of course. For a woman looking for both security and independence, being the mistress of a wealthy man was an ideal situation. Not that he intended to agree with her. Not after the damned Earl of Whitmere spoke of needingcompanionshipafter meeting her.
“I do not think you would be happy in such a life,” he said. “You are too much a stickler, and too afraid of the risks, which, I am sure you remember, include accidents such as me.”
She gave his hand a squeeze. “I do not think any parent would regret an accident like you.”
A quiet cough from behind interrupted them. He released Eva’s hand, then turned and saw Mr. Geraldson standing back near the house, discreetly positioned not to overhear.
Eva turned too. “Do you think he will talk down to me about this gown, or treat it as charity?”
“Neither. He will be correct in all ways, very formal, and respect will flow out with each of his words.” Gareth stood.
“I am of two minds still. I am not sure what to do.”
