She kept gazing at it, the rich oil paints almost swimming in her vision. Rebekah had been kind to the servant, even though she had no need to be; to her, it had not mattered if the person was rich or poor, master or servant. She had seen that the man was thirsty, and so she had offered him a drink.
Would any of her family or friends do the same thing, for a stranger, who was not of their class?
She frowned, pondering it. She knew that her mother often did charity at the local villages near Jonty Hall, as part of her Christian duty, and as befitted the wife of a wealthy baron and landowner. But she also knew that it was tightly prescribed, almost ritualistic, in manner.
If any one of the lower classes approached Lady Beaumont for a glass of water, out of the blue, as she dipped a pitcher into a well, Lavinia was fairly certain her mother would be very affronted, indeed.
She gazed harder at the image of Rebekah. The artist had rendered her beautifully, with a vivid cobalt blue gown, and a shimmering veil of almost luminescent white covering her dark hair. Her eyes were downcast, as she stared into the well, with her pitcher in her arms. But she was smiling, almost in anticipation. As if she knew that her life was about to change, in some way.
She jumped slightly as Sophie sat down beside her.
“There you are,” said her sister, frowning slightly. “I turned around and you had suddenly disappeared. Mama was about to have an apoplexy, so I said that I would try to find you …”
“I am sorry,” Lavinia replied. “I was feeling a bit faint, with the crowd and the heat, and needed to get out of that room …”
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Much.” Lavinia smiled slightly. “I just needed to rest for a minute, that was all.” She turned to her sister speculatively. “Sophie, what do you think of all of this?”
Her sister’s frown deepened. “What do you mean?”
Lavinia sighed deeply. “I mean …” her voice faltered for a moment before growing stronger, “I mean … what do you think of all these people being here, just to be seen, when they have no interest in the art at all? While people who may be lovers of it cannot access it because of their class?”
There. She had come out and said it. She cringed a little, waiting for her sister’s response. Sophie was sure to be scathing, telling her that she had her head in the clouds, and that she must be loyal to her class and her family.
“I think it is a shame, if there are truly people who cannot view art, when they long to,” said her sister slowly. “But I do not think that many people who cannot view it are even aware of its existence, Liv, nor care about it particularly. They have other, more pressing matters to attend to, in life. Just surviving is enough …”
“Yes, but it is not fair, is it?” Her voice was small. “That some have access to such beauty, while others do not. That some squander that privilege, while others who would appreciate it, do not have the opportunity.”
Sophie stared at her sister in dismay. “Little swan, you are so unsettled,” she said slowly. “Where is all this coming from? Does this stem from our tiff the other evening?”
Lavinia sighed deeply, regretting that she had said anything at all. She knew that Sophie would not understand her feelings about such things; her sister wouldn’t even deign to consider a commoner as a potential husband, even if he was a wealthy one. There was simply no way she could make the leap to admitting that some class divisions were unfair.
She gazed back at the portrait of Rebekah. She had been a well-born girl, in her society; valued, with a high bride price. And yet, she had offered water to a thirsty stranger. A stranger who was not of her class. Surely, the lesson was that strict adherence to class loyalty was anathema to basic humanity?
She thought again of her contemporaries. Her cousin Freddie, who was idle, and witless into the bargain. India, whose only goal in life was snagging a rich, titled husband, and didn’t care a jot about any of the finer things in life. Even Beatrice wouldn’t deign to give a glass of water to a thirsty stranger – she would say it was beneath her.
Abruptly, her thoughts turned again to Samuel Hunter, like a sunflower following the movements of the sun.
He was different. She just knew it.
He was like a breath of fresh air, in a stale, cloistered room. A man who laughed uproariously, just because something was funny, without thought about whether it was socially acceptable.
A man who had defied convention by introducing himself to her and then asking her to dance. He was so very different to all of the other gentlemen, on the scene, that it was like comparing night to day.
And she knew, instinctively, that he would be the only one to understand how she thought and felt. That he would just know why she was sad that there were people in the world who viewed art without caring, while others who did care could not. And that he would understand because he was a commoner, and not part of this cloistered, stifling society that she was a part of.
She glanced around the room. He still wasn’t here, and she couldn’t see Mr St Clair either. Her heart plummeted sharply. Maybe she had missed them, after all. The disappointment was so sour it rose like bile in her throat.
“Never mind,” she said, staring at her sister, trying desperately to swallow it down. “It’s not important. Shall we get back to the others?”
