Chapter Eight #3
is still talking to either of them. Mr. Sholle is the only one who’s been making noises of interest for the past hour.
Lady Rosalie and Lady Jones meet up to see Miss Raught off with her mother and Mr. Rile. Miss Raught is beaming and bright,
her round face lit up with joy, practically floating along in her bright yellow dress.
Just when it looks like she might well leave without any formal farewell, Miss Raught pauses by the back gate and shoots Catherine
a huge smile. Catherine returns it, a little swell of pride washing across her chest, which only grows when Lady Rosalie glances
her way, pensive, and then turns away.
This may be her only chance to escape.
“I ought to find Miss Linet to say goodbye,” Catherine says, jumping in when Mr. Dean takes a rare breath.
He and Mr. Sholle don’t even nod, and Catherine leaves them behind without an ounce of regret. Mother frowns at her from where
she’s loitering on the patio with a few of the remaining mothers, but Catherine ignores her. She might well stab Mr. Dean
if she doesn’t get a break.
Miss Linet and Mr. Fortes are ambling back toward the patio, Mr. Fortes holding Miss Linet’s painting. Miss Linet slows to speak with Catherine, smiling.
“I’ll hang this in pride of place,” Mr. Fortes says kindly, leaning in to kiss Miss Linet’s hand before striding off, the
painting held carefully, but not particularly dearly, by his side.
“That went well?” Catherine asks.
Miss Linet is staring after him thoughtfully. “It did,” she agrees. “And for you as well, it seems,” she adds, looking back
to meet Catherine’s gaze.
“I suppose,” Catherine says.
Miss Linet chuckles. “He did try to tailor the soliloquy to your tastes, at least. Not everyone gets so lucky.”
“Did he?” Catherine asks before she can stop herself.
Miss Linet lets out a pealing laugh and Catherine can’t help but giggle along with her.
“What’s so funny?” Lady Rosalie asks, stepping up behind Catherine.
“Nothing,” Miss Linet says, smiling at Catherine before taking Lady Rosalie’s arm. “Come see me out. My escort left without
me.”
“He took your painting,” Lady Rosalie says consolingly, nodding to Catherine before leading Miss Linet out of the garden.
Which leaves Catherine standing alone on the lawn behind the tea tables. Lady Jones’ canvas is still drying on her easel.
Catherine walks over to see what she’s made of their teatime tableau and can’t help but smile.
She’s painted the patio and tables in muted whites, so every outfit stands out against the setting. Those people she knows
well, or found interesting, have detailed faces and poses, while some of the guests are mere silhouettes.
Catherine searches the painting, curious as to what Lady Jones has seen in her, and her breath catches in her chest. Because there, looking around Mr. Dean, sit she and Lady Rosalie, staring at each other.
Their eyes, the pensive set of their brows, the rigidity to their posture—something is passing between them there on the canvas.
It could be their shared annoyance at Mr. Dean. Or it could be something . . . else.
She captured it perfectly.
Because it felt like that. Like she was staring at Lady Rosalie with no one else in the garden, something there between them.
It’s startling to see it laid to canvas. Alarming, she should say.
“She’s talented, isn’t she?”
Catherine jumps. “Stop doing that,” she says loudly, turning to find Lady Rosalie smirking at her.
Lady Rosalie steps up beside her to look at Lady Jones’ painting. Catherine watches her look, waiting. Will she see what Catherine
does? Will she comment? Will she pretend it’s not there, and nothing’s strange or revealing about their poses?
She can tell by Lady Rosalie’s soft inhale when she finally sees it.
“Doesn’t miss a thing, does she?” Lady Rosalie says softly.
Catherine blinks, not sure how to respond. If she even could without making some embarrassing sound, or saying—God, what would
she—should she—even say?
But Lady Rosalie’s a step ahead. She reaches out and picks the painting up.
“I’ll keep this. I’ve got a collection of my aunt’s best paintings. A wall of gossip, if you will, up in my hallway. You can
get a whole season’s worth of stories just by walking down it.”
Catherine still doesn’t know how to respond. Are they gossip? She decides avoiding the topic altogether is likely safest. “You should hang yours as well.”
“Mother can put it with the rest. We’ve a graveyard of my paintings in the basement,” Lady Rosalie says, dismissive.
“You should hang that one. Somewhere Mr. Dean will see it,” Catherine insists. Lady Rosalie meets her eyes, surprised. “If
I cannot overcome the allure of a portrait, I’m a poor competitor,” she decides. “And you’re talented.”
“Oh, that I know,” Lady Rosalie says, fluffing her hair.
Catherine laughs, startled, and Lady Rosalie cracks a real smile. She wants to say something else, make Lady Rosalie laugh
too. Something to end this afternoon well. To give them both something more than this strange feeling of limbo between them,
and Mr. Dean’s droning voice.
Which has stopped.
Catherine glances toward the tea tables and finds her mother walking toward her, Mr. Dean on her arm. Mr. Sholle is nowhere
to be seen.
“Catherine, dearest, we should see Mr. Dean out,” Mother says. “Lady Rosalie, you have a true gift. Your mother should have
you painting more often.”
Catherine watches Lady Rosalie smile genuinely back at her mother. “Thank you,” she says sweetly. “I know it meant a lot to
my aunt for you to be here, and Miss Pine was delightful competition.”
“Perhaps you’ll beat me next time,” Catherine says.
“Perhaps,” Lady Rosalie says, meeting her eyes before curtsying to Mr. Dean and Mother and then taking her leave.
Catherine watches her go until Mother takes her arm, guiding her back over to her painting while discussing details for a walk Lady Jones is apparently going to chaperone for all the young people next week. Mr. Dean is looking forward to attending and seeing Catherine.
Watching him pick up her painting like it’s precious should ignite something in her. Feeling his lips along the back of her
still-ungloved hand should make her blush. She never remembered to put them back on.
But there’s nothing there in her chest. No tingles, no anticipation.
Nothing like the feeling of Lady Rosalie’s eyes on her when they leave a few minutes later. She can feel her gaze all the
way up the back walkway and onto the street, long past when she’s no longer in sight.