Chapter Seven #2
“Knees bent, legs kicking, as if you’re writing to a sweetheart,” Aunt Genevieve instructs.
Mr. Sholle looks up at her, then out at the group of women, his eyes wide. Aunt Genevieve hums, waiting, and Mr. Sholle gives
a comical shrug before bending his legs and swinging them back and forth while pretending to write in the notebook, looking
just like a schoolboy working on an assignment on holiday.
The girls giggle, including Miss Pine. Rosalie feels her cheeks heating up. In pride, obviously. Her plan is working.
Aunt Genevieve steps off the platform and walks backward to peruse the scene. The boys look ridiculous.
“Just as I imagined,” she says, making the entire garden laugh. “Now, ladies.”
She turns and begins directing each girl into a specific seat. Rosalie waits with Henrietta, Amalie, and Miss Pine, watching
Aunt Genevieve place some of her acquaintances at the furthest seats on either side of the horseshoe.
Aunt Genevieve will give Rosalie the prime chair, like Mother wanted, but she clearly also wants a true competition, seating
Henrietta and Amalie between Rosalie and Miss Pine, the four of them at the apex of the horseshoe of easels.
Rosalie slips on the apron from the back of her chair and sits down, taking in the tableau.
Mr. Sholle’s actually writing something in the notebook, while Mr. Rile pulls contemplative faces.
Mr. Fortes has let his sandy-blond head rest back onto Mr. Rile’s thigh, and at intervals they look at each other and grin. It’s adorable.
“No moving, gentlemen,” Aunt Genevieve says imperiously.
The boys quickly drop their smiles, looking seriously out at the girls, or down at the ground. Mr. Dean’s still staring off
into the distance, not in the least interested in the women at the easels.
“You’ll have two hours,” Aunt Genevieve says, turning back to the girls. “On your mark, get set, paint!”
There’s a flurry of movement all around. Rosalie forgoes her paints to start. She picks up a charcoal and does a quick sketch
of the tree, the platform, and the general location of each boy.
She knows she needs to focus in on Mr. Dean, so her painting is most impressive to him. A perfect likeness should score her
a win. Which is a shame, really, because Mr. Sholle is clearly the star of the show. He’s still writing in the notebook, gently
swinging his feet in the name of authenticity.
He does glance up and over at Miss Pine from time to time, which is very promising. Rosalie forces herself not to follow his
gaze. She needs to get to work.
She quickly mixes her colors and begins painting in earnest, forcing dedication into each and every stroke of her brush.
Usually, she and Aunt Genevieve put on old dresses and get intentionally messy, laughing and telling stories and sharing.
They’re some of her favorite afternoons, when Mother lets her come over with no agenda and nowhere to be, and she and Aunt
Genevieve can just talk, or sit in true companionable silence.
But today isn’t usual. Today isn’t about fun, or comfort. Today is about having the best painting. By bounds.
She takes a moment to glance around the group, noting Henrietta frowning at her canvas and Amalie going in with smudged fingers. They both look adorably determined and Rosalie hopes their finished products impress Mr. Rile and Mr. Fortes. And their mothers too.
But then her eyes flick over to Miss Pine and Rosalie’s breath whooshes out of her chest.
The way Miss Pine is staring at her canvas with such intention, the way her hands are moving, the way she’s got a smudge of
green on her cheek and her tongue just between her lips . . .
Aunt Genevieve coughs behind her and Rosalie starts, her brush jerking across the canvas, wiping a streak of green right across
what should be Mr. Dean’s chest. She bites back a curse.
“Eyes on your own canvas, Lady Rosalie,” Aunt Genevieve whispers, extending a clean cloth for Rosalie to carefully wipe away
the fresh green paint. Her smirk is far too knowing for Rosalie’s liking.
Rosalie hopes she didn’t look as . . . stunned as she felt. She should look competitive, like she was checking on Miss Pine’s
progress, not . . . not whatever it was she was doing instead.
“Don’t sneak up on people,” Rosalie whispers haltingly, her cheeks flushing.
“Thirty minutes” is all Aunt Genevieve says in return, smiling playfully before returning to her prowling.
Rosalie looks back at the empty space where she should be painting Mr. Dean. Miss Pine wasn’t even trying to distract her
that time. The woman is just too magnetic.
Of every person here, all the men on display, all her lovely friends, Miss Pine is by far the most beautiful, and captivating,
and clearly deserves most to be memorialized. Rosalie can imagine all kinds of scenes to paint her in. She might defy portraiture
altogether, too complex and full of too many different simmering layers to capture perfectly.
But she’s not who Rosalie is here to paint. She needs to paint Mr. Dean. She needs to focus on Mr. Dean. She needs to win.
She blows out a slow breath and looks up to study him. He’s beautiful too. Differently from Miss Pine, of course. But his
jaw is sharp, his brow line fluid, and his eyes have their own depth, in their way. His hair is luscious, his stature strong
and lithe and commanding. He’s everything a girl should want.
And she can capture that. Even if he looks bored. She can highlight that part of his charm. He’s consumed by interior thoughts,
unruffled by the frippery of man.
Good God.
Maybe she can’t make him into poetry, but she can give his likeness half the spark she sees in Miss Pine. She can force herself
to see the same in him. She can make him into something worthy of memorializing. She can make him worthy of her, she thinks.