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Chapter 15

True Colors

J ulianna’s life had returned to its previous rhythms on both its major fronts: the magazine and Effie.

The November issue had come and gone and she’d been quite satisfied with it. December was in hand. The American alligators had not come in early enough, alas, but she had resigned herself to swapping in the Great Tea Debate. Julianna and Mr. Glanvil were arguing about color plates. In other words, magazine life continued apace.

On the other side of things: Julianna and Effie had resumed their correspondence.

It was curious, though, that she thought of her life as having two major fronts. For so long there had been only one: the magazine above all . But, she reminded herself, friendship was important. After that initial dose of formality bordering on frostiness in Effie’s first—first new—letter, she and Effie had regained their previous degree of intimacy. Everything was well. Except . . .

Everything was also very unsettled.

Which was curious, because she never used to feel that way. Her work fulfilled and stimulated her. She loved her sister and her sister’s family, even if living with them was sometimes awkward. She had been happy with and proud of the life she had made for herself and had felt settled. Rooted.

She no longer felt that way. In fact, she felt the opposite: restless. Easily distracted. The world seemed drabber than it used to, as if it were a plate in need of the color that Mr. Glanvil would not allow.

She suspected she knew what was wrong: it was the dream. The one in which Father visited the office and seemed to want to tell her something but found himself unable to speak. She had it nearly every night now. Her advice to Effie regarding controlling one’s dreams had been featherbrained. It didn’t work at all.

“Hello? Jules?”

But perhaps Effie had managed to get it to work? To invade her dreams? For she must be dreaming now. There was no way Effie was here, in her office, at two o’clock on a dreary Thursday in early November.

“Miss Evans, I have come to seek your counsel regarding my treatise on the Pavilion.”

Hmm. Unless Effie had managed to bring a friend with him on his nocturnal wanderings, Julianna was not, in fact, dreaming, for that last sentence had come from Lord Marsden.

She rose unsteadily from her desk. “Goodness. Effie. Lord Marsden.” She was flustered. Julianna had never been flustered in her life.

Effie looked . . . different. Still himself—he was wearing a scarlet waistcoat embroidered with black thread—but he was blurry.

“I say, Jules, what a smashing eyepiece. You look like a scientist, or a deep-sea explorer.”

Oh, yes. Effie was blurry because she was wearing a magnifying glass fashioned in the style of a monocle over one eye—she used it to proofread stories because she had discovered she found errors more reliably when she examined the text up close.

She fumbled it off, and the gentlemen came into focus.

“I know you’re up to your eyeballs in December, perhaps literally.” Effie quirked a smile. “But Simon was agonizing over his assignment—something to do with parapets, I think?—and, knowing I would be no help, I suggested we call on you.”

She wasn’t sure what to say. On the one hand, she was so unaccountably happy to see him. It was all she could do to refrain from throwing her arms around him. On the other hand, she had asked that they not see each other in person anymore, and here he was, on the flimsiest of excuses. On the third hand—and she was well aware that she did not have three hands—the Pavilion story was going to be a centerpiece of a future issue, and she welcomed the opportunity to shape it.

“Mind you,” Effie continued when she did not speak, “initially I’d thought he said parakeets , and I was well-prepared to opine on that topic, but no, it turns out a parapet does not fly through the air and chirp, so I lost interest.”

Effie was speaking blithely but eyeing her closely. He opened his mouth again, as if to keep rambling—he was talking because he knew she was discomfited and was buying her time.

She gathered herself and said to Lord Marsden, “We also have to decide what to do about your byline, my lord.”

“Speaking of December, is this it?” Effie walked over to a large table covered with papers, each marked with a number, in a spread-out mock-up of the issue.

“Yes.”

He walked around, eyeing the pages. “Where is the famous sunrise dress? As I’ve said, I do adore your year-end fashion spread.”

“So do my readers. The Christmas issue always sells well, and while Mr. Glanvil thinks it is because of our Lord and Savior, I think it’s because of the dresses.”

Lord Marsden snickered. Julianna went to stand next to Effie and pointed at the dress he was asking about. “See this ruffle? It is meant to be a kind of transitional color between the orange and yellow I told you about. A sort of apricot shade, if you will.”

