18. “To See A World In A Grain Of Sand And A Heaven In A Wild Flower.”
“TO SEE A WORLD IN A GRAIN OF SAND AND A HEAVEN IN A WILD FLOWER.”
(WILLIAM BLAKE, AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE)
“Is Mr Darcy in there with you?”
Within the morn light of the top-floor art studio, Verity and her cousin glanced at one another before both turned to the ajar door and Aunt’s grey eyes peering hither and thither.
“Chance would be a fine thing,” said Sephi with a snigger, tucking her feet up on the sofa.
Aunt tutted. “He keeps wetting the bed.”
“Then again…” Verity put aside her brushes and unfastened her painting smock. “I thought Darcy had gone to the gatekeeper at St James’s Park.”
“He has. This is the second Darcy. Haughty with blue eyes.”
Verity folded her arms. “Another cat?”
With a wide smile, Aunt Theo sloped around the door, eyelashes batting like a debutante at Almack’s.
“There was really no choice. I found him lurking under a fine carriage on Bond Street, glaring. He was so thin but, I think, too proud to beg. Clearly used to the finer things in life, I tempted him out with some Fortnum and Mason smoked salmon.”
No wonder there’d been none for supper last night.
“Poor Darcy. But wetting the bed is a cause for concern, surely?”
“Oh no, it’s mere male posturing and laying claim.”
Sephi shuddered upon the sofa.
“Oh, and this came for you, my darling Verity. If you ask me, it looks like a present from an admirer,” A box tied with silver ribbon was placed upon her art desk before Aunt crossed the room to make herself comfortable aside Sephi.
With more than a little curiosity, Verity lifted the box, turning it this way and that, but found no note affixed.
“I wager it’s from Stonewold,” said Sephi with a grin.
Aunt nodded sagely. “I knew he wouldn’t mind our Verity being The Witness. Perhaps it’s some paintbrushes.”
With a frown, Verity replaced the oblong box to the desk. She’d told them both about Miles’ visit yesterday, disregarding the kiss which she now blamed entirely on overwrought emotions, but why would Miles gift her anything? “You’re not going to let me open this alone, are you?”
To the twin shakes of head, Verity sighed, pulled the bow, undid the ribbon and lifted the lid.
Damp tissue paper, followed by…
Oh my.
“Brushes?”
“No.” Verity blinked. “According to Linnaeus, an Amaranthus speciosus of the Monoecia Pentandria class.” Her lips trembled as she looked up to… Bafflement. “It’s a flower.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Aunt, her brow smoothing. “I thought you’d sneezed!”
Sephi rose and peered at the flower laid upon tissue paper in the box. “Oh, that’s so pretty. Is it rare?”
“Not rare in its native habitat but difficult to grow in our climate. I read that Lady Hume raised one but it needed a hothouse to germinate as the seed had come from the East Indies. Miles…er, Lord Stonewold must have purchased it or he has a hothouse. Years ago, he used to…”
“Hmm?”
“Well… He used to call me his Amaranth, you see.” She caressed the long tassel of a flower. “It might be a different species to this, but in myth, ’tis a plant that never fades and never dies. It signifies something…eternal.”
“How romantic!” cried Aunt.
“How expensive,” murmured Sephi. “You should draw it.”
“Oh, no, I don’t…”
“Why ever not? You were dilly-dallying over what to draw earlier.”
“Well, I…”
Aunt came to inspect the flower also. “You must draw it, Verity darling. And no matter the myth, ’tis best to hasten before it fades. That means now. No faffing.” She patted Verity’s shoulder. “I’ll find Darcy, then ring for tea.”
As she left, Verity gazed at the flower in wonder. She had seen drawings in catalogues but never the real specimen. Why, even the stem was purple red, the flowers bright crimson in long racemes, like catkins on fire. “Oh, there’s even a leaf.”
Sephi frowned. “That’s good?”
“It is for a botanical artist. They say what truly makes one is the skill in illustrating the leaves rather than the flowers, for they are not easy.”
“Well, I’ll wash your brushes out and the oil palette, and you can fetch your watercolours and drawing pencils instead.”
“Oh, thank you, but I don’t think…” Sephi stole the brushes without so much as a by-your-leave.
Verity bit her lip, looked to the large oil canvas of rain and death and pain.
She was so tired of painting such scenes.
So, with a deep breath, Verity headed to the cabinet where yesterday she’d placed her newly purchased watercolours. Instead of reaching for them, however, she opened the bottom drawer. It stuck a little, having not been opened for so long, the wood runners groaning in protest.
Within were a measuring stick, ruler, pencils, tweezers, string, a curved knife for slicing stems, and an old battered oblong tin. The latter she pulled out and opened the hinged lid.
Memories assailed her.
The smell of her youth…
A dried honeysuckle sprig rested upon the cracked surface of the pigments and she lifted it to her lips.
Miles had picked it for her all those years ago. He’d pinned it to her bodice and kissed her, and they’d dreamed of faraway places and of being together, day and night.
Her breath caught, sharp and sudden.
She rose and placed the watercolours to one side, then seized her sketchpad and pencil, for she would start simply.
With reverence, she drew forth the flower from its protective tissue paper, unwrapped the wet cloth from the stem, found a simple vase and placed it on a table before a white wall.
She twisted the vase this way and that.
“I thought the other side prettier,” remarked Sephi, twiddling a brush in a cleaning pot.
Verity smiled. “Ah, but botanical art is not about prettiness. It’s more…
scientific, capturing the form and size.
That way is prettier, you’re right, but then I could not see the leaf joint or the underside.
” She fussed with a raceme. “I should really make accurate measurements first. From the length and width of the flowers to how many ribs are on the leaf and how far apart, but I shall forego that, just this once.”
“Such measurements must take ages.”
“More than the painting on occasion but it is essential for scientists to have an accurate representation. If a plantsman abroad just sends a packet of seed to England, the gardener here will not know how big it grew or what fruit it bore in its native land.”
Verity cocked her head and dragged her stool near.
Wiggled the pencil.
And then began to draw.
It felt awkward at first.
But then, gradually, she relaxed, her movements instinctive.
This particular flower was nature at its more complex and demanded careful reproduction on paper. It would also be the devil to colour, requiring layers to build the intense crimson, remaining patient while each layer dried lest the watercolours bleed.
“Verity…”
“Hmm?”
Her cousin leaned over her. “Oh, Verity, how you can draw. It’s so lifelike, even in pencil.”
She peered down to see it as a whole. “It’s a little skew-whiff.”
“Perfectionist.”
“Says the woman who spends three hours choosing bolts of silk.”
They both laughed before Sephi kissed her cheek. “I’ll see where tea has got to. And ensure Aunt has found Darcy.”
Absently she nodded.
“Oh, and Verity?”
“Hmm?”
“You should tell him everything. At Kew. And I mean everything.”
She closed her eyes. “I shall think on it.”
Sephi huffed and closed the door.
With lips pressed, Verity continued drawing, the concentration on fine detail taking her to another place – of peace and Miles.
Years back, he would distract her by placing his lips upon her nape. Then along her shoulder. Yet he’d always stopped at her sleeve and how she’d ached for more.
A shiver wracked her, the ghost of his kisses upon her skin.
And she decided…
She would savour each moment of her excursion with Miles.
Each glance, every word.
They’d wander the Gardens and admire the flowers.
Talk about nature’s beauty.
And then…
Then she would tell him everything.