Painting Rain (Books of Dalthia Book 4)

by Annette K. Larsen

  Chapter Five

  WHEN DANTE HAD told me that I would have a chance to show him what I could do, I’d assumed that meant painting. However, my first week of instruction didn’t involve any painting at all. Instead I barely got a glimpse of my workspace before Dante brought me to a workroom on the third floor, where he taught me how to make my own canvas. First I was instructed on how to stretch the linen, then I was introduced to the process of sizing, which sealed the canvas by smearing it with animal glue. I thought the work beneath me and made the mistake of saying so that first day.

  “Shouldn’t someone else be doing this?”

  “Like who?”

  “A servant, or someone…”

  “Someone other than you?” he asked dryly.

  Well, yes. I bit my tongue though, because the look on his face reminded me that within these walls, there were no titles. At home, a colorman had always provided my canvases and paints. Sarah would purchase them and Joseph had an assistant who ground the pigments into the oil each morning in preparation for our work. I had anticipated the same here, but apparently I was expected to do the work for myself. I couldn’t help but wonder if Dante was only trying to humiliate me by forcing me to apply the honey-textured substance to the canvas using a palette knife.

  “Use quick, energetic strokes,” he advised.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered.

  “Do you know who prepares Master Sterrino’s canvases?”

  “You?” I bit out.

  “He does,” he answered. “He is the one who knows what the painting will be. He prepares each canvas with a scene in mind, knowing that the color of the grounding and appropriate treatment and preparation will all affect the final outcome.”

  “I suppose he mixes his own paints as well,” I suggested with a sarcastic lift of my brow.

  “Of course he does.”

  I gave a mental sigh. Of course he did. I couldn’t imagine a true master lowering himself to such work, but then again, a day ago I wouldn’t have imagined myself spreading animal glue onto a canvas.

  “That is the only way he can ensure the quality and purity of the paints. He wouldn’t trust that to anyone else.”

  I felt foolish, mostly because he was speaking to me as if I were a half-wit. I also had the sinking feeling that I would be performing more menial tasks in the near future, including the mixing of my own paints.

  Once Dante was satisfied with the sizing of my canvas, he replaced it with a different canvas, one that had been sized already. “This one is dry and must be smoothed before it is ready for grounding.”

  I pressed my lips and nodded, realizing how much I didn’t know about my own craft. Joseph had coddled me, leaving me to look inept.

  I set to work smoothing the canvas with a pumice stone, all the while listening to Dante talk about the importance of using a mixture of paint to ground the surface of the canvas. A combination of lead white and carbon black was common for grounding or priming the canvas, but different colors would have different effects on the final painting. The desired texture of the grounding must be smooth but not brittle, and it needed to be porous enough to allow the paint to adhere to it. When my canvas was smooth, he demonstrated how to mix the ground, then picked up a sickle-shaped palette knife and demonstrated how to apply it before turning the task over to me.

  I left at midday with my head spinning, wondering why the canvases needed to be sealed and spread with an initial layer of paint, but hoping that it would become clear as I continued to do as I was told and, hopefully, kept my less favorable opinions to myself.

  ✼ ✼ ✼

  The following day, I thought we would move on to mixing paints. Instead Dante had me prepare several more canvases, correcting and lecturing as I did so. His voice was always level: never rising, never a hint of frustration, which for some reason compounded my own frustration. It was difficult for me to guess what he was thinking and the lack of variation was beginning to wear on my nerves, especially when he handed me yet another canvas and told me to pick up the pumice stone once more. My hands already ached and the skin was being rubbed raw, but I bit my tongue and did as he asked.

  By the end of our session, I could feel my face turning red with exertion and anger. When Dante dismissed me, I left without looking at him, afraid I would lose my temper if I did.

