“I disagree. It simply means I have had more opportunity to become set in my ways. The eyes of youth see with freshness, and a passion that we of an earlier generation have set aside. Yet I am willing to be enlightened.”
“This ought to be good,” Katie mumbled just near enough to Sophia’s ear for her to hear. Sophia flicked her fan open to hide the smile that her lips could not.
“I confess, my memory is not reliable,” said the floundering Miss Sangford. “Perhaps, if I had Miss Grant’s book with me, I could find the lines I had in mind.”
“I have a copy right here,” Sophia announced, holding out the volume that she had placed on the seat beside her.
“Oh, good,” Miss Sangford answered weakly. “Er…I might take a while to find the exact page. If you will be patient.”
“Of course,” replied his lordship. “Do not feel rushed on my account.”
Miss Sangford, who was likely reading the poems for the first time, scoured the stanzas for anything that might qualify as endearing. She was probably kicking herself for choosing that descriptor. She would soon realize the book in her hands would offer her no evidence of such a quality. Passion, yes. Depth, yes. A rendering of classical images and thoughts, certainly. But the trite view that the work was endearing, like a child’s misspelled letter to a favorite aunt, was quite misplaced.
As she turned the pages, Miss Sangford must have come to this very conclusion. Sophia imagined that she had, in all likelihood, stopped reading and was using the time with her head bowed over the book to scheme her way out of this situation.
Miss Sangford was spared further embarrassment when the footman arrived with the painting. Visibly relieved, she handed the book back to Sophia. “I shall find the poem later, if you like. Seeing your mother’s art is a privilege I would not want to miss.”
She reached for the frame and gazed at its contents thoughtfully. “It is very good,” she said, in a voice that was strangely quiet. As if the portrait truly moved her. As if she meant what she said.
She turned to Lord Carthige. “Do you see, my lord?” She angled the painting so that he must stand close beside her to share its view. “It captures something that has since been lost.”
The earl stood, almost shoulder to shoulder with the most dangerous person in the room, focused intently on the object before him, unaware of the peril he was in. “Ah, yes.” He nodded. “Mr. Grant.” He paused. “It is the way a wife sees her husband. All his complexity. Yet none of those many layers hide the essence of what he expresses through his eyes, and which she has captured through her brush.”
“Love,” Miss Sangford breathed.
“Indeed,” the earl agreed.
There was an intake of breath throughout the room. Lord Carthige and Miss Sangford remained lost in the portrait. An unlikely pair to be captivated by such deep feeling. Neither mentioned the angle of the brushstrokes, or the subtlety of color. The artist had drawn them past mere technique into a well of emotion.
Just when Sophia felt she must say something, anything, to break the spell, her father entered the room and did it for her.
“I see all is well,” he remarked, though Sophia did not currently share his sentiment. Miss Sangford and the earl lifted their heads reluctantly to behold the very man whose visage had held their attention a moment before.
“What do you have there?” Mr. Grant asked as he approached. He took the frame from Miss Sangford’s unresisting hands, turning it to face him. He looked up at Sophia. “You had this fetched.”
Sophia nodded. “Lord Carthige found Mama’s portfolio of old sketches among our shelves. But they don’t do her artistry justice, do they, Papa? Her paintings are a far better reflection of her talent.”
Her father viewed the portrait once more. Sophia knew he did not see his own image. He was remembering the hours he’d posed for his wife. The way she’d looked at him while she’d worked. The things she’d seen in him that no one else had.
“She was a remarkable painter,” Lord Carthige said quietly.
“She was a remarkable woman,” Sophia’s father replied.
“After all these years, it still cuts deeply,” the earl said, as if to himself.
“You understand.”
“You know I do.”
Sophia’s father lowered the painting, looking directly at his neighbor. “I had forgotten. It was remiss of me. Sometimes one’s own sorrow blinds one to that of others.”
“It was such a long time ago.”
“Time changes nothing.”
If only Miss Sangford had remained quiet.
But she didn’t.
