A quick nod.
“How long until you let her go?” She stands before him, her look pitying. “Shechoseto stay away, you know.”
He’s thought of nothing but Merryn returning to him since the day she left. He fantasizes about it whenever his mind wanders, imagining her walking up the beach, plain gown blowing in the wind around her anything-but-plain self, her expression challenging him. Daring him.
He can paint her from memory, only he cannot paint. Not anymore. He’d thought burning all the paintings of her would be cleansing, but it only left him bereft.
“You ought to travel. Return home to visit family. Haven’t you a brother in Bath? A bit of coddling might do you good.”
“I wouldn’t go to Reginald for coddling.” In fact, he wouldn’t go to Reginald for anything. Not in this life.
“Your parents? You’ve not written them in months.”
He stares at Laura. “How do you know how often I write my parents?”
“I see the post, don’t I? Come back inside, Bert,” says Laura, tugging his arm. “I’ve some tea on. I could make it coffee for you. And there’s someone looking for you.”
Rupert sighs into the wind, shoving the hair back off his forehead. “It’s no good.”
“It’s the best coffee this side of the channel.”
He smiles faintly. She’ll never understand what he means. Like those obligatory kisses to each cheek that don’t quite touch, she always falls just a bit short.
He allows himself to be dragged out of the storm blowing in over the water and wishes it would strike him. She struck him once, lighting up his life, electrifying him.
Inside the lodge, he burns the roof of his mouth with coffee and watches the merriment erupting around him. Joe and Sally have their fiddles. Cups are clanking, feet are pounding, and bodies are spinning, arm in arm, before passing off to another partner. Whirl and trade, whirl and trade—one woman, then another, and another. They all look alike. Any one of them could leave the room without notice and be replaced by another pretty face.
“Ho, there, Bert.”
Rupert cringes at the second use of the moniker he silently despises.
Pete Shelington slides up beside him on the bench. “New blood ’ere,” says Shelington, who’s a sellout. A common portraitist taking commissions from the ton. He simply hasn’t the eye for realism. “Say ’ello, Arthur. Or shall we call you ‘Art’?” He slaps his thigh and laughs.
Blimey.Rupert leans back against the paneled wall behind him, staring down at his half-empty cup. Then he forces a polite smile at the gangly youth. “Hello, Arthur. Welcome to Newlyn School. What is it you paint?”
“Everything. Anything.”
Jack of all trades, master of none.
“That is, anythingyoumight paint, sir. I’ve long admired—that is, I’ve followed you—not that I’m mad, mind you—I genuinely appreciate greatness. And your work, sir, is the finest I’ve ever seen.”
Perhaps Rupert should have followed his father’s footsteps in the Royal Army, for he hasn’t the headspace for nonsense. Rules and regimented work sound appealing, when one does not have to create and produce and imagine, or sift through flattery and subjective opinions.
“Your father warned me you weren’t likely to take on someone so wet behind the ears, but, well—”
“What has my father said about me, exactly?”
The boy’s eyes grow large. Round. “Oh, nothing, really. Only that you wouldn’t be able to teach me much.”
Ah. That sounds about right.
“I assume he meant because you haven’t much time, given how important—”
“I’ll train you.”
The boy’s jaw goes slack. “Truly? You—you will?”
“Stop chattering before I change my mind.”