Effie cooed appreciatively. “So you will have that plate colored, I suppose.”

“I thought to. Mr. Glanvil won’t allow it, though, as he favors coloring an illustration that will accompany a piece on Christmas tabletop ornamentation.”

“A pity.”

“Yes, but it is an improvement on his initial plan, which was to reserve color for the nativity scene. I made quite the impassioned speech to try to save the sunrise dress. The nativity scene, which we have all seen a hundred versions of in a hundred different places, including last year in this very magazine, is to be in color, but the triumph of the Season in Paris, which was a fleeting moment, is relegated to black and white? I asked. He responded by offering the compromise of using color for the tabletop piece. I thought it a modest triumph. The holly-bedecked branch of candles will make for a striking illustration. I console myself that the sunrise dress has enough embellishments that it will render well enough in black and white. At least I am not wasting color yet again on the Holy Family and assorted barn animals.”

Lord Marsden chuckled, startling Julianna. She had forgotten that she and Effie were not alone. She turned to Lord Marsden. “My lord, may I have a look at what you’ve brought me?”

The two of them sat together, and as Julianna skimmed the draft, she was vaguely aware of Effie poking around the office.

After she and Lord Marsden were done discussing his piece, Effie asked, “Who are your neighbors? A dressmaker downstairs, I saw. And it seems you have a solicitor across the hall. But what about above?”

“Flats.”

“Who lives there?”

“Professionals, mostly. The solicitor you mentioned. The dressmaker from downstairs along with her husband, who owns the building.”

He performed one of his single Effie claps. “Well, Simon, if Jules has got you all straightened out, we ought to be going.”

That was it? He had arrived in her office like a cyclone, and now that she’d sorted Lord Marsden, he was leaving?

Although perhaps he hadn’t come in like a cyclone. Perhaps she’d only felt him as such. He had been calm and perfectly measured in his demeanor. Friendly. Because they were friends.

You can’t miss what you don’t let yourself want.

Her old adage surfaced in her mind, but it had long ago ceased to be true.

* * *

What Julianna wanted, she decided over the next week—what she wanted and could actually have—was company.

“I miss Father,” she said to Amy one afternoon when she’d knocked off early and sought out Amy only to find her in the garden dyeing a dress from last Season. A yellow muslin was becoming navy—refashioning garments was one of Amy’s particular talents.

“I miss Mother,” Amy said, surprising Julianna.

“Why don’t you go see her?”

“Why doesn’t she come see us?” Amy countered.

“I . . . don’t know.” It was odd, now that she thought about it, how rarely Mother visited.

“It is much easier for her to travel here than for me to pack the children up and go to her.” Amy stirred the dark water in the washbasin rather more aggressively than seemed called for. “It’s one thing for you to go on your own, but it’s harder for me.”

Julianna felt guilty for having lied to her sister, but not guilty enough to confess. “It is indeed easy for Mother to come here, yet she never does,” she observed. “She didn’t even come for Christmas last year. Why do you think that is?”

“The truth? I don’t think she likes the children.”

Julianna started to protest, but Amy cut her off.

“Mind you, I believe she loves them, but I don’t think she enjoys spending time with them, and Oliver is rather a handful. I don’t think she’s constitutionally suited to babies. I hold out hope that as they get older, she might take more of an interest in them, as she seemed to do with us.”

Julianna never would have come to this conclusion on her own, but now that Amy had pointed out this tendency of Mother’s, it could not be denied. Mother had been somewhat distant when Julianna was young, but Julianna had put that down to having had more in common with Father.

“I am sorry,” Julianna said, and she meant it. “It must be terrible to be missing a beloved parent who is nearby yet . . . absents herself.” She tripped over her own words.

“I miss Father, too, of course, but in a different, less immediate way. It was Mother I spent all my time with. It was always Mother and me, and Father and you. I’m sorry you still miss him so terribly.”

“It isn’t that I still miss him, although I do, it’s more that he’s been . . . on my mind lately.”

“How so?”

Julianna told Amy about the dream, though to do so did not come naturally. “And that’s how it always ends,” she finished, “with him trying and failing to speak.”

“You are probably trying to say something to yourself.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, it isn’t as if you believe Father is actually trying to speak to you.” She set down her paddle. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Say that as if you mean it.” Amy laughed, but not unkindly.