  Returning to the Brooks’ home, I went to the little studio that was set aside for my use, knowing it housed the closest washbasin. I didn’t bother closing the doors before I crossed to the basin and picked up the pitcher of water. I sucked in a breath through my teeth when the stoneware chafed against my sore hands as I splashed a bit of water into the bowl. “It wasn’t enough to force me to learn the process,” I muttered as I placed my palms in the water, knowing that West had entered behind me. “It wasn’t enough to expect me to prepare canvases that I would use. Oh, no.” I picked up the pitcher again, trying to rinse some water directly over my hand. “He has to spend an entire morning making me work my hands raw with that blasted stone. Ow!” I set the pitcher down, unable to hold the weight against the sores any longer. I sank into the chair beside the little table and pressed the back of my hand into my forehead, forcing a deep breath into my lungs.

  When West dragged a chair over and sank into it, it didn’t surprise me. He tugged my hand from my forehead and pulled it back over the bowl, then picked up the pitcher and dribbled the cool liquid over the blistered skin. My entire hand fit into his palm. His were huge, dark and calloused. Mine were tiny in comparison, the red blisters standing out against the fair skin of my right hand.

  I startled when he spoke. “He seems to be a hard one to please.”

  I huffed. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Do you think he realizes you’ve hurt yourself?”

  “I don’t know.” I blew out a breath as the water soothed my skin. “All I know is that I’m exhausted.” I looked up to see him staring at my hands in confusion. “What is it?”

  He glanced up. “I was merely thinking. I’ve seen you paint yourself to exhaustion before. What makes this different?”

  I bristled at the question. “This wasn’t my choice. And when I’m painting, I’m at least creating something.”

  “Perhaps he sees this as part of the process. It is, isn’t it?” His eyes were curious.

  I dropped my gaze away, disappointed to realize he was probably right. “I’m no good at this. I’m not used to such menial work.”

  He lifted my hands from the basin and reached for a towel. “Maybe you could think of it as artist’s work.”

  “But I can’t paint with my hands like this,” I pointed out, the distress obvious in my voice.

  “You came here to learn, didn’t you?” he asked as he blotted my hands dry.

  “Of course.”

  “Aren’t you learning something?”

  I sighed, hating that he was right. “This is not what I imagined it would be like.”

  “It’s only been a few days,” he reminded me as he set the towel aside and reached for a clean length of linen. “Perhaps this is part of proving yourself.” He wrapped the linen around my right palm. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  I sucked in a breath through my nose. “Yes.”

  “Then prove it.” He kept his eyes fixed on my hand. “I assume you don’t have any plans for being one of the students who leaves by the end of their first month?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.” He glanced up, seeming surprised to find me so close. He returned his focus to my hand, fumbling a bit before his fingers made the final knot of the bandage at the back of my hand. He stood and left me to my thoughts without another word.

  ✼ ✼ ✼

  That evening, Lady Brook ‘tsk’ed and clucked at my bandaged hand. “Your father and mother wouldn’t be happy about this, Princess.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Part of me thought they might be proud of me for completing the tasks I’d been
given. An odd thought, but one that suddenly seemed true.

  “And what will you do tomorrow? Will you even be able to wield a brush with such an injury?” Her eyes were wide with concern.

  I gave her a reassuring smile, but laughed inside at her calling it an injury. “If he does wish me to wield a brush, I certainly won’t be able to do it well. But I doubt I’ll be painting tomorrow. Something tells me I’ll be learning more of the art of preparing to paint.” The slightly caustic tone was obvious to my own ears, but Lady Brook merely shook her head, indignant on my behalf, and went back to her meal.

  I was correct in my assumption of the next day’s activities.

  “Keep your cloak on,” Dante said in his usual brisk manner as he met me in the entry. “We’re going to the apothecary.” He brushed past me through the open door, and it took me a moment to catch up with him.

  “Are you ill?” I asked.

  His eyes cut over to me with the look that indicated—once again—that he thought me an idiot. “Pigments, Lorraina. We’ll be purchasing pigments so that we can mix colors.”

