Page 11 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Ten

CORNELIUS

H e hated lying to her.

Every prevarication and half-truth, every misdirection and avoidance, grew harder and harder to do. Julia deserved better.

Cornelius forced his fingers out of the clenched fist they had formed and tried to focus on the glorious night sky before him… and the woman sitting beside him.

Heavens, she was beautiful. She had been angry with him earlier—no less than he deserved—and in that moment, he had seen once more the glorious spark that she kept buried beneath her governess’ garb.

He wanted to see that flash of passion so dearly, not directed at him in fury, but blazing in the open, where she could be the glorious, brilliant soul he knew was lurking, to light up the lives of everyone she touched.

But if anger was all she could offer at the moment, he would accept it.

He should have bowed his head in contrition and slunk back to his room, but instead he wheedled and pleaded, hoping to ignite her again, and somehow convinced her to join him out here, far from the busy house, in the serene solitude of the moonlit night.

What a marvellous and foolish thing that had been.

Now, sitting still under the starlit firmament, he saw her shiver again. She had denied it, but was she cold? Her cape might be adequate for the daytime, but nights grew chilly here, so close to the sea. Without thinking, he shifted his arm and pulled her close.

Then he stopped thinking for a different reason.

All rational thought fled, to be replaced by pure sensation.

She was warm against him, soft and comfortable, an incandescent presence that filled more than the empty air at his side, but the deepest recesses of his heart.

For a moment—that split second before she, too, could react—she moulded into him, the perfect shape, as if they were made for each other.

Heat that had nothing to do with the temperature flooded through his body, the glowing warmth of a fire, all-consuming.

What was he thinking?

He could not do this. He had fallen in love with her, just a little bit, back on that first day when he began to draw her face in charcoal.

But he was in no position to act on that love; he had to resist it, lock it away, stop it from consuming his whole heart.

The life of an artist was an insecure one, with no guarantees that today’s recognition would last until dawn.

He could earn a fine income one month, then not see a penny the next.

The endless invitations to salons and piles of requests for portraits and other commissions might dry up at a moment’s notice; today’s flood could well be tomorrow’s drought.

Moreover, while Julia had said little about her own background, it was clear she was born a gentlewoman.

Most governesses were, after all, for who else could a gentleman trust to educate his children?

A governess must be educated, and she must have the manners and social graces of the upper class, to properly instruct her pupils.

Julia’s own manner and carriage echoed this supposition.

How she spoke, how she walked, even how she wore the plain frocks that made up her wardrobe, all betrayed her origins.

She was high-born, and could never be expected to live with a painter, for artists were believed to consort with those segments of society who eschewed convention and spurned morality.

No matter what great men invited them into their houses to paint or to teach, or which preeminent ladies of fashion invited them to join their salons or even to dine with the ton , artists were held to be intrinsically flawed creatures.

Dancers and courtesans were deemed to be his lot, not the daughter of some important but presumably impoverished landholder.

But even that, he might convince himself, was a surmountable barrier if the lady were willing. No, the true impediment to any future association between them—the real reason he was here, out in the far reaches of Cornwall—that… that was where things became quite impossible.

He simply could not allow himself to fall in love with her.

Why, then, was he still holding her so close to him, pulling her soft body against his on this magical moonlit night, and why was she not pulling away?

A sudden gust of wind blew up from the sea below, catching his hat, and as he reached up to grab it before it blew away, the spell was broken. It had lasted for less than a second, although it felt like a lifetime. Julia gasped and struggled out of his embrace.

“Mr Robertson!” she exclaimed with horror. “How dare you? What were you thinking?”

What had he been thinking?

“You looked cold. I only meant…” The words fell awkwardly at his feet.

But before he could say any more, she gathered her cloak about her and tore back into the woods, making with great haste towards the house.

Black disappointment settled upon him. He had hoped to smooth their differences, regain that friendly rapport he had enjoyed so much. But more important now, he needed to ensure she returned safely.

Cramming his hat onto his head, he plunged into the woods after her.

“Please, Julia, wait. Let me at least walk back with you. I had no ill intentions. Please wait!”

Her steps slowed, but she did not turn around, nor did she stop.

He ran faster still, his longer legs allowing him to catch up with her. He stayed a few feet away, close enough to speak without shouting, far enough not to threaten her. His breath came hard after his dash through the woods.

“I did not mean to frighten you. Can we walk back together, please?”

“No.” The word cut through the air.

“I will not come any closer. I need to see you return safely.”

“I can see to my own safety, thank you.” She charged ahead, her steps now faster.

“I meant no harm?—”

“You insult me, Mr Robertson.”

That stopped his charge.

“Insult? What? How? I intended no such thing.”

Julia stopped as well and spun about to glare at him.

“You insult me by assuming I am the sort of lady who permits such… familiarities. Such intimacies. I am not, nor have I ever been. Good night, sir.” With which, she turned again and ran into the night.

They had travelled far enough by now that the house was in sight, and Cornelius watched as Julia flew across the grassy lawns and into the door near the kitchens. She was safe, and he need not pursue her anymore.

But what had she meant? What had happened to her that she had to insist she had never been that sort ? It seemed there was more to the tale of stern Miss Lyddon than she wished to divulge.

He would not sleep in his warm bedchamber in the house tonight. He could not bear the thought, the discomfiture. She would not wish him so near, and he was still reeling from her unexpected accusations.

Something had happened, and he needed to learn what.

He turned towards his studio, where his cot awaited. He lit a fire to warm the room, but before preparing for bed, he sat himself down at his desk with the lamp glowing bright and a clean sheet of paper before him.

He had been out of society for a great many years, but old friends, he hoped, would not have forgotten him or forsaken him despite his unconventional life. Geoffrey Hamilton had been such a friend once. Would he prove so still?

Dipping a quill into the small pot of ink he had, Cornelius started to write.

Geoffrey, my old friend,

You will be most surprised to hear from me after all this time, but I have a problem I dearly hope you can help me to solve…

The public room at the tavern was half-full already by the time Cornelius ambled in.

The sun was low in the afternoon sky and down the embankment at the little harbour, clouds of gulls and other birds circled about in search of any leavings from the day’s catch, but lamps burned bright in the White Lion that stood proudly on Porthawen’s market square.

Cornelius had tutored Selina and Harriet this morning, as usual, but then had sent along a message excusing himself from his afternoon sessions.

Instead of instructing the younger children and continuing with Julia’s portrait, he had set out towards the town with one of the servants, who was driving there to collect some provisions for the estate.

It was only a four-mile distance; he could walk back under the light of the moon if there was no one with a cart to drive him later.

Now inside the cosy tavern, Cornelius hoisted his satchel over a shoulder as he looked about the room.

He found a table near one surprisingly clean window, and he set his bag down before going to the bar to order an ale.

With the flagon on the table, he began rustling through his sack, pulling out a large pad of drawing paper attached to a wooden board, and a box of charcoals.

Positioning the flagon in the perfect spot to produce the best shadows and highlights, he began to sketch the little still-life scene.

This being done to his satisfaction, he cast his eyes about the room.

This was a respectable establishment, but a modest one, catering to all classes from the area, with the possible exception of some of the more uppity gentry or the local nobility.

Well-dressed merchants sat near fishermen just in from their day on the waves; farmers raised their cups alongside the blacksmith.

Cornelius knew that Mr Derriscott had enjoyed an ale in this room whilst in the town on matters of business, and he had heard that even the vicar was known to stop in for an ale and a chin-wag from time to time.

In a small town in Cornwall, social boundaries were looser than those in London.