Julianna smiled. “Of course I don’t think he’s trying to tell me something in a literal way. He isn’t sitting on a cloud looking down at us. I just . . . never considered your interpretation. But now that I have, I believe you are correct.”

“So the question is, what are you trying to tell yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sister, may I ask why you are here today?”

“I live here.”

“Yes, but why are you here in the middle of the day on a Thursday? It’s unlike you.”

Julianna’s chest had felt heavy all day. “I think I am lonely.” Either that or she had come down with consumption.

“Oh, Julie.” Amy laid a hand on Julianna’s arm. “You’ve chosen a lonely life.”

Was Amy referring to Julianna’s refusal to marry, or the fact that her chosen vocation required such an investment of time? It hardly mattered, for the point stood. Julianna suppressed her habitual reaction, which was to bristle, to be defensive, and considered that not only did Amy mean well, she had spoken the truth.

“Yes, I suppose I have. The rub is that it’s never felt lonely before.” Julianna used to spend hours alone in the office not even noticing the passage of time.

“What’s different now?”

Everything .

“Nothing.”

“Well, I am delighted to see you with the sun shining down on your lovely face. I am so fatigued come evening. It’s rare that we get to spend time together without Arthur or the children, and I should like to do more of it.”

“Truly?” Julianna was touched.

“Yes. Perhaps that is what you are trying to tell yourself in the guise of Father. Spend more time with your sister .” She had lowered her voice as if imitating Father on that last bit, and they both laughed.

A fanciful idea landed, made a little dent in the rock in Julianna’s chest. “Do you think I could dye the ribbon on my bonnet navy? I could run and get it now.”

Amy agreed, and a few minutes later she plopped said ribbon into her cauldron. “I’m not sure going from gray to navy is going to make much of a difference, if a change is what you’re after.”

“I just thought it would be a little less drab. And I have that navy spencer.”

“Oh, yes, it will look smart with the spencer.”

“But I think I would like a change. Perhaps it is time to have a new dress made.”

“Oh, yes! And may I suggest a departure from your usual palette?”

“By which you mean ‘not gray.’”

“By which I mean ‘not gray,’ Amy confirmed. “Green would be just the thing. It would go so well with your eyes.”

* * *

Julianna was wearing her new moss-green dress three weeks later when Effie came back. Once again, he was not alone. He was accompanied by Lords Marsden and Harcourt and two ladies.

“Hullo, Miss Evans.”

She managed to be less flustered by his appearance this time.

“We are here to paint page four,” he said blithely.

Julianna shot to her feet from where she had been sitting at her desk—so much for less flustered. “Pardon?”

“The more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t abide the sunrise dress being rendered in black and white. Won’t Mr. Glanvil be surprised that there are two color pages in this issue?” He tilted his head as Julianna gaped at him. “Though perhaps it might be better to give him a copy without the dress colored.”

Julianna remained unable to find words, but it didn’t seem to matter, for Effie kept speaking. “I’ve brought some friends. ‘Many hands make light work’—isn’t that something people say? I know the magazines are coming off the press today. What would normally happen after that? Do they somehow get posted from the printing house? They mustn’t, though, because they have to be colored. I admit I don’t know what the normal process is, but I am keen to learn.”

Effie proceeded to introduce her to the Countess of Harcourt, and her sister, Miss Olive Morgan.

Julianna was stunned. So much so that she forgot to curtsy. Or to blink. She still could not speak.

“In summation,” Effie said, “I propose we get as many copies of December here as we can, and get to work.”

“We brought fortifications,” Miss Morgan said, setting a picnic basket on Julianna’s desk and pulling from it a bottle of wine.

“Perhaps that is better saved for when we are done,” Lady Harcourt said. “I have never undertaken this kind of work, but I imagine a steady hand is needed—perhaps wine and watercolor don’t mix.”

Miss Morgan responded to her sister’s supposition by producing a glass. “Oh, pish.”

Everyone looked at Julianna then, all of them all at once, as if they were a flock of birds flying as one and she their leader.

Overwhelmed by . . . everything, Julianna ordered herself to find her voice. She elected to answer Effie’s question of fact. “I have a few dozen copies of December here, and the rest are at the printer, but I could have them delivered here.”

