Simply Love

interruption to his own work. But for most of the time-all of an hour-he had been laboring at his own easel, his brush clenched in his left fist like a dagger, its end steadied in his mouth as he painted.

Anne could not see the results from where she sat. But whereas at first she had half expected signs and sounds of frustration and even worse, she was now able to entertain the hope that she had not made a terrible mistake in urging him to try what might well be impossible.

She tried to relax, afraid that any tension or doubt she felt might convey itself to Sydnam. But she knew he was unaware of her existence.

She wondered what was happening right now at school. Was Lila Walton doing well enough with the geography and mathematics classes to be permanently promoted to senior teacher? But she was still so young! Had Agnes Ryde settled into life at school and realized that she belonged there without having to fight for acceptance? Who was going to produce the Christmas play this year? Was Susanna missing her? Was Claudia?

She was missing them. For a few moments she rested her forehead against her knees and felt a wave of homesickness for the familiar surroundings and smells and atmosphere of the school. Did all new wives, no matter how basically happy, feel somewhat bereft at first from having been snatched from their families?

Susanna and Claudia were her family.

And you need to go home, Anne.

To Gloucestershire.

Sydnam had dared to hope, to dream again. He was painting.

But there was no similarity between their situations.

When she could see that he was cleaning his brush in his characteristic awkward yet efficient one-handed way, she got to her feet and approached him rather warily. But he saw her come and stood wordlessly aside so that she could see his canvas.

It was extraordinary, quite different from any painting she had seen before, including his own canvases at the house. The paint had been boldly slapped on. There was also a certain clumsiness to it-each brushstroke was thick and distinct from all the others. But Anne did not notice the defects-if they were defects. What she did notice was that the lake and the reeds were alive with light and energy and motion and had a fierce beauty that threatened to overwhelm and destroy both boat and jetty. And yet they possessed something that was almost dignified, something resilient that held them there as though by right. Humankind had not imposed mastery over nature. Rather, the water had allowed humankind to be a part of it, to borrow its power and share its buoyancy.

Simply love.

Or perhaps she was reading too much into what was undoubtedly an awkwardly rendered scene. Perhaps she simply wanted to see signs of greatness.

Except that the signs were there. Even her untutored eye could see them.

It was a painting that was suffused with vision and passion.

She looked up into his eye and was very aware of the black patch over his absent right eye. His vision had changed-both the inner and outer vision. And he had changed from the boy whose work she had viewed yesterday. He had seen ugliness as well as beauty since then, but he had not been broken. And he had accepted defeat with grace and then risen above it to turn it into triumph.

“Sydnam.” She smiled slowly at him and blinked her eyes to clear them of the tears that had gathered there.

“It is quite dreadful,” he said, but his eye was bright and his voice strong. “And the process is like beating my way through dense forest after years of ambling along a well-worn path. But I will forge a new path. The next canvas will be better, and the next will be better still. And so begins again the elusive quest for perfection.”

That, at least, she could identify with.

“Every year I taught,” she said, “I would change something about the content and method of my classes, convinced that this time I would have a perfect year.”

“Anne,” he said, and some of the fierce light went from his eye so that he was regarding her with soft awareness. “Anne, my dearest, you have already given me so much. And yet I have taken you from everything you held dear except your son. How may I make amends?”

But David called to them before she could protest, and they made their way to him.

“The boat is still too brown, sir,” he said, virtually ignoring Anne, “and the water too blue. But I like the way it is no longer flat.”

“Hmm,” Sydnam said. “I see what you mean. But the great thing about oils is that you can keep adding to what is already there. The boat looks almost new, does it not? How can you age it the way you see it there on the lake? Ah, but I can see that the wood is flaking away in places-you have captured that with your brushstrokes. Well done.”

“Should I try blending some of this color in, sir?”

Anne strolled back to the blanket while they talked, and opened the small picnic basket her mother-in-law had suggested they bring out with them. There were bread buns filled with cheese and new carrots from the kitchen garden, a shiny apple each, one bottle of cider and another of lemonade.

They ate and drank everything after all the painting things had been cleaned and put away and the wet canvases left to dry on the easels. It felt like a blessed day to Anne, who felt more hope than ever that once they were home in Ty Gwyn they would be able to function as a family and could even expect some happiness with one another. And there was the new baby to look forward to. There had been so much apprehension, even fear, involved in her discovery that she was with child that it was only now she could turn her mind to the great pleasure of knowing that she was to be a mother again. She hoped it would be a girl this time, though it would be just as lovely to have another boy. What she really hoped was that it would be a live, healthy baby.

Of course, there was still the major problem of a marriage that was threatening to be a celibate one…

And then, quite without warning, when she least expected it, when all her defenses were down, she found herself confronted with the crisis she had known must happen one day soon now but for which she was still unprepared. David began to ask questions.

“You are my stepfather, sir,” he said, kneeling on one edge of the blanket and looking intently at Sydnam. “Aren’t you?”

“I am,” Sydnam said, pausing before taking another bite out of his apple. “I am married to your mother and so you are my stepson.”

“But you are not my real father,” David said. “He is dead. He drowned.”

“I am not your real father,” Sydnam admitted.

David turned his gaze on Anne.

“What was his name?” he asked.

She drew a slow breath.

“He was Albert Moore,” she said, unable any longer to convince herself that he was too young to be given truthful answers.

“Why am I not David Moore, then?” he asked.

“I was never married to your father,” Anne explained. “And so you were given my name.”

“But he would have married you if he had not died.” David frowned.

She could not quite speak the lie, and yet he was still too young for the bare truth.

“But he did die,” she said. “I am so sorry, sweetheart.”

Though she was not.

“Cousin Joshua is Joshua Moore,” he said. “He is my cousin, then?”

“He was Albert’s cousin,” Anne explained to him. “So he is a sort of cousin to you too.” First cousin once removed, in fact.

“Daniel and Emily are my cousins too,” he said.

“Second cousins, yes,” she agreed.

“Mama.” He looked at her with wounded eyes. “Who else do I have? Mr. Butler has Uncle Kit and Aunt Lauren and Andrew and Sophie and Geoffrey and Grandmama and Grandpapa, but for me they are only