Page 13 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Eleven

JULIA

F or the first time since taking up her position at Brookview Hall four years before, Julia desperately wished for a true friend.

Miss Kingstone was pleasant enough company, more than satisfactory for a chat or to pass the time with when they were freed of their obligations, but she was not the sort to whom Julia could pour out her heart, and oh, how dearly she needed to do that.

Once, too many years ago—before—she had enjoyed such deep bonds.

Never one for excessive frivolity or socialising, Julia had nonetheless had a small number of intimate friends.

Memories of long summer evenings at Dorothea’s family’s country house, sitting up until the dawn, confessing their dreams and hopes for the future, danced through her head.

Recollections of preparing for her first ball with Henrietta and Isobel, of laughing and imagining which of the sea of handsome gentlemen they would choose for husbands.

Whispering afterwards of the terror the idea of marriage brought, of their fears that were cloaked beneath the glittering exterior of joy.

She could not talk to Miss Kingstone about deeply intimate matters like that.

She needed not a companion, but a confidante, the sort who felt like another part of her, whom she knew would understand her and not sit in judgement, the sort who would bare their own souls because they felt the same about her. Someone like Cornelius?—

No! That was impossible. He was the cause of her distress; he could hardly be its anodyne. What had made her think of him?

Was it the memory of his arm that felt so warm and right on her shoulder, pulling her close?

Was it the most alarming realisation that she wanted him to do so?

Or the fact that this desire was more powerful than the competing impulse to pull away at once.

After… After what had happened in London, she had not thought she could ever abide a man’s touch again.

And yet rather than terrifying her, Cornelius had made her feel safe. Cared for.

And that scared her more than anything.

How was she to make sense of this? What was she to do?

Julia pulled her shawl about her shoulders to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and stared out her window, as she had for the last two days, since her ill-fated moonlit walk with Cornelius.

She glanced at her small writing desk, at the sheet of paper and the pen that lay beside the open inkwell.

She trimmed her pen and lined a sheet of paper, then with a sigh, began to write.

Dear Dorothea,

It has been far too long since my last letter, but I have not known what to write.

The children are getting along as they should, and young Charlie is at last holding his pencil correctly, which has done a great deal of good for the formation of his letters.

I must attribute this great advance to the hard work of Mr Robertson, the painting master.

The children all like him and strive to please him, and Miss Selina’s paintings, which I have written about before, are progressing from fine amateur works to something I would expect to see in a gallery.

Again, Master Robertson’s expert guidance has been the key here.

I hope the children know how fortunate they are.

But oh, Dot, what am I to do about Mr Robertson?

He has me confused and perplexed to the point where I hardly know my own name.

He intrigues me and delights me, and yes, he scares me, and often all at once.

Do not misunderstand me. He is not threatening in any way, and I have not once felt my person to be at risk while in his presence.

Just the opposite: I feel safer with him than with almost anybody I know.

He is nothing at all like— I shall not write further on that.

But it is, rather, my own reaction to him that scares me so, and that in itself frightens me all the more.

How am I to respond to a man who attracts me more than is prudent, and who leads me to think of things that a well-bred young lady ought never to think?

Mostly, I just want to be with him. Whether it is to have a long discussion about mathematics in art, or an argument about respect and lack thereof, or simply to sit in silence and watch him paint, I find that I am happiest when I am in his presence.

When we are apart, I count the hours until I see him again.

Tell me, Dot, is it hopeless? Have I fallen in love with him? For it seems that way, and it is quite impossible. I cannot allow this to happen; I must be ever aware of the slightest slip. After… well, you know… I must be absolutely above reproach.

So why, then, can I not seem to stay away?

Dearest Dorothea, I wish I had your wise words to guide me through this muddle. Until such time as I have the joy of hearing them, I remain your dearest friend,

Julia

She blotted the letter and paced the room while the ink dried, alternately glaring reproachfully at the desk and gazing out the window into the late afternoon sunlight.

At length, she folded the paper most carefully, taking care not to crease it unnecessarily, and dropped a bit of wax on the seam, before impressing it with a small seal.

Then she slid open the bottom drawer of the desk and carefully untied a ribbon that held a pile of similar letters, before adding it to the stack and retying the cord. Six years’ worth of letters to her dearest friend, all unsent. For Dorothea, it must seem as if Julia had never existed.

With a deep sigh, she closed the drawer and turned away, her mind still unsettled.

Perhaps Cornelius, after all, was the person to whom she should speak. Her stomach roiled at the thought, but something must be done.

And she had been unaccountably harsh on him.

His actions were a tad too familiar, perhaps, but he was an artist, and everybody knew about this strange race’s impulsive tendencies.

He intended no harm—of that she was certain—and bringing the incident out into the open and discussing it might ease her own mind.

She must also apologise. They did have to continue working together, after all, and it would do the children no good for this wound between them to fester.

Julia glanced at the clock on her mantel. Four o’clock. The day’s lessons were over, but she had not gone for her portrait sessions these past two days. She would screw up her courage, accept the ignominy of admitting she was wrong, and go to the studio in hope that the artist was within.

The door, when she arrived, was closed, and no answer came to her first tentative knock.

Nor was there any response to a second, louder one.

She walked around to the wall where the bank of windows lit the interior space.

There were no flickering lights within, no sight of anybody about.

Cornelius had been at the house to instruct the younger children; he must have gone elsewhere afterwards.

This was his right. Knowing that Julia would not be attending their portrait sessions, he had no obligation to work in his studio.

Once his lessons were over, he could manage his time as he wished.