  I didn’t respond, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. It was difficult enough just to keep up with his long, hurried strides. I couldn’t help thinking that if he were any kind of gentleman, he would have been waiting for me at the gate to the property. As it was, I had just descended to the house, only to turn around and ascend the many levels of stairs back to the main road.

  “Can you tell me any of the pigments used for red?” Dante asked.

  “I—” I couldn’t and I was fairly certain he knew that. “Would you please slow down?” I asked, out of breath.

  He did. “Red pigments, Princess.”

  “You realize that is the first time you’ve called me that? What happened to not adhering to titles?”

  “Shall I call you Raina, then?”

  His use of my shortened name so startled me that I said the first thing that came to mind, my voice cold and sharp. “We are not friends.” His brow lifted as if to challenge that assertion. “And where did you hear that name?”

  “One of your guards let it slip.”

  My guard? Which one?

  “Looked more than a little embarrassed afterwards. Tell me, would you have his head if he were to call you that in person?” He cut his eyes over to me, but I refused to answer. “I suppose you prefer Lorraina, then?”

  I would have loved to put him in his place and demand he call me nothing but Your Highness, but I clenched my jaw and said, “Yes.”

  “Very well. Tell me which pigments are used for red, Lorraina.”

  I sighed in defeat. “I don’t know.”

  “Your previous instructor seems to have neglected a good deal of your education.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Dante.”

  He raised his brow as he studied me, his mask of stiff indifference slipping for just a moment. Then he proceeded to rattle off a list of pigments. Madder for purple, vermilion for red, umber for brown. There were plenty more, but I couldn’t remember them. The only reason I remembered those few was because they sounded familiar, likely from my brief interest in reading about them. I had approached Joseph, asking about the different pigments and which were best, but he insisted that I had no need for such lessons. I only needed to know how to use them, not how to mix them. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming that no true artist would ever demean himself by mixing his own paints or preparing his own canvases. Apparently I’d been wrong about that.

  When we arrived at the apothecary, he opened the door and stepped back, waiting for me to go through.

  “It’s very strange that you don’t already have the pigments at the villa,” I commented as I brushed past him.

  “Of course we have them there.”

  I spun to glare at him, annoyed not only by our apparently pointless trip into a place that treated disease, but because I could hear the smug lilt of his response. “Then what are we doing here?” I bit out.

  He smiled, an arrogant twist to his lips. “Filling in the gaps of your education.”

  I wanted nothing more than to slap the smile from his mouth, but he turned to greet the man behind the counter, who wore a grizzled beard but lacked any hair atop his head. He was the opposite of Dante’s long hair and clean-shaven jaw. The bearded proprietor greeted us, then led us to a display set apart from the others. I gathered that in a town known for its attention to art, this apothecary had long ago taken it upon himself to have as many pigments in his shop as he could acquire: everything from the expensive lapis lazuli stones for making ultramarine to soot from oil lamps, which would make lamp black. Dante selected several ingredients, of which he made me repeat the names, and as the proprietor was wrapping our selections in paper, I couldn’t keep myself from asking, “Will I need to grind those myself?” My hands were still stinging from my last battle with a stone.

  The apothecary gave a wide, friendly smile. “You can, or I’m happy to grind it for you, and I’ll do it right here where you can be sure that I don’t add anything else to it.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “I’ve learned the importance of such things.”

  A smile lit my face in response. He was a kind and pleasant person. Dante’s opposite again. I was about to accept his generous offer when Dante took the parcels, declaring, “We’ll do it ourselves today. Part of our lesson.” He bid the man goodbye and turned to me with a sweeping gesture toward the door. With all his talk of avoiding social niceties, I suspected that his grand gesture was more mocking than anything else.

  I bit my lip and departed, passing Stephen, who had waited outside the shop. On the return trip, it was Dante who had to keep up with me as I pounded my anger into the cobblestones.