“Splendid.” Effie performed his signature single clap. “And I for one would adore a nip of wine.” He came close to Julianna and whispered, “I’ve brought my January Mrs. Landers letters, too, though I don’t know why I’m whispering. Everyone here with the possible exception of the countess knows I am she.”

Much to-ing and fro-ing followed. The gentlemen moved stacks of magazines into piles on the desks and table. The countess distributed paintbrushes and watercolor sets. Miss Morgan poured wine.

Once they were situated, each person furnished with a beverage and a paintbrush, there was another lull in activity and conversation, and Julianna realized everyone was looking to her to say something.

All she could think of to say was “You lovely, lovely people.”

And, belatedly, once she had a paintbrush in hand, “I have no idea how to do this.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Effie said, “but how hard can it be? Didn’t you once tell me that your previous printer had his children doing color work?”

“You are the painter among us,” Julianna said. “I propose you make an initial attempt, and if successful, the rest of us shall mimic you.”

“Olive ought to do it. She has quite the eye. You should see some of her embroidery.”

And so they began, Julianna huddling with Miss Morgan and reading aloud a description of the dress. Together they consulted on color gradients, and in short order Julianna was contemplating a beautiful version of the sunrise dress.

“I can see why it’s called the sunrise dress,” the countess said as they all began attempting to reproduce Miss Morgan’s efforts.

“I don’t think it is called that in any official capacity,” Julianna said. “It’s just a moniker that came to mind when I read the textual description of the dress.”

“’Tis Miss Evans’s innovation,” Effie said, and everyone agreed that it was the perfect name for the dress.

Soon, each person was bent over a stack of magazines. The countess and the gentlemen were seated at the large worktable and Miss Morgan and Julianna side by side at Julianna’s desk, which afforded them a little privacy. How novel to meet Miss Morgan, about whom Julianna had heard so much—both in Brighton and via Effie’s letters.

“I am so glad to finally meet you, Miss Evans,” Miss Morgan said. “For I have heard so much about you.”

Julianna laughed. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“I am mad for your magazine, you know.”

“Oh! Are you?”

“Yes, even before Lord Featherfinch relayed your inquiry about whether I would write an article about Turin—and I will, happily; nothing has ever flattered me more than being asked—I was a regular reader.” She leaned in and whispered, “I was a regular reader even before I understood I ought to be paying special attention to the poetry you print.” She hitched her head toward her sister, and mouthed, “She doesn’t know.”

“Really?” Julianna whispered, “I’d have thought since Lord Featherfinch has told his friends about his poetical bent, and one of those friends is her husband, that the lady would know.”

“No.” Miss Morgan performed another gestural nod, this one aimed at the gentlemen. “Those three would sooner die than betray each other’s confidences. They’re very loyal that way.”

They were, weren’t they? How lovely. How lucky.

“Miss Evans, would you care to come to tea sometime?”

“Yes, I would like that very much.”

She really would. She hoped it was not one of those “invitations” that was merely a vague suggestion of a future event unaccompanied by any specifics suggesting that the event would actually occur.

“Would Saturday at four o’clock suit? Please tell me if that isn’t ideal. Lord Featherfinch tells me you work long hours. I, by contrast, am a lazy lie-about, so if you counter-propose a time that better meets with your approval, I am certain I can accommodate.”

Julianna felt herself flush with pleasure as she said, “Saturday at four suits just fine, thank you.”

Julianna could scarcely believe she had two earls, a viscount, a countess, and a sister to a countess coloring her magazine. And a tea date Saturday with the latter.

“I say, this is rather nice,” Lord Harcourt said. “Calming. Pleasantly repetitive. It focuses the mind.”

“Like your beads,” Effie said.

“Perhaps better than my beads.” Lord Harcourt explained to Julianna, “I have a string of beads I use to help settle my mind. It is superficially akin to the rosaries of the Catholics, though it does not hold any religious significance. I find the repetitive nature of moving the beads calming.”

“Well, my lord, you are welcome anytime, and I shall give you repetitive calming tasks.”

They worked late into the evening, and as the piles of magazines shrank, so too did the heaviness in Julianna’s chest.