He might be out sketching some landscape somewhere in preparation for another painting, or simply out for a stroll.

She damped down a sudden wish to know where he was so she might go to find him, and returned, rather downcast, to the house.

Nor was Cornelius there the following day. He had left a note this time, excusing but not explaining his absence, which was something more than he had done before. When he was absent the following day as well, and the day after that, Julia began to grow concerned.

She walked down to the studio once more after her lessons for the day were over.

The door was still locked, the interior of the cottage still dark.

Had he taken his equipment, his canvases and brushes and easels, and sent them all back to London?

What had he done with the oil paintings that were not yet dry?

Were they sitting up against the walls, biding their time until they could be crated up and loaded on the back of a cart?

Perturbed by her distress, Julia shoved her hands into the pockets of the outsized great coat she wore while on outings with the children.

She was about to stomp away in frustration when her fingers found a cold item buried under the linen handkerchief she kept there to clean one of the younger ones’ dirty faces. A key!

For a moment she was confused, until she lit upon what it was.

It was the key to the studio! She had borrowed it on that first occasion when Cornelius had vanished, but little Charlie had hurt himself in the stream before she could return it, and she—and presumably Mr Derriscott—had forgotten all about it with their concern for the little boy. Of course it would still be there.

Did she dare? Was it a grave intrusion into the artist’s private space?

She stood on the doorstep for a long time pondering this.

Cornelius’ studio was merely his workspace.

He was not the sort of artist of whom Julia had heard tell, who refused any glimpse of a work before it was complete.

Rather, he was pleased to show his progress at each stage, and would talk about what he was doing with the light and shadow, or how he was employing his selection of brushes.

Happening upon an incomplete painting would not be any different than sitting, watching him paint.

Neither was the studio really his private lair. He had his rooms in the house, where he retired after meals, where he slept and changed his clothing… No! She would not think about that. Her face grew warm.

Still, his studio was not his personal fiefdom any more than the schoolroom was hers.

It was merely a space where he might carry out the work he was here to do.

And if Mr Derriscott had thought it inappropriate to enter, he would not have handed her the key with so little thought as to its return. It must be acceptable.

With a deep breath, Julia stepped back towards the door, slid the key into the lock, and turned it.

Julia let her eyes adjust to the dim interior of the studio. After the bright sunlight outside, the room, despite the large windows, was momentarily reduced to darkness and shadow. Gradually, shapes and colours emerged, until she could look about the space with no difficulty.

Everything seemed as it had been on her last visit.

The large easel, still holding the grand landscape Cornelius was currently painting, held court in the very centre of the room, where the windows’ light could best illuminate it.

Beside it, on a smaller easel, was Selina’s quite remarkable latest work, and from another easel, smaller still and now shifted to the side of the room, Julia’s own face stared at her from a handsome portrait.

His chair was there, his table holding the tubes of paint he used, a number of palettes, and a veritable forest of brushes and small trowels, as well as the sealed jars of turpentine and linseed oil.

All seemed as it should be.

Julia wandered over to the desk that stood against the far wall.

Her fingers riffled through the untidy assortment of papers there.

She would not read anything he had written of course, but there was no harm in glancing at the sketches, which comprised most of the messy piles.

There were a few pencil drawings of the children, presumably from memory, although he might have done them during their lessons, and a handful of the house from different angles.

A close view of some late roses, a still life, a remarkable sketch of the village, considering it was achieved with just a few lines, and a collection of drawings, all similar, of a little boat just offshore.

She recognised the island in the picture; it lay a short distance from the beach a couple of miles away.

He had captured its outlines perfectly. But, she wondered, why so many drawings of that one little craft?

It was not a fishing boat. Was it a pleasure boat, enjoyed by some gentleman nearby, or by holiday makers, such as those who sojourned at Weymouth for a week or more?

She did not recall ever seeing this boat, but then she was seldom out at the cliffs, or in one of the seaside villages, during the day.

That was when she was tending to the children, after all.

She tried to arrange the papers much as she had found them and continued her survey of the room.

Here was the stack of canvases, there the box of tools he used, and that…

What was that? A small bag, brown canvas and quite nondescript, seemingly hidden behind the box of tools.

It was not entirely covered but protruded enough that anyone looking down might see it.

He could not have meant to conceal it, else he would have found a more secure place.

Almost without thinking, she crouched down to examine the bag.

It held a single bottle, two smaller bags, and a scrap of what looked like rather fine silk. How odd.

The bottle, when held up to the light, looked to be filled with brandy.

There was a label on it, confirming her supposition.

Driven by curiosity, she opened the strings tying one of the smaller bags closed.

She sniffed at the crumbling brown substance inside.

Why, it was nothing but tea. The other smelled like tobacco.

Now, she scolded herself, a gentleman had every right to sit in the evening with a glass of brandy, and with the war with France being over, such was not difficult to find in England, no matter the high price.

There was no cause for alarm upon finding such in the studio.

Never once had Julia found Cornelius to be at all inebriated, nor had she ever detected the faintest scent of alcohol about him.

If he did partake in the evenings, it was entirely during his private hours and with all appropriate moderation.

Nor had she ever smelled tobacco about him, although she presumed all gentlemen smoked.

And everybody was entitled to enjoy a cup of tea.

But why, then, was only this one, sealed bottle of brandy present? Where was the open one he was presumably enjoying, and the glass to go with it? And why hide the bottle, along with the tobacco and the tea, behind his box of tools? Further, what was that scrap of silk?

Unsettling questions began forming at the back of Julia’s mind, and she did not like the picture they were starting to form. Not at all.