  “You object to more menial work?”

  “No,” I said, my lips tight, my emotions simmering. “But I won’t be able to do it today.”

  “And why is that?”

  I stopped and turned to him. “Because I am unable!” I thrust my bandaged hand in front of his face.

  His eyes narrowed in concern. “What has happened to you?”

  I fought to keep the hysteria from my voice. “What has happened to me?” I dropped my hand. “You happened to me. You and that ridiculous pumice stone.” His eyes dropped and I wondered if I had really seen regret there. “I will do as you ask, but today I am unable.” I turned away and continued toward the villa. For the rest of the walk, Dante stayed several paces behind me, leaving me to stew and fume on my own.

  Upon reaching the studio, Dante spared me only a brief glance before dismissing me. I left, frustrated once again, and nearly collided with someone on the front steps in my haste to get away. “I beg your pardon,” I said, falling back.

  The girl I’d nearly trampled simply smiled, her bright blonde, almost white hair and delicate features making her look quite girlish. “Good morning,” she said with a bend of her knee that was almost a curtsey. “Are you here to paint?”

  “I was, but I’m going now.” I looked her over, realizing what an oddity it was to see another female besides Carolyn. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Surprised to see another painter of the feminine variety?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m Ingrid,” she said with a bow of her head.

  “Raina,” I said after a moment of hesitation. No need to scare her off with my title.

  “Raina?” Her head tilted to the side. “Short for Lorraina, correct?”

  “Um…”

  “I was so relieved when I heard one of the princesses would be studying here. My parents weren’t happy with my decision to continue with my painting, but now I simply point out that you’re here as well and they don’t have much to say about it.” Her lips pursed in a smile and her eyebrow jumped in excitement.

  So much for the assumption that my title might intimidate her.

  “What’s happened to your hand?”

  I’d spent a good deal of the morning with Dante, and he had faile
d to notice my bandage until I’d thrust it in his face. What different creatures men and women were.

  I held out my hand, looking it over. “This week’s lessons have been about grounding canvases. I’d never done it before and Dante can be quite exacting.”

  “Oh dear. That man is an utter fool sometimes.”

  I breathed out a laugh. “Does he ever torture you that way?”

  “I’d been preparing my canvases for a long time before I earned the master’s notice, so I was spared that. I’m sorry he was such a dolt. I suppose he’s not very used to dealing with ladies, being surrounded by all those men.”

  I hoped that was true, that he hadn’t meant to hurt me, but he so obviously disapproved of my being here that I couldn’t rule out sheer meanness. “Are there really so few women that come here to learn?”

  “There certainly haven’t been many, and Dante usually manages to scare them off before they’re here for too long.”

  “I’m not surprised. He hasn’t even let me paint yet.” I glanced back at the door. “And I didn’t come here to be taught by an apprentice.”

  She shrugged, still smiling. “We all have to prove ourselves.”

  Perhaps that was the problem. I was unfamiliar with having to prove myself to anyone.

  “Would you like to see my work?” Her request surprised me; it was so…friendly. Like something that one of my sisters would ask of me. Only I had never had that sort of friendly relationship with anyone outside my family. With everyone else I was Princess Lorraina, and I’d been very good at it. This would be…different.

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  She hurried inside and I followed, curious to see the kind of work she might do. I had caught glimpses of some of the other students’ work and knew there was a great variety of style and subject matter. She led me to her work area, which was on the opposite end of the upper floor from my space. She had several works in progress and it was clear that Ingrid painted people. I leafed through a mound of her sketches, noting different poses and expressions, all focused on the person. One painting leaned against a pillar and depicted a young woman leaning forward, her head tilting as if trying to get a glimpse of whatever lay before her. Her pinned and jeweled hair, along with her gloved hands carefully lifting the skirt of her pale yellow gown, indicated that she was entering a ballroom. Her tentative and hopeful expression suggested that this might be her first one.