Page 9 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Eight

CORNELIUS

“ W here on earth have you been?”

Julia rounded in on Cornelius the moment they were alone. She had smiled coldly but civilly when he entered her classroom in search of Miss Selina and Miss Harriet, and again when he came to tutor the younger children in drawing, but he knew she would hold her fire until she entered his studio.

He wondered, briefly, if she would come at all.

But he could not regret what he had done.

“What business is it of yours where I have been? Am I to answer to a governess?”

Her eyes, those deep clear brown pools, narrowed and he swore he saw flames in them.

“You are engaged here to teach the children, and as their governess, I am responsible for their education. Including,” she added in tight syllables, “that which you are supposed to offer them. With this in mind, yes, sir, you are to answer to me.”

No wonder she kept such control of the children. Even on that very first day, when they had seemed so wild in their schoolroom, tossing toys about onto phalanxes of tin soldiers, she had restored order in seconds, with nothing more than the intonation of her voice.

Now he understood why. That voice, seemingly quiet and coming from a not-very-large person, could freeze oceans.

“Your arrival here at Brookview Hall came as a great surprise to me,” she continued, each word encased in steel.

“Despite having set plans for how to manage their lessons and the ordering of the day, I did everything necessary at a moment’s notice to accommodate you, and even then, you did not appear on time.

And now, when we have adjusted to your requirements and your needs, and when the children have learned what to expect each day, you simply disappear without a word, leaving us all wondering what has happened.

It is difficult enough for the older girls, who can adapt easily.

For young Roger, who depends upon routine, it is excessively disruptive. It is not acceptable.

“Nor is it fair to me, not only as a governess but also as someone whom, only days ago, you called your friend. Did you not think I would be worried about you? Or that I would not be hurt by your sudden disappearance? Now, I ask you again, where were you?”

Oh heavens. This he had not considered. What was he to say? The full truth would never do, but perhaps half a truth would.

“I was out, walking and looking for suitable locations. For my paintings,” he added quickly.

“I told you that I was here to paint. I cannot restrict myself to the vistas one can see from the estate, lovely as they are. A single painting by the cliffs will do well, and perhaps one of the house as seen through the trees, but I need variety. Did you know there is a little island off the coast that one can see from a few miles— Oh, yes, of course. You do. And whilst the village is lovely, and the town of Porthawen as well, Polperro has some magnificent views, both from the harbour and of the town itself.”

“You walked to Polperro?” Julia asked, before he could go on. Her eyes were wide.

“It is not far.”

“It must be twelve miles away, or more!”

“I am accustomed to walking in order to find my landscapes, although I confess the cliff path is a bit strenuous at times…”

She gaped at him.

“I did not take my large easel, only the small folding one I can put in my sack to carry, and a set of watercolour cakes, to take a series of quick sketches before deciding where to return to capture the scene in oils.”

“You walked for three days?”

He nodded. “I did. Although I was able to beg a ride back with a farmer for part of the distance. Would you like to see my paintings?” He beamed at her in pride.

Without waiting for her reply, Cornelius moved to the table where he had set the small images. The watercolour paint, while not his chosen medium and not one at which he excelled, dried quickly and was perfectly suitable for such quests as the one he had been on.

He found the thin cards on which he had painted and fanned them out so Julia could see them.

“Here is the view from the cliffs, where we walked together, and here is another, looking inland, to where the village nestles on the side of the hill near the bend in the river. This is the sunrise over that little island. I had hoped it would be lovely, with the sun casting its light on the side of the rocky mounds like that, and this one…” he went on, describing each quick painting in turn.

As he spoke, he noticed Julia’s jaw soften and the fire in her eyes abate.

“These really are exceptional,” she said at last. “No, do not take on that exasperated look, nor should you tease me. I know you are a brilliant artist. But again, I have to wonder why someone with your skills is here, out in the far reaches of Cornwall. You have said that this is where the scenery is, but surely you could find locations just as lovely closer to London. Is that not where all your friends are? You could paint anywhere, and people would fall over themselves to see and purchase your work.”

“Ah. As to that,” he replied, his voice low and conspiratorial, “let us say I have my reasons. Perhaps I do not wish to sit in a line of fellow artists, all painting the identical scene from the identical vantage point. Perhaps I wish to find something special, something no other artist has done. Perhaps I wish to see the fishermen pull their nets in as the sun dips low, the sun gilding the ropes in gold and sending long shadows over the sandy shore. Perhaps I wish to stand at the bottom of a cliff and stare up at the sky while the gulls circle about me, not in search of a crumb from my pocket but just doing what birds do. And perhaps, my dear Miss Lyddon, I have had enough of my so-called friends from London for a while and wish to see different people.”

