Chapter Eight #2
or after filling in the figures? And what technique did you use to tap in the leaves?” Mr. Dean continues, finally turning
to look at her.
“Of—of course,” Catherine says, going for bright.
He smiles, his cheeks dimpling dashingly, before walking to the final two easels.
Catherine glances at Lady Rosalie. She’s staring after Mr. Dean, crestfallen. He never asks her questions.
Mother steps forward to grab Catherine’s arm. “Did you hear that? You impressed him,” she whispers.
Catherine’s still watching Lady Rosalie. Her dismay slowly hardens, and she turns to stare back at Catherine, muted fury in
her eyes, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Behind her, Lady Tisend stands back from the easels, glaring as well.
Catherine stares back. Lady Tisend wanted a competition, she brought one.
Lady Rosalie wanted a war. She brought one.
Lady Rosalie turns and walks back to her mother, practically stomping. It lights something a little wild and brazen in Catherine’s
chest. Lady Rosalie fired the first shot with Mr. Sholle, who’ll be even more eager now. She’s just attacking back. This is
what war is. And she came to win.
And when Lady Jones steps up on the platform a minute later, that’s exactly what she does.
“By unanimous vote, the gentlemen have crowned Miss Pine the winner of the day. Congratulations, Miss Pine.” Lady Jones, at
least, is beaming at her while all the other girls clap politely.
Catherine allows herself one true, proud smile.
Mother hugs her hard. “I knew you could do it,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” Catherine says, pulling back to meet her sparkling eyes.
She looks so happy. So Catherine has to harden her shell. Has to meet Lady Rosalie’s challenges with true gusto. They’re going
to win. She can make it happen.
She schools her face quickly. A lady mustn’t gloat, after all.
“Thank you,” she says to Lady Jones, hoping she sounds humble and grateful.
“Now, losers, go eat your sorrows in cake, and Miss Pine, we shall toast to you when the next round of champagne arrives,”
Lady Jones says happily.
There are laughs all around and Mother squeezes Catherine’s arm before stepping away.
“Miss Pine, you simply must tell me about your painting,” Mr. Dean says, gesturing for her to step back up to her easel with
him.
Catherine sneaks one last glance at Lady Rosalie, who’s still glaring back at her. She’s not sure where the playful urge comes
from, but she winks. Lady Rosalie’s cheeks turn red and Catherine mentally pats herself on the back.
“How did you manage such fine detail in so short a time?” Mr. Dean asks.
“Well, I didn’t give nearly so much attention to the tree or the platform,” Catherine says honestly. “With another hour I
could have done more.”
“But the lack of specificity in the background is what makes the picture so striking. You know, it’s almost an inversion of
the Romantics, wouldn’t you say? I simply must have it for my collection.”
“Oh, um, of course,” she says.
It should feel like a victory. Should feel better than making Lady Rosalie glare. It should ignite excitement and anticipation
in her belly that Mr. Dean wants to take her work home.
But why on earth would he choose her portrait over Lady Rosalie’s, which highlights him so expertly?
“You know, when I was abroad, I took tea with so many of the great painters. I’ve never had the talent, like yours, to paint,
but I have quite the discerning eye.”
He lightly touches her elbow, turning them to head toward the tables set up in the first section of the expansive back gardens.
Somehow, this compliment about her work feels suspiciously like the entrée into one of her brother Richard’s endless diatribes
about his world tour.
“When I was in Italy, I visited the Doria Pamphilj in Rome, and I saw the most exquisite portraits . . .”
Catherine bites back a sigh. Richard visited the Doria Pamphilj collection as well. She imagines there must be a guide or
tutor in Rome who gives the same speeches year after year after year.
Mr. Dean continues his monologue and guides Catherine over to one of the tables, where Miss Raught, Mr. Rile, Miss Linet,
Mr. Fortes, Lady Rosalie, and Mr. Sholle are already seated.
Her pride and triumph over winning are quickly outweighed by a deep sense of looming awkwardness. Catherine glances behind
her, hoping there might be someone to divert them. But everyone is already seated for the tea service, save for Lady Jones,
who appears to be setting up her own easel to capture the tea itself.
Catherine’s not sure how she feels about Lady Jones immortalizing this afternoon. She’s gotten the impression Lady Jones fully understands each and every social dynamic at play at this garden party. Catherine’s not sure she wants to see any of them in paint.
Mr. Dean pulls out the chair one away from Lady Rosalie and graciously helps Catherine into it, plopping himself down between
them like he’s never heard or seen a bad look in his entire life.
He’s moved on to monologuing about France now.