Sophie was still frowning but nodded. They both rose to their feet.
She turned around, suddenly, and there he was. Staring at her, across the room, as if he had just materialised out of the very ground.
She gasped, her eyes raking over him. His hair was tumbling, a wealth of red gold curls, over his face, and his sideburns were slightly longer than when she had last seen him.
She felt completely rooted to the spot, in wonder.
He was beautiful. There was simply no other word to adequately describe him. She felt it deep in her belly like a punch.
Slowly, he smiled. A wide, deep smile that utterly illuminated his face. A smile that turned his green eyes the colour of a mossy lake.
And it was when he smiled that she suddenly knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
Chapter 11
She exhaled with difficulty. His smile broadened into a grin as he gazed at her in open admiration.
He jumped slightly, as if coming back to earth with a thud, turning around as though searching for something.
“Walter!” he called.
It was at that moment that Lavinia noticed Mr St Clair for the first time. He was chatting to a group of ladies, who all seemed to be dressed in various shades of white. Hearing his friend call his name, he nodded and extracted himself from the group, heading over to his friend.
Lavinia’s eyes slid to her sister’s face. Sophie was watching, too, as Mr St Clair walked towards Samuel. Lavinia was a little shocked to see a pang of sorrow – or was it something else? – transform Sophie’s features as she gazed at the man who had just left the group of ladies.
She is jealous, thought Lavinia, in wonder. Sophie is actually jealous that Mr St Clair was talking to those ladies.
But if Sophie had been in the grip of that painful emotion, it was quickly masked. She was smiling, now, as the two men slowly approached them. A smile that seemed to light up her features, making her even more beautiful, if that was possible.
Lavinia couldn’t believe it. Did her sister genuinely admire Walter St Clair?
She recalled that they had chatted, almost exclusively, to each other, on the night of the dinner party. Sophie could have excused herself at any time, but she had not. She had chosen to stay by the man’s side. It did indeed seem possible that Walter St Clair had caught her eye, and not just in passing, judging by her reaction to him now.
Lavinia sighed, instantly dismissing the thought. Walter St Clair was a commoner, and her sister would not choose a common man for a husband if her life depended upon it.
She trembled slightly. The two men were upon them, now, gazing at them expectantly.
&n
bsp; “Mr Hunter,” she said, finding her voice. “And Mr St Clair. What a surprise, and a pleasure, to see you both here!”
Samuel’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t contradict her. Instead, he bowed.
“The Misses Beaumont,” he said, his grin widening. “The pleasure is all ours; I do assure you.”
Before they could talk any further, the rest of their party were suddenly crowding into the room, gazing at the two men with frank curiosity.
Lavinia sighed inwardly, introducing everyone as quickly as possible. For a moment, she saw her cousin India’s eyes light up, as she gazed at Samuel, before dimming just as abruptly when she heard that he did not have a title.
“Lady Beaumont,” said Samuel, addressing her mother with an open smile. “I do hope that the room is not too warm for you, on such an exceedingly hot day. If you require me to get water for you, to refresh you, please do not hesitate to ask.”
Lady Beaumont kept fanning herself, dimpling into a smile. “Oh, that is very kind of you, Mr Hunter! I think that I shall survive, until we leave the Exhibition, but my sister might be in need of some urgent refreshment …”
“Nonsense,” said Aunt Catherine crisply, looking offended. “I am perfectly fine, Hester. Why do you always assume that I am the one who must be doted upon, like an invalid?”
Lady Beaumont rolled her eyes. “I really do not know, Catherine! It is totally beyond me, why I would ever think such a thing!”
Lavinia suppressed a smile, as her mother and aunt bickered. Samuel gazed at her over their heads, smiling slightly in sympathy. It made her feel warm all over as if she had just stepped into a particularly tepid bath.
They all drifted off, to look at the paintings again. Lavinia suppressed another smile, as she watched her sister and Mr St Clair pair off, walking together to admire a painting on the other side of the room.
Suddenly, she felt prickles sting her flesh. He was there, right beside her, gazing at her expectantly.
He coughed discreetly. “May I show you a painting that I particularly admire, Miss Beaumont?”
She trembled inwardly at his close proximity. She could see every hair on his chin, and the way that his cheeks dimpled when he smiled. He had thick, golden eyebrows, and stubby eyelashes that shone gold in the refracted light of the chandelier.
She suppressed a sudden, strange urge to reach out and touch one of those eyelashes, just to see if any gold would flake onto her finger.