He stopped short. He had not meant to say this much, to reveal things that ought, rather, to be kept concealed. But his confession, unwitting as it was, did seem to satisfy her, for she gave a terse nod and did not revisit the topic.

Her anger also seemed to have dissipated.

“Very well,” she conceded at last. “You do not need to explain or justify your wanderings. You do not need to answer to me in that regard. But as a friend, I would appreciate being informed of these rambles, so I do not worry unnecessarily, and as the children’s governess, I would very much like to be able to inform them if their art lessons are not to occur and to be able to plan my time accordingly. ”

Cornelius clenched his teeth. This did not entirely suit his purposes, but it was not an unreasonable request. He released his jaw.

“Very well. I often find myself moved, at a moment’s notice, to set out in search of that magical situation, which cries out to my hands to be painted, and I cannot promise not to obey that call.

When I feel the need to wander, I cannot resist it.

But I will make every effort to send a message. Will that do?”

Julia shook her head, despite the small smile on her face.

“I suppose it must.”

Now that he was back at Brookview Hall—for the time being, at least—Cornelius quickly settled back into his previous routine.

He rose early each morning, while Aurora was still donning her morning garb, and took a quick cup of coffee and a roll or piece of pie in the kitchens before slipping out to his studio.

He found peace and inspiration in this beautiful soft morning light, the golden shimmer of the rising sun dancing on the trees and setting the rocks on fire.

Sometimes he took his small carrying easel to the cliffs to dab with his watercolours; sometimes he set one of his almost-complete paintings on the large easel to add some missing detail; at other times still, he worked furiously at the seascape that was, by now, almost complete.

It would take weeks for the paint to dry to the touch, and much longer still to cure fully, but he was seeing the painting in its final form and he was pleased.

Later in the morning, long after he had begun his own work, Selina and Harriet would arrive, accompanied by some respectable servant.

These sessions he enjoyed a great deal. Even Harriet Rowse, whom he had disregarded at first, had a sweet touch with watercolours, and while she would never be a master, she might one day produce some pretty life paintings or portraits of friends that she could be proud to hang in a salon.

But Selina, ah, there was a talent. They talked about composition and shading, about movement and light, how to blend colours, and even, how to make pigments.

He showed her how to build deep perspective with colour, and taught her techniques for using different tools and brushes to create a variety of effects on the canvas.

With each session, her work progressed, and he hoped one day to introduce her to some of the artists he knew in London, who might help her gain some renown, should her family permit it.

After luncheon, which he often ate at the kitchen table with the cook and her helpers for company, he wandered up to the schoolroom to work with the younger children.

These lessons he tolerated. The children were sweet enough, and Annie, at least, was enthusiastic, but they were the price of his tenure here.

Still, for the comfortable accommodations, plentiful and tasty meals, as well as the compensation he received from Mr Derriscott, it was a relatively small price, and he approached these lessons with good grace if not fervour.

But then, ah, then his day really began.

For then, after he had left the house and returned to his studio, after the day’s lessons were over and the children sent off with Miss Kingstone, he had the great joy of spending time with Julia.

The pretext was his portrait, of course.

She had to come and sit for him, and he did work at the painting during these sessions.

But the process was far slower than it needed to be, for they spent the greater part of their time deep in conversation, the emerging image of her lovely face on the canvas quite forgotten in favour of the original.

The more time they spent in each other’s company, the more she became easy with him and allowed glimpses of her inner spark to shine through the staid facade she had erected.

That she was very well educated was evident.

She understood more of history and science than many of the men he knew from school and university, and she could converse easily about music and literature.

He wondered, not for the first time, about her earlier life, that she had been the recipient of so thorough an education.

He could not ask, no matter how much the name Lyddon danced around the corners of his recollection, taunting him with some forgotten connection.

What did surprise him, more and more, was the passion she kept so well hidden.

He had noticed it on that first day, when she sensed the growing storm in his seemingly placid seascape.

She demurred that it was his skill as an artist that conveyed the unsettled air, and quietly roiling water.

“You have painted little crests on the waves, where they might be smooth,” she had explained on further consideration of the work, “and the sky there, at the horizon, is heavier than above.” But the painting had been quite incomplete, and he had not yet begun to emphasise those details that would convey this to a greater audience.

She saw. She understood. She felt.

If he were any other man, if she were any other woman, he would allow himself to fall in love with her.