Page 6 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Five

CORNELIUS

T he following few days were busy ones for Cornelius. As he had previously settled with Mr Derriscott, his first task, even before really getting to know his new pupils, was to set up his studio.

For this, he had the great fortune to be given a structure, separate from but within a short walk of the great house, for his personal use.

This was where he would produce his art for the duration of his time at Brookview Hall.

And while he would sleep and eat in the great house—for Mr Derriscott had decided it would never do for his children to be taught in the same place a man slept—Cornelius had also arranged for a small cot and blankets to be transported there along with his easels and supplies, for those nights when he was unable or unwilling to return to his assigned chambers.

The studio suited him well. It was part of a former greenhouse within the walled kitchen garden, situated on the far side of the lawns and fountain that backed the house. It was close enough to make the walk in five or six minutes—three if one hurried—but far enough to feel separate.

The greenhouse had been abandoned only two years past, when Mr Derriscott had built a new orangerie attached to the great house, and had been partially rebuilt, although with what purpose in mind, Cornelius could not say.

Still, it was ideal for his current needs.

There was a small cottage attached, possibly where the head gardener once had his offices.

It included a small kitchen with a table and modern iron stove where he could prepare some tea or simple meals, a tiny storage room, and three small rooms up a very steep staircase—one of which he had fashioned into a makeshift bedroom unknown to his employer—and a suitable outbuilding.

But its great glory, for him, was the large space that once had been the greenhouse proper, now with a solid roof, but with two large walls of windows to allow sunlight to flood the space.

One faced north, perfect for the steady afternoon light he needed, and the other faced south, giving him a view through the surrounding woods to the sea.

A man could become quite spoiled by such luxuries.

Cornelius wandered through his studio-cottage again, taking mental stock of what he had and what he needed, and wrote out some notes on the small desk in the corner, before deciding where to first set up his easel.

Here, the sun would be perfect in the afternoons. There would be ideal for putting up a second easel for Miss Selina. And there, along the far wall near the fireplace, he could envision setting up a soft background and a comfortable chair, to paint the beautiful but cold Miss Lyddon.

He pictured her, sitting just so, early in the morning with the golden light of oblique sunshine gilding her delicate features. What would her eyes look like in that shimmer of dawn? Would they be fathomless pools of darkness, or would they reflect fire and betray her most dearly kept secrets?

Yes, he must decide how to pose her, where to have her look.

Should her hair be pulled tight against her elegant head, the better to see the shape of the skull beneath, or could he convince her into a softer style?

Perhaps Mrs Derriscott—who, he believed, was away visiting friends—had a maid who might serve to do Miss Lyddon’s hair. He must ask his employer.

And then, together, perhaps, they must choose what she would wear. She need not wear this every day, but the neckline would affect her pose, as would any accoutrements, like a shawl or necklace.

He discovered a smile had crept across his face.

Miss Lyddon had not recommended herself to him on their first meeting, but something about her drew him, something other than her handsome features.

He might not undress her body for his art, but oh, how he looked forward to peeling away the layers of stringency that she had placed over her soul.

Because there was something else in there, deep down.

He felt it as surely as he felt the breeze from the ocean or the warmth of the sun.

What a treat it would be, discovering who lurked beneath that rigid schoolmistress surface.

Once his studio was prepared, Cornelius began his work with the children.

He taught the younger ones in the small chamber beside the school room where they were accustomed to having their lessons.

With the door open and Miss Kingstone hovering about, this conformed to every level of decorum and propriety, and it permitted the children to skip to and from his lessons in mere moments.

It was quite convenient, and he had no need of the larger studio for youngsters still learning to hold a piece of charcoal.

For Miss Selina and her friend Miss Harriet, he preferred the studio.

The two young ladies both came as planned after their breakfast, and although it might be said they could chaperone each other, they were accompanied by an upper housemaid, some woman or another of respectable age and gravitas.

Cornelius was happy enough for this. He had no intentions towards these girls other than teaching them art, but it was always better to have no questions at all raised about his behaviour.

He had seen too many reputations ruined by untrue innuendo.

Selina was a gifted artist. He had seen as much the moment he set his eyes on that first painting. Oh, she was mostly untutored and had a lot to learn, but she was keen and was willing to explore new techniques and ideas. Their lessons together were a source of joy to him.

It was not until several days had passed in this manner that Miss Lyddon arrived at the cottage for her first session with him.

His aim, today, was to try different poses and take some preliminary sketches, to see how the light caught her features, and to see which expressions would translate best to the medium of art.

While he preferred, in general, to paint portraits in the early morning or late afternoon, when the light was soft and warm and the shadows interesting, such was not necessary now.

