“It creates security for our children. The future and wellbeing of your family. What else can matter?”
“We should take more from life than simply honoring our family,” she said.
“You may not have living family, but you’re still part of a family, part of a heritage. But you are a woman. Your family name ends with you, irrespective of whether you have children or not.”
In some way, he’d displeased her. He could tell by the look on her face. It wasn’t as if what he’d said wasn’t true.
“Some people believe there’s more value in life than an illustrious family name. What does this all really mean?” she said, waving her arm around her in a semi-circle. “They’re just rocks that are configured in a fashion. Do you really think your life is more meaningful than mine?”
“Of course all were equal in the eyes of the Lord, but all are not equal in the eyes of the world. There are things that my position affords me, that yours does not.”
“And there are things that my position affords me, that yours does not,” she fired back. “Clearly things I value more than the things you’re afforded.”
“Your position also holds some vulnerabilities that could destroy you. For example, I have the means to buy every single one of your paintings and destroy them.”
“But you wouldn’t do that.”
“No, but I could.”
“Perhaps some of the meaningfulness in life is trusting the world with your vulnerabilities.”
“That won’t get you anywhere.”
“It has served me just fine. I put my vulnerability in each and every painting I do. It’s what people respond to, what they seek.”
On some level, he understood, but he didn’t like it.
“Some would say it’s brave to face the world being vulnerable,” she continued.
“Or stupid.”
“Or we go through life with armor around us—not letting in some of the best things in life. Love, intimacy and passion cannot exist without them.”
“I didn’t see you as someone who gives in to melodrama.”
“You’re an infuriating man.”
“You’re not the first to say so. And aren’t love, intimacy and passion supposed to be within the confines of a marriage?”
“And that’s perhaps why your sister’s saying yours needs to end now.”
Touché. He had waltzed himself right into that one. It was difficult to argue that one, because he had used it as an excuse to fend off… What was it exactly that he fended off? Love, intimacy and passion, perhaps. “Those things aren’t necessary,” he said more to himself. “In fact, they’re destructive.”
“How are they destructive?”
Now he was growing tired of this conversation. “Isn’t literature littered with forlorn fools throwing away their lives for some fleeting passion?”
“Maybe because they know the prize is worth having. Do you? Have you ever been in love?”
“I’m fairly sure this is an inappropriate conversation to have with your clients.” It was a little cowardly using this as an excuse, but this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to continue. Everything about it put him in a foul mood.
“Depends on the client.”
Chapter 20
THEY WERE DONE for today. Jane was pleased with her work, but she struggled with the clear discomfort in his eyes. She made him uncomfortable. Honestly, this had been the most difficult commission that she’d ever had. Some clients were wickedly funny, others arrogantly disinterested. At first, she’d thought he’d been one of those, but a different picture had emerged.
That he was attracted to her, she was still sure of, but he wasn’t going to act on it. Something blocked him. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware of it. Surely he couldn’t be that blind to himself.
“Do you wish to continue dining together?” she asked as he was about to leave. The question made him pause.
“If you should wish it.”
How often did he fall back on politeness rather than make a statement? “I think I would.” Although she wasn’t exactly sure why. Perhaps this was to poke and prod a little because she could. She could say it was a favor to Eliza, who was concerned about her brother-in-law’s isolation, but that sounded hollow.
No, it wasn’t that she felt malicious against him. She just wanted to break that shell around him somewhat. His discomfort meant that there was a crack somewhere, and if there ever was someone who needed to come out of his shell a little, it was Julius Hennington.
“Alright,” she said and with a nod, he left. Jane watched him through the window as he walked back to the house. For all his power and privilege, he couldn’t trust the world around him, and that was really sad. He missed out on so much. The worst was that he didn’t see it.
Looking down, she saw her hands were streaked in paint. His eyes. She’d utterly failed to capture them as she’d like to. The strokes just didn’t come out right—plus the fact that he looked a bit haunted.
Normally, she didn’t clean her hands because the turpentine was too harsh on her skin to do so. The paint fell off eventually anyway, but she didn’t want to go to supper tonight with her hands smeared in paint, so she dabbed the spots with a rag dipped in turpentine. Paint everywhere was simply part of the occupation.
Back in her room, her painting called. A spot of it was just crying out for her to try something, and as always, she succumbed, but was very careful. She just couldn’t help herself. When an idea came, it never wanted to wait. Before long, it was time to go down to supper, and she had to force herself away.
Taking a look at herself in the mirror, she felt she looked perfectly fine. The dress was mediocre, but she hadn’t brought the fine ones in the end. They were probably noticeably
