CHAPTER 15 #2
“I am impressed to see you out and about,” Jasmine said after very brief pleasantries had been dispensed with. “We heard about your ordeal. Most women would have taken to their beds for a week.”
Eva swallowed the temptation to make a joke about how much she had enjoyed her bed the last two nights. “It was a shock, of course, but I was not harmed, so all is well.”
“It is said Mr. Fitzallen sent for the magistrate.”
“He is my closest neighbor, and was kind enough to help me. He has proven to be a good friend.”
“How fortunate for you.” Jasmine’s tone implied raised eyebrows even if her face showed none.
“Indeed,” Ophelia agreed. “How fortunate, too, that Rebecca did not come back with you. I hate to think what coming upon such a scene would have done to her. The young are so easily impressed. She might have become fearful of every creak of a floorboard.”
“Rebecca is too brave to turn into a mouse suddenly,” Jasmine said. “Do not assume everyone has your character, sister. I keep telling you that, regarding the good as well as the failings.”
“I am very aware of it. You, for example, do not have much of my character at all, and we are sisters.”
“I certainly do not have your tendency toward feminine weaknesses, I am happy to say.”
“I do not think being a woman is a failing. If you do, that is one way in which our characters do not align.”
“I am hoping Rebecca will not be too alarmed when she hears what happened,” Eva said, reminding them of her presence. She enjoyed a good argument as much as anyone, but today’s visit had another purpose.
Tea, for example. The servant brought it and they all indulged. Eva considered whether she might use some of the money from Mr. Stevenson to purchase some of her own, if everything today went well.
“What have you there?” Jasmine’s eyes narrowed on the leather sketchbook that Eva had set by her feet.
Eva could not believe her luck that Jasmine had turned the topic to art. “It is my old sketchbook. I am going to stroll along the lake and choose a view for a painting, then do some first sketches.”
“Rebecca told us you dabbled. Are you any good?”
“I admit I have a middling talent, but I enjoy it.”
“I am sure you are very accomplished,” Ophelia said soothingly.
Jasmine held out her hand. “Here. Let us see.”
Letting Jasmine view the sketchbook had not been part of the plan. Not only did the sketches reveal her life from when she sketched frequently, they also documented how little she had done during the last two years.
“It is not intended for viewing,” she said. “A sketchbook is much like a journal, and full of private thoughts.”
“It is full of pictures, not words. If you cannot bear the thought of anyone seeing your work, you will never be successful as an artist,” Jasmine said.
“Miss Russell does not want you looking in her sketchbook, Jasmine,” Ophelia said with exasperation. “Nor did she say she sought success as an artist. She dabbles because she enjoys it.”
“She says she does not want success because all women say that and think that. It is bred into us to have no ambition. She may be a brilliant talent, not a middling one, and not even be aware of it. How could she know?”
Rather than open a new argument, Ophelia accepted Jasmine’s scold.
Chagrined, she looked at Eva. “Do not show it if you do not want it viewed. However, my sister is very knowledgeable about art. She has many artistic friends, some of them famous. If you do have a brilliant talent, she would spot it.”
Seeing an opening, Eva pointedly looked around the library’s walls. “Did you choose the pictures here, Miss Neville?”
“I did. Some. My father and his father bought many of them.”
“I have heard it said that students of art are encouraged to copy their betters. I wonder if that would help me improve.”
“That depends on whether you even can improve. There is no point in copying great art if you cannot even draw decently, for example.”
Eva looked down on her sketchbook. She had hoped that the sisters Neville would open their home and art to her much as they had opened their library holdings to Rebecca. She had not expected to have to prove herself worthy, as if she were applying for a position as their portrait painter.
She lifted the sketchbook. “I think I draw quite well. You can decide for yourself.” She handed it to Jasmine.
Jasmine opened the book on her lap. Ophelia moved to sit beside her. From her chair, Eva could see which pages they viewed.
Jasmine quickly paged past the earliest sketches, the childish ones done many years ago. She stopped right where she should, however, at the first sketch done when Eva was more mature and confident.
Slowly the sheets turned. The views, the flowers, the flurry of horses from the two years when they enthralled her. It had been a long time since she had taken the time to peruse these herself, so she eyed them almost as objectively as the sisters did.
Another pause. A long one. Jasmine and Ophelia looked with great interest at a portrait done in pencil. Eva’s heart fell. It was a drawing she had done of Charles one lighthearted summer afternoon in the garden.
He appeared more rakish in her picture than he did in her memories. He never wore his cravat loosely tied like that. His blond hair almost never blew in the breeze.
“I do not recognize him,” Jasmine said.
“He left Langdon’s End before you arrived. Over five years ago.”
“Where did he go?” Ophelia asked.
“America.”
“Only after that stupid war ended. Sheer idiocy,” Jasmine muttered. “To fight the French and the Americans at the same time. If I could vote, I would never vote Tory again.”
Ophelia looked over, right into Eva’s eyes. Her gaze communicated a special comprehension, and sympathy. The younger sister had seen more in that drawing than Eva realized was there.
Jasmine paged through the rest—the drawings that became less ambitious, and limited to small views of their own property during the years caring for her brother. Also less frequent, until, one day, the sketchbook had resided in its drawer for an entire year without being touched.
“Goodness, what are these?”
A scattering of buildings covered the two pages open on Jasmine’s lap.
Nostalgia gripped Eva’s heart. “Those are not mine. My brother, while ill, distracted himself for a few days. Those peculiar views were the result. He soon lost interest.”
“Perhaps he assumed if you could do it, he of course could too. The talent did not run in the family, however.” She quickly moved on.
“Middling, as you say.” Jasmine closed the book when nothing but white pages showed.
“Not hopelessly so. Unschooled, however. If you lived here all your life, you have had few opportunities to see really good art, so how could you learn? I think we should invite Miss Russell to make use of our paintings, sister, so she can try her hand at some copies and learn. There are tomes with engravings, too, Miss Russell. They reproduce the very best examples of art. Not the colors, of course, but you will learn much by studying the compositions.”
“You are too generous. My sister and I will be making a visit to London very soon, and I will have the chance to see the masters there, but that is not the same as being allowed to take the time to truly study them.”
“London! Are you giving Rebecca a Season?” Ophelia asked.
“That is beyond our means. However, we will make a journey with my cousin and her husband. They live in Birmingham. That is where Rebecca has been—visiting their home.”
“Better to wait until autumn,” Jasmine said. “Soon town will be full of young bloods, and once they see Rebecca, you will be sorry you brought her. Why, the whole group of you will be little better than mice strolling through a field full of feral cats.”
Ophelia glanced at her sister, then caught Eva’s eye. “I am sure my sister will give you some letters of introduction to artists. Won’t you, Jasmine?”
“I suppose I will, so my sister does not sulk,” Jasmine said.
“I envy you, Miss Russell,” Ophelia said. “I always enjoyed town during the Season.”
“You certainly did.” Jasmine’s voice dripped with innuendo.
Ophelia flushed.
Eva drank her tea.