“Miss Beaumont?” He was gazing at her expectantly, a wry smile twisting his mouth.
Lavinia jumped again, blushing furiously. What on earth was wrong with her? Why was she having strange fantasies about touching his eyelashes, of all things?
“Of course,” she said, a little desperately. “Please, lead the way.”
He held out his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it, and they meandered into another room, away from the others.
Lavinia gazed around. It was cooler in here, and there were less people. There were also only a few paintings on these walls, compared to the other rooms, where they had been almost stacked upon each other. The coolness and the space instantly calmed her.
He leant his head towards her. “Come on,” he whispered in a conspiratorial manner, as if he was leading her on a grand adventure. “This way.”
She smiled, not saying anything, as they kept walking, before coming to a halt in front of a large, gilt framed painting of a woman and a man, in medieval dress.
Lavinia gaped at it, a little dumbfounded. The size of the painting alone would have floored her – it almost reached the ceiling, and the golden frame was so curved and elaborate it was almost a work of art in itself.
The painting was meticulously rendered in oil – the brushstrokes were light and feathery, and the attention to detail a wonder. The mastery of the artist was plainly evident, but it wasn’t the technicality of the work that made her gasp. It was the subject, and how it was depicted.
The woman was resplendent, in medieval gown and kirtle, her curling red hair falling down her back. A circlet of gold rested atop it. She was standing very close to a tall man, dressed as a medieval knight, in silver metal. They gazed longingly into each other’s eyes as the woman offered him a bowl to drink from.
“Who are they?” she whispered, spellbound.
Samuel smiled slightly. “They are Tristan and Isolde,” he replied slowly. “Have you heard their story?”
She shook her head mutely.
He took a deep breath. “It is an old story, predating even the Arthurian legends,” he said. “Tristan was instructed to deliver Isolde to her betrothed, who was a Cornish king. But on the journey, they both drank from a love potion … and fell in love with each other.”
Lavinia turned to gaze at him.
“Did they wish to fall in love?” she asked quietly. “Did they deliberately drink from the potion?”
Samuel’s smile widened. “There are different versions of the tale. Some claim that they ingested it accidently, while others claim that Isolde deliberately gave it to Tristan.” He paused. “Isolde married her king, but the lovers could not stay away from each other …”
“What happened?” She waited breathlessly for his response, completely absorbed.
“They sought each other out and ran away together,” he continued. “But it did not end well. The Cornish king pursued them, threatening to kill both of them. In the end, Isolde agreed to return to the king, and Tristan left the country, where he married another.”
Lavinia blinked back tears, turning back to the painting. It was a sad story – the lovers did not end up together. She studied them, noting that the artist had beautifully captured their desire for each other. Their eyes were locked, burning, as they gazed at each other across the bowl.
“They desired each other before they shared the potion,” she said slowly. “At least, that is what the artist has portrayed. Their intent is obvious. I believe that they procured the potion to seal their love forever because they could not bear for it to end.”
She felt Samuel’s gaze upon her. She turned her head, slowly, returning his stare.
His green eyes were narrowed, in an almost speculative manner, as they rested upon her. Lavinia felt as if some strange, invisible cord had suddenly been woven between them. It was simply impossible for her to break it.
His eyes were burning, just like Tristan’s were in the painting, as he gazed at Isolde. He was looking at her in exactly the same way.
She gasped inwardly, feeling herself begin to tremble all over. She had simply never felt such a strong connection with a man before, as if it was something outside of them entirely, as if it had a life all of its own. It was so powerful she did not how to break it; she felt as if she could not look away. Even if the Academy started to crumble around them, she would still be rooted to this spot, staring at him.
“That is exactly what I think,” he whispered. “I do not think that they accidently ingested the potion. I think that they decided to commit to each other forever. It was a desperate act of love in the face of circumstances beyond their control.”
She smiled slightly. “Does anyone choose the one they love? Is it possible, or has fate already pre-written it?” She hesitated. “It is an interesting question. The version of the story that says they accidently took the potion seeks to absolve them of responsibility – that they had no choice in their actions. But does anyone have a choice, when they fall in love, anyway?”
He gazed at her steadily. “All societies seek to control it. Our society tells us that we should put prudence ahead of personal love; that we should seek our life partners based on how well off they are, or how well placed, or both.” He paused. “It does not value romantic love, nor the lovers choosing it, any more than the one Tristan and Isolde lived within.”
Falling for the Mysterious Viscount: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 9