Page 61 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 20

Some days later—Constantia refused to allow herself to count how many—she was sitting in her bedroom before lessons began. On the otherwise bare table before her lay the leather case that contained her mother’s portrait.

She hadn’t seen Alistair since the afternoon in the studio. She had sent word to him with Edwina that there would be no need for another sitting. If he chose to read more into those words than their plain meaning, well, that couldn’t be helped. In any case, he had not sought her out, for which small mercy she told herself she was glad.

She preferred solitude and self-reliance—hadn’t she been on her own for almost twenty years?

With a shuddering breath, she lifted her hands from her lap, unfastened the clasp on the portrait, and unfolded the letter that lay within. As she always did, she traced a fingertip over the ragged top edge of the paper, where she had torn away the date and the words My darling Constantia and consigned them to the fire.

The loops of her mother’s handwriting ran off the edge of the page. There had once been a second page to the letter, but Constantia had burned that, too, rather than risk it falling into the wrong hands.

But she had never forgotten what it said.

Something like a laugh huffed from Constantia’s chest. How very like her mother to believe in such errant nonsense. Joys and care and worst of all, love.

She hadn’t intended to look at the picture, but of course, it had been painted to draw the eye. Her mother had indeed been a beautiful woman, her soft, lush figure a reflection of her upbringing in a far different world than the one that had made Constantia so lean and hard.

This time, however, it was her mother’s eyes that she found particularly compelling, their expression a potent mix of mischief and desire. And sorrow? She could not decide whether the painter—her father—had caught a glimpse of sadness, or whether her own misery had clouded her vision and made her see something that was not really there.

Oh, knowing what she did, how could she have let herself fall prey to her mother’s delusion? How could she have given herself, body and soul, to a man who would never be hers?

In order to escape sorrow, one must also avoid all the passions in life.

Well, she hadn’t avoided them, had she? She had stepped willingly into the fire. She had danced in the flames and basked in his warmth like some mythical salamander.

And even if it left her heart a cinder, she would not regret that golden afternoon.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she folded away the letter, closed the portrait case, and returned it to the depths of her valise. When she stepped into the doorway to the schoolroom she met Georgiana, who was the first to enter.

“Miss,” she said rather cheekily, “you look tired.”

She was tired. Exhausted, in fact. Night after night, she had stayed late in the studio, painting by candlelight, though it was far from ideal. And then she had risen early in the morning to do the same before lessons began. Two days earlier, and well before the promised fortnight, Lady Posenby had sought her out in the schoolroom to enquire after her progress. She had been surprised and pleased to learn that Constantia was nearly done.

But Constantia had grown accustomed to working to a deadline, thanks to the magazine. She was determined to finish this commission quickly and without running the risk of another sitting, another hour alone with Alistair.

She must be—she would be—content with her memories and sketches of him, and nothing more.

“Then perhaps we ought to work today on sketching people,” she told Georgiana. Laying her hands on either side of her face, she tugged her cheeks downward, comically contorting her expression. “Lined, aged faces are always the most interesting to draw.”

Behind Georgiana, Frederica and Danielle laughed and made silly faces at one another. “Oh, yes, let’s!”

None of them but Harriet was ready, artistically speaking, for the challenges posed by drawing human features. But she could certainly introduce the topic, tie it to her previous lessons on angles and space and light, and offer a few practical, preliminary steps.

“Where is Lady Edwina this morning?” she asked as she opened her own sketchbook to a blank page and propped it against a stack of books so that the others could see as she drew.

“She told Mrs. Swetley a child in the village had been struck with fever and the family required assistance,” said Danielle. “She set out just after dawn. Alone.”

At that, Frederica and Georgiana exchanged knowing glances, but nothing more was said.

An early-morning assignation with her curate, perhaps? But Edwina—as prim and proper as any cartoon of her brother Miss C. had ever made—hardly seemed the type.

Then again, Edwina and Mr. Forster had been waiting a long time to marry. In spite of his religious vocation and her gentle and quiet nature, they were only human and presumably subject to all the ordinary human frailties, including desire.

A quarter of an hour later, as Constantia was explaining how to properly proportion a face and how best to approach the obvious difficulties of the nose, a servant appeared in the doorway with a message for her from Lady Posenby, who evidently had elected not to climb the stairs this time to deliver it herself.

“She wishes to say, miss, that she would like to present the portrait of Lord Ryland to the family at a small celebration on Thursday.”

Tomorrow.