“If you’re a landscape artist, that’s probably true.”
“I thought you painted misty landscapes.”
“Well, yes and no. I suppose I’m exploring style more than landscapes in the strict sense.”
“Do you only paint people as part of a commission?” Julius asked. He’d never asked her that before.
“No. I paint people quite often.”
Your lovers, he found himself asking, but he didn’t voice it. If Eliza knew of her ‘companions’, he wasn’t sure. At no point had he seen Eliza being dismissive of her. How much Octavia knew, Julius wasn’t sure, but he doubted they were close enough to discuss her paramours. “Do you paint someone you care about differently?” he asked.
“Those paintings have a different purpose from a portrait,” Jane said. “But the answer is yes.”
“How so?”
“Because you try to capture how you feel about them.”
In a sense, the statement both made sense and didn’t. Something in him wanted to argue, but he did understand.
“A portrait is rarely about what painters feels about the person so much as what the subjects wants to portray.”
“Except all those artists painting their muses,” Octavia said. “Often completely nude, I believe. Although I can’t say I’ve seen much of those paintings in the British Gallery.”
“Nudes are an artform in themselves,” Jane said.
“Do you paint them as well?” Octavia asked.
“I have. The human body is an intricate subject.”
“How interesting. What do you think, Julius? Will you take your clothes off so Jane can paint you?” Octavia asked and he rolled his eyes at her.
Truthfully, he couldn’t imagine something so... intimate. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever done something so blatant as reveal himself to such scrutiny. It was hard enough with clothes on. It would have to take an inordinate amount of trust. And worse, afterwards there would be a portrait of him in existence showing him at his most vulnerable. Everyone he knew would think he was mad.
In no way could he even conceive of it—of revealing himself like that. It was just too... confronting.
“Julius, you really should get divorced,” Octavia said.
How was this relevant? “I’m not speaking about this,” he said with finality. Octavia’s interjection seemed to have killed the conversation entirely. The problem with his sister was that she didn’t always understand there was a time and a place for certain conversations. Neither did she understand there was no time or place for this conversation.
Chapter 17
THERE HAD BEEN A LITTLE too much wine last night and Jane’s head suffered that morning. Not too bad, but the malaise needed to be shaken, so she decided to go for a walk before breakfast to clear away the remnants of overindulgence.
Dressing quickly, she left her room and walked down the stairs. The house was chilly, and it would be biting outside, so she wore her jacket, which was too large and formless to be suitable attire for a guest in this house. It was warm, however, and that was important to her.
“Miss Brightly, you’re up,” Octavia said, appearing from out of a doorway. Jane hadn’t expected to see anyone.
“As are you.”
“My youngest had a hard night, so there wasn’t much sleep.”
“I’m sorry,” Jane said, not knowing what else to say. Motherhood was a completely foreign topic to her as either the one providing it or as a recipient of it. There was no point pretending she knew what the trials and tribulations of a mother were like. “I thought I’d go for a walk before the day starts.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
“I’ll just get a jacket,” Octavia said and disappeared again. Jane decided to wait for her outside, where the chill was noticeable. It may turn into a nice day, but it was chilly in the morning. “That’s a very practical jacket,” Octavia said when she stepped outside.
“Practicality over fashion is sometimes my motto,” Jane answered.
“You do seek to reject us in so many ways.”
The statement shocked her. “It’s not a deliberate act.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. Please don’t be offended, but I find I don’t actually think about what’s fashionable a great deal. Once you cease to care, you actually stop thinking about it.”
“Mostly that refers to person dressed in the style from fifty years ago. They stick with the era they were comfortable in.”
Jane had noted a few of those in her time amongst the ton. Mostly older people who hadn’t updated their wardrobes in decades, and they either didn’t notice or didn’t care that the fashion had moved on—quite substantially.
“I suppose it’s admirable the freedom you claim. Most would be too scared to take the steps you have—to sever the net of protection that society provides.”
“That net is very paltry when it comes down to it. By charity isn’t a good way to live if one can find another means.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
It was something Octavia had never experienced, being from one of the most prominent families in the country. It even gave Octavia some freedoms that others weren’t afforded. The strength of her personality would be far less accepted if she came from a less respected fortune. Freedom was only for the wealthy and those with nothing to lose—and representatives of both had joined this walk.
“It is beautiful,” Jane said.
“Yes,” Octavia agreed and they walked in silence for a moment. Dew had formed on the grass and their footsteps left traces across the lawn. “But it is my brother’s prison,” Octavia said after a while.
“He seems to like it here.”
The relationship between brother and sister was hard to pin down. They picked on each other relentlessly. Underneath, however, Octavia’s barbs were things she felt should change about Julius. And her opinion on that wasn’t hidden.
“My brother creates his own prison,” she said. “And he uses this as an excuse to
