“Are you going to paint me?”
“Well, I’m here to paint your father, but I might draw you, if you’d like.”
With a smile, he nodded.
“Atticus, come. You know you’re not supposed to be here,” a young woman said and Atticus immediately rose as if he’d been caught being illicit.
“Goodbye, Atticus,” Jane said.
The boy disappeared. Well, that was curious. In the time she’d been here, the boy hadn’t been mentioned. But then they hadn’t really talked about much at all. Julius really wasn’t an easy person to talk to.
The house was utterly quiet again and Jane walked around the salon to view the artwork. Most of it was quite old. Some had Italian scenes. It seemed to be an interest in the family. Now she wondered if Julius Hennington had been to Italy. Perhaps it could even be a topic of conversation. She’d always wanted to go, but had never had any opportunity to travel. Perhaps one day she would make her way to Paris, but travel wasn’t a priority for her.
“Is there anything you need, Miss Brightly? Some tea?” Mr. Fuller asked.
“I might take some tea in my room,” she suggested.
“Of course. I will bring some presently. The fire has been tended in your room, so it should be sufficiently warm.”
With a smile, she acknowledged the statement and as soon as he left, she made her way to her room. It was a beautiful house. Every part of it seemed perfect. Any view could be the background to a picture, but it was dark.
As Mr. Fuller had said, her room was nicely warm and she instantly relaxed. Her painting sat there waiting for her. It was a scene from Brighton where she tried to capture the light and haze of a gloomy day.
Feeling quite exhausted from the day, she sat down on the end of the bed and surveyed it. She hadn’t entirely worked out how to capture what she wanted. She was close, but it wasn’t quite there yet. This painting was very much about experimentation.
Instead of painting, she lay back on the bed and thought about her subject. Sometimes, she got a strong idea of how she wanted to paint someone straight away, but with him, pieces didn’t seem to fit together. That happened sometimes too. It would come.
Before long, she fell asleep and woke in the dark. And it seemed she’d slept past supper—a topic she hadn’t entirely addressed. Had just ignored it. And tonight, she had simply slept through it. It wouldn’t harm her to skip supper. It wouldn’t be the first time. When the painting flowed, the last thing she wanted to do was stop to eat. Eating could be done later. Her body was used to it.
Instead, she moved to her canvas and started working. Just a little, but painting in the dark generally wasn’t a good idea. Saying that, she was so eager to work on one particular section.
A longing for Brighton struck her. Her friends and her community. On deary nights, there was always somewhere to go. And the suppers she got invited to were much more lively than what she’d experienced downstairs. Her friends didn’t mind if she showed up covered in paint. Most likely, they were too.
A smile graced her lips. She liked her life, but she was worried that things would change. That Brighton would become too expensive, and her friends would over time be pushed out and scattered to the wind. It was a cruel reality for people in their position.
Chapter 9
THE DAY WAS A LITTLE brighter than yesterday as Julius walked to the folly. This wasn’t something he particularly looked forward to, but there was no use complaining about it.
A shadow moved inside the folly and told him that she was already there, preparing for the session. Or was it sitting? Either way, it would be dull.
“Miss Brightly,” he said with a nod as she walked in. As she tended to be, she was dressed very simply. The dress looked no better than a dairy maid’s and her hair was tied back with a ribbon. It seemed she made little effort with her appearance for these sittings. “I trust you are well.”
“Yes,” she said, looking up and him. “As you are here, let’s get started. Please,” she said, indicating for him to sit in his own folly. But he didn’t argue the point and took a seat on the bench.
Taking her pencil, she started to sketch again, her eyes darting between him and the canvas. At least she didn’t dawdle, which was a mercy.
It took a moment to calm himself to sit so still. It wasn’t natural. All he could do was watch her as her eyes as she worked. He cleared his throat. “Do you not eat, Miss Brightly?”
“I fell asleep.”
Perhaps painting was more taxing than he’d expected. In fact, they’d only had one meal together and then no more. Was that by design and how she intended to go on? “I take it you wish not to take meals downstairs.” No point mincing words. If that was how they were to be, it should be settled.
Biting her lips together, she didn’t look at him. “I don’t necessarily enjoy a rigid schedule.”
“Then I should perhaps be honored you’ve made it to our sitting today.”
Now she threw him a look. “As I’m sure you understand, business is business.”
It wasn’t what he’d expected her to say, and it did amuse him a little. So this was business, but dining with him was not. “So we understand each other,” he finally said. “We are agreeing that we will not dine together.”
“It would perhaps be best that way.”
That was simply not how things were done. Dining was an act one did, a tradition. Chef prepared the food, Mr. Fuller placed the settings and served him the