Later, when he began working with colours and depth, the time of day would become more important.

It was, therefore, approaching two o’clock when at last, Miss Lyddon tapped at the studio door.

Her morning lessons were complete, and Miss Kingstone had planned to take the boys on a romp through the woods while Annie and Selina were visiting the dressmaker in the town three-and-a-half miles distant.

Cornelius was surprised that she had come alone.

Perhaps, with the enthusiastic sanction of their employer for this portrait, she deemed her reputation secondary to the creation of art.

She edged into the large room, wary eyes taking in all the paraphernalia that cluttered the space.

Cornelius imagined the studio as seen through her eyes.

A few mostly complete landscapes leaned against one wall, their wooden frames supporting the stretched canvases that burst to life with his moody scenes.

These needed only a light touch here or a bit of detail there to better define something, to highlight a detail or draw the eye.

There, against another wall, were a scattering of other stretched canvases of various sizes, these unpainted, their matte cream-toned expanses empty wells, voids into which he would soon pour shape and shadow, light and line, to create his art.

His desk, messy already with sheets of paper scattered all over in no apparent order, took up one corner, and a tray that held his paints and a selection of brushes, turpentine, and linseed oil, occupied part of the floor.

And there, in the centre of everything, tall and imposing, was his main easel.

The smaller one, which Selina used, had been pushed into the corner opposite his desk.

This large one held a half-complete seascape, a sweep of blues and greys, splashed with ivory and brown, tinged with hints of green and orange here and there.

What was she seeing? Did she understand his vision, recognise how this mess of colour would soon meld into the better-defined shapes and objects that the public would see?

Or did those lovely eyes only perceive wild swaths of meaningless paint?

She stopped before it, gazing intensely for several seconds. She leaned in a bit, then stepped back, and frowned.

“It is a powerful piece,” she said at last. “I can feel the storm gathering, even though the sky is still mostly clear. It makes me shiver.”

He grinned. Yes, there was definitely something passionate beneath her stern persona. She saw the art under the image, the essence that supported the external. He sent up a quick plea to his muse that his portrait would convey even a small part of what he hoped to discover about her.

But of all this, he said nothing.

“Thank you,” he replied instead. “That is quite what I have intended. I hope to finish this soon, to add to my collection.”

She turned her head towards the mostly complete paintings.

“And those? Are those your collection? They look exceptionally fine to me.”

A rush of pride swelled his chest. She was not an artist or a critic, but he never tired of hearing people praise his paintings.

“Thank you. I have a few touches to add to them before I am satisfied. And please, do not ask what, exactly, those might be. I need to look at them and wait for the idea to appear before me. And then I will be amazed that it was not obvious from the moment I picked up a brush. But that is always how it goes with me.”

She took a step closer. “May I look at those underneath?”

“Yes, of course.”

She perused them for another while. “They are all landscapes.”

Her question, unstated, was nonetheless clear.

“I have painted many portraits before, mostly by commission to grace some lord’s portrait gallery or to hang over his desk.

But while I enjoy any expression of art, portraits can be limiting.

The patron insists on this particular clothing, or that background, or a certain expression, or a particular object to be included.

I might see a man as a mysterious scholar, but if he insists on being painted in his hunting pinks with a horn in hand and his hound at his side, that is what I must paint.

” He took in a deep breath. “Landscapes are less demanding. They have other requirements, of course, but I can approach them however I wish.”

“And my portrait?” Her eyes were fixed on his.

“I hope you will let me guide you as to the particulars. You are, as I said, beautiful—no, this is plain fact—and I hope to exhibit your portrait as one of several with my land- and seascapes.”

She dropped her eyes, but did not object.

Cornelius then guided her to the chair he had set up, in front of a frame from which he had hung a length of rich grey fabric, to provide a soft background. At his request, she took her seat and the work began.

Despite her concerns with the prospect of sitting for a portrait, she was a fine model, moving her head this way and that, looking forward or to the side, shifting her shoulders, and adopting different expressions, as he requested.

And while he danced his charcoal across the sketching paper, recording what he saw to examine later, she held her pose without complaint.

By the time he had exhausted his series of requests, over two hours had elapsed, and dozens of sketches littered every surface, including the floor.

He had captured her face on paper, from the front, in profile, looking up, glancing down, smiling, and serious, and everything in between.

Her features were in his fingers now; he felt he knew every line of her, every expression.

How her nose tilted just before the tip, how her eyebrows arched and pinched when she concentrated.

He knew the curve of her brow and the angle of her chin, and the little twitch at the corner of her mouth when she wanted to argue with him but did not dare.

He had captured her face, and as he had drawn her, foolish as it seemed, he had begun to fear that she had captured his heart.