Catherine glances across the table at Miss Raught and Miss Linet, who are staunchly not looking at her and continuing to speak
to their respective suitors. Mr. Sholle, seated almost directly across from her, keeps trying to catch her eye, and Catherine,
without other recourse, forces herself to tune back in to Mr. Dean, lest Mr. Sholle get the wrong idea.
“I found myself lingering in the Galerie Médicis at the Louvre for hours. The way Rubens paints ethereal fabric was entrancing.”
Richard says ethereal too.
“I was always more partial to the Egyptian exhibit myself,” Lady Rosalie says when Mr. Dean takes a breath.
“You’ve been to the Louvre?” Catherine finds herself asking.
“The way he captures light, as well, seems to come down from the heavens, casting his subjects in a Godly presence,” Mr. Dean
continues, as if Lady Rosalie hasn’t spoken.
Catherine finds herself leaning forward in her seat to see Lady Rosalie’s face, their eyes meeting while Mr. Dean continues
to talk. And for a brief moment, they’re not fighting over Mr. Dean at all, but simply united in the same bemused suffering.
God, this guy.
But it passes just as quickly. Lady Rosalie sits back in her seat, leaving Catherine rather alone beside the still talking Mr. Dean.
She looks across the table and finds Miss Linet momentarily looking over at her, anger still clear in her eyes. Catherine
can fix this. Surely Mr. Dean will give her an opening.
As if on cue, Mr. Dean switches from exaltations about the Louvre to beginning a speech about the merits of Paris. It’s perfect.
“Miss Linet was telling me how much she loves poetry the other day, and wished to go to a salon in Paris to hear some. Mr. Fortes,
don’t you write sonnets? Have you ever shared them with Miss Linet?” Catherine asks, a little overloud, because Mr. Dean will
not shut up.
The whole table turns to look at her, and Mr. Fortes’ narrow cheeks stretch in a smile. “I haven’t had the opportunity, Miss
Pine. But knowing Miss Linet might appreciate them, perhaps I should send them along with a letter tomorrow?”
“That would be lovely,” Miss Linet says. She glances at Catherine, a smile on her face, and Catherine lets her shoulders come
down just slightly.
“I found the Champs-élysées too congested for real enjoyment,” Mr. Dean continues to no one.
Miss Linet rolls her eyes toward Mr. Dean, as if perhaps she’s heard him say this before.
“Mr. Rile, didn’t you do a wonderful sketch of the Champs-élysées with the foundation for the Arc when you were there last
summer?” Lady Rosalie cuts in. “Perhaps in exchange for her painting, Miss Raught might like to have it?”
Miss Raught looks across at Lady Rosalie, blue eyes wide, a smile spreading slowly across her face as Mr. Rile bumbles to accept the offer. Catherine blows out a breath. All right, they fixed it together. She supposes she can live with that.
She looks around Mr. Dean and finds Lady Rosalie staring back at her curiously. And Mr. Dean is STILL BLOODY TALKING.
Lady Rosalie’s lips quirk upward and everything seems to melt away. The way the sunlight hits her bonnet and outlines her
face in a soft white glow—the way her eyes spark with amusement at their tandem frustration with Mr. Dean—the way her chest,
her glorious chest, is rising and falling just a bit faster than it was moments ago—how can any of their friends or acquaintances
be doing anything but staring at Lady Rosalie right now?
“Miss Pine?”
Catherine blinks, wrenching her gaze away from Lady Rosalie. Mr. Dean is apparently waiting for a response. He stopped talking,
and asked a question?
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Dean. Could you repeat that?” she asks, hoping her voice doesn’t sound choked.
She refuses to acknowledge Lady Rosalie smirking behind Mr. Dean.
Perhaps she wasn’t in that wonderful moment with Catherine after all. Perhaps she meant to distract her, and Catherine’s been
snared in her web yet again, getting herself fanciful and dazzled all on her own.
“If you could go anywhere on the Continent, where would you go?”
Catherine meets Mr. Dean’s eyes. They’re a perfectly lovely brown, and ignite exactly zero feeling in her.
“Florence,” she says by rote. She’s not sure if that’s where she’d most like to go, but Mother always wanted to see it.
“What a city. You’ll have to start in the Piazza della Signoria . . .”
Catherine sighs softly and looks across the lawn to find Lady Jones watching her from behind her easel. She smiles at Catherine,
though from this distance it almost looks like a smirk. But that’s silly, what would she have to be smirking about?
She listens with one ear as Mr. Dean moves on to what will hopefully be his final city of Luxembourg. The rest of her watches
with glee as Mr. Rile approaches Miss Raught’s mother, carrying her painting and gushing about Miss Raught’s talents.
Lady Rosalie rises with a quick excuse and heads their way. Mr. Dean barely notices. Catherine’s frankly not sure Mr. Dean