Page 48 of Romancing the Artist

Lord Inglewood took off his hat and dropped it to the seat beside him. “I certainly prefer the open air to my study on a day like today. It is far too stuffy indoors. No breeze to be had. Summer is the worst of seasons.”

His lady laughed and nudged his arm. “You love the summer. Do not pretend otherwise. You would rather be on your boat in the waves than at home, and if you can have neither of those, then your friends are the next best thing.”

He grumbled and folded his arms. Lord Inglewood had joined some sort of club which focused on the sailing of sleek, beautiful boats with tall sails. A yacht, he called it. The word, he had explained, was Dutch in its origin. The crafts were modeled after the ships that royalty had used for centuries to outpace attackers or journey in luxury from one side of the sea to another.

He seemed quite fond of the boat and enthusiastic to see the “sport” of yachting grow in England.

Caroline hadn’t any thoughts on the matter, except that the sails of his boat made a pretty subject for a painting, with white triangles full of wind against a summer-blue sky. With that whimsical image held in her mind, Caroline entered the house and went to change into clothing more appropriate for being out-of-doors with small children likely to sit in her lap or take hold of her skirts to gain attention.

But there were hours yet to pass before they left for the picnic at the vicarage. While it might have been wisest to pick up a book to pass the time, or even take one of her mother’s proscribed summer naps, Caroline instead went to the countess’s painting room.

There had been improvements to her work, of course. There was more life in her depiction of the woods than she had managed in her depictions of orchards at home. But her canvas with the seascape still appeared rather dull.

What was different between the two? How could a lifeless boat sitting amidst trees have more to it than a sea with gulls floating above the waves?

She didn’t understand it. When others looked at her work, did they see what she did? At all? Or did she imagine all the shortcomings?

Lady Inglewood had reminded her, several times, that every artist of every medium was their own worst critic.

Caroline paced back and forth in front of two of her canvases, her hands clasped behind her back. She sighed deeply and muttered under her breath, “Why can’t I make it work? Why can’t I make them feel right?” She paused and turned to face her depictions of sea and wood, frowning at the images before her. “It’s merely paint on canvas, no matter how hard I try to make it otherwise.”

She picked up her paintbrush and twirled it between her fingers, debating if she had time to add a detail here or there before the others would be ready. Or if it was even a wise idea, given the dress she wore was for visiting, not for painting.

Best not, she supposed.

Then she stalked to the corner where a large canvas with blue-black paint covering its stretched expanse waited for her. Charcoal smudges, made lightly over the dried midnight paint, outlined the figure of a man kneeling on the ground.

The beginnings of her Atlas.

Even this frustrated her.

“Art is supposed to inspire a feeling,” she whispered, imagining how she would fill in the shape with Edward’s figure. Atlas seemed an apt enough subject, given the weight he bore. Edward knew about carrying the weight of his family’s expectations. And Caroline? The weight of her hopes, dreams, and fears. It all weighed upon her. Crushing her spirits until she wondered, at times, if she ought to give it up.

She tugged a stool in front of Atlas’s future place of torment, then she let out another deep sigh and sat down heavily in front of her canvas, her head in her hands. “How will this piece be better?”

Edward’s grimace as Atlas filled her mind. The angry furrow of his brow, the light of defiance blazing in his eyes, the near-snarl he’d shown with a curl of his lip and jut of his chin… Truthfully, she hadn’t thought he’d have it in him to convey a rebellious warrior. That he managed it told her things about Edward that made her heart twist.

He understood pain.

He knew determination.

He had empathy and imagination enough to put himself into the place of another.

Every hour she spent in his company added a new stroke to the picture of him in her mind, a portrait that became more vibrant and filled with depth with each passing day. Just as she reveled in the captivating hues and delicate brushstrokes that brought her art to life, so too did she find herself immersed in the intricate colors and shades of emotions evoked by her affection for him. Each thought of him was akin to an artist's brush, delicately shaping the contours of her heart, adding layers of warmth and richness she hadn’t thought possible.

A long-case clock stood in one corner, the pendulum inside swinging softly. It chimed the hour, startling Caroline from her confused musings. Caroline picked up her sketchbook from the table, the one filled with Edward’s profile, the way he held his arms, his figure while kneeling. She tucked it beneath her arm and left the room.

She had a picnic to prepare for, but while she physically removed herself from the painting, her thoughts lingered behind. Having her sketchbook with her was little consolation, but it was better than nothing at all.

Chapter 16

When they arrived at the vicarage, children already littered the front garden. It took Caroline a moment to identify all of them. The vicar’s eldest, Elizabeth, sat on a blanket in the shade of the tree in the front garden. The moment she saw Irene, Elizabeth leapt to her feet and waved ferociously.

Lady Fox was seated on a bench beneath the same tree, her youngest child, a boy, in her arms. Next to her on the bench was Mrs. Barnes, tying a bonnet beneath the chin of her younger daughter, Marjorie.

The older two children belonging to Lady Fox and Sir Isaac were Luther, a boy with red curls, and Faith, a child a little younger than Elizabeth and Lady Irene. Luther’s eyes widened when he saw his cousin Isaac, named after Luther’s father, was with them, and he came running to the older boy with a look of admiration on his little face.

“You came, Isaac. Mama said you would.”