Chapter 11 #2
The third painting was partly a blend of the previous two.
It depicted two lovers saying goodbye. They stood on a beach with a stormy sea behind them.
On each side, two tall mountains rose up, as if they were trapped in this place.
The beach was long and golden, and the sky was clear.
The woman was turning away, her dress flowing in the wind, her hair sweeping in a curve around her.
The man was reaching out sadly, trying to hold her again, but there was already distance between them, and Rose could only imagine that this gap would increase.
“Ah, and now we’re back to normal,” he said.
“Perhaps this is a continuation of the previous painting. There is the beginning of marriage, and here is the end.”
Edmund wore a dark smile. “Everything ends the same way.” His black mood seemed to have returned, which Rose found strange given that art was supposed to uplift people, and this certainly wasn’t the attitude she expected of him.
He never seemed to take life seriously, and yet here he was brooding over paintings.
There could only have been one explanation. Rose decided to broach it. Despite her earlier determination to maintain her distance, what she had to say was private, and she did not wish for anyone to overhear. She sidled toward him and kept her voice low.
“Does this have anything to do with your parents?” she asked.
She might well have slapped him. He turned and looked at her incredulously, his eyes widening, and it was he who stepped away.
“My parents?” he spluttered. “Of course not. This has nothing to do with my parents,” he flung a hand toward the painting.
“I apologize,” Rose said, for she had not meant to transgress.
“I am simply tired of this dull artwork. I thought there would be more interesting paintings. Why do people always paint such serious things? There should be more like the last one. That is a painting I can admire. All of this… It is too much like real life. What do I care about two strangers who are separating?”
From his tone, it seemed she had struck a nerve, though, given his strong feelings, she wondered whether she had been mistaken in thinking his anguish stemmed from his parents. Perhaps there was another part of his past that he kept hidden from her, from everyone.
“Because we can try and imagine their reasons for turning away from each other.”
“Perhaps she is scared,” he spat.
“Perhaps he is too proud,” she countered.
“And we can imagine what might happen after this scene. Does he stand there and look out to the ocean, lamenting his mistakes as the waves crash against the shore, or does he instead chase after her and catch her before she leaves the beach? Perhaps there is a happy ending.”
“I doubt it. Some mistakes cannot be undone. Some things, once lost, can never be brought back. Let us find another fun painting. There must be something joyful here,” he said, and promptly moved off.
Rose studied the lovers for a few moments longer. She thought about her parents, but couldn’t imagine they would ever be the subjects of a scene like this. Emotions would have to be high for two people to clash so passionately.
Here is the true danger of love, she thought. One person wanting something that another did not.
The shades of romance were too fraught with uncertainty, and Rose didn’t understand how anyone could bear it.
She did not envy the woman at all. If she were in that scene, she would have preferred to be standing on the beach by herself, feeling the wind running through her hair and listening to the sea crash upon the waves.
That was heaven to her, that was happiness.
Perhaps it was the same for Edmund, whose emotions had been stirred by these paintings. She noticed him walking off and wondered if there was a woman in his past who aroused these feelings. She intended to ask Lydia about it the next time they met.
Rose approached Edmund, who had his back to her.
“It seems as though the Royal Academy is not to your liking,” Rose said.
Edmund turned, and it was as though he were a different man. Once again, his customary smirk was plastered upon his face, and his voice had that bouncing, mischievous quality to it once again. There was a glint in his eyes, and she almost wondered if she had dreamed their earlier interactions.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked.
Rose opened her mouth, but he continued, more lightly this time. “I only mean that I have never had the patience for it. Standing still, staring at paint on canvas—surely there are livelier ways to spend one’s time.”
“I think it’s good that they have a way to express the feelings that are often so hard to share.”
Edmund tilted his head, considering that for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said. “Though I suspect I would rather deal with my troubles over a glass of brandy than put them on display for all to see.”
Rose allowed herself a small smile. “That does sound more in keeping with you.”
He gave a short laugh. “I could paint, of course—if I were desperate enough.”
“I am not sure I would like to see the kind of painting you would create.”
“Perhaps you could pose for me,” Edmund said, his eyes flashing. Rose scrunched up her face and was trying to think of a waspish reply when a man approached Edmund.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” he nodded to Rose as well and offered an apologetic look for interrupting them.
Edmund introduced himself and Rose, then asked the man’s name.
“I am James Hamilton, Viscount of Finchley. I’d like to discuss Cordovan bonds if it is convenient for you. It will only take a moment,” he said.
Edmund glanced toward Rose.
“Do you mind if I step away for a moment to conduct some business? It will not take long,” he said.
“Of course not,” Rose said, offering a sweet smile. She watched the two men carefully as they engaged in a business discussion and reminded herself that she should have felt relieved that their promenade was interrupted rather than slighted.
However, it was this latter feeling that was more predominant in her mind.
She shook the feeling aside and turned to examine another painting, although her thoughts were not consumed by it.
Once again, she found herself thinking about Edmund and the life he lived before they met.
For his mood to turn so intensely, there must have been a cause, and her natural curiosity was piqued, although she would get no answers this day, and perhaps no other.