by Nichole Van
He handed her the painting with a shrug, as if it were a mere trifle.
But the paint leaping off the canvas was anything but that.
No citrus or bonnets.
Instead, the coastline continued on the canvas, the same mix of green and white weaving amongst the reddish cliffs. But the scene was slightly different than the one before her eyes, a dream-like sketching of form and light.
In his image, the cliffs descended to a golden beach. A small crofter’s cottage nestled into the security of the green hills at the opposite end of the beach. Not a more modern, white-washed house with twin chimneys on each end.
No, the building in the painting was a blackhouse, the bare stone medieval houses she knew to be plentiful in the western isles. The building’s low stone walls rose to a thatched roof with no chimney, despite the haze of smoke coming from the roof line.
A young woman in traditional Highland dress—an earasaid of earth-toned tartan wrapped around her shoulders and head—walked toward the house, basket balanced on her hip.
Blackhouses were said to be primitive places. Dwellings where livestock lived alongside their masters, and the fire place was merely a ring of stones in the center of the room, no chimney to draw the smoke. Those unfortunates who yet lived in such homes were said to be at the very edge of existence.
But something in the blue-green of the ocean, in how the curve of the woman’s body mimicked the curve of the hill surrounding the cottage—the light raking from left to right—spoke of comfort.
Violet had lived with Sir Joshua long enough to recognize how art could take a preconceived notion and turn it topsy-turvy. That in such hands, even the most unsophisticated of dwellings could speak of home.
Worse, she found herself craving to understand everything about the painting. What had he been thinking as he painted it? Why had he chosen these colors? This scene?
“Ye’re taking a wee while to formulate an opinion, my lady.” Mr. Campbell stared down at her, expression still unreadable. “Should I have painted citrus in the end?”
“Quite the contrary.” She handed the canvas back to him, steadying her breathing. “I was merely surprised at how much you have managed to convey with a few brush strokes defining a house and a woman.”
He stilled, as if unsure how to take her words. “You’re going tae have to explain yourself a wee bit more.”
She paused, gathering her scattered thoughts. “The forms feel almost . . . liquid, I guess is how Uncle would describe it. As if I am seeing more than is actually there.”
“Aye.” His expression relaxed, excitement seeping in. “I have been trying out a different technique, painting outdoors tae better capture the landscape. Most painters work indoors and that has its merits, tae be certain. But there is something about the ephemera of color and the play of light that is more immediate when painted directly from nature. I’ve been speaking with Sir Joshua about it, how to incorporate it more.”
Oh.
As he spoke, Mr. Campbell’s eyes lit with fire and a humming enthusiasm filled his tone.
It was not unlike watching gaslights flare to life, dark one moment, and then brimming with dancing energy the next.
Or, perhaps a more apt analogy, akin to how pigment and brush strokes took raw material and created image and emotion and meaning.
It was now painted across Mr. Campbell’s handsome face.
“It is remarkable.” The truth slipped from her lips without her consciously thinking it.
She wasn’t sure if the descriptor referred to him or to his work. Perhaps a bit of both.
Fortunately, Mr. Campbell lacked artifice or vanity and took her words at face value.
“I am right pleased to hear it, Lady Kildrum. The paint has been fighting me a wee bit this afternoon.” He pointed to an area where the yellow gorse met the edge of the sandstone cliffs. “When I work outdoors, I paint alla prima—”
“Alla prima?”
“Aye, ’tis a painterly technique. Typically, ye layer in the paint a wee bit at a time. But when working alla prima, ye do it all at once, not waiting for paint to dry properly between layers. If you’re no’ careful, the colors can get a wee bitty garbled, not to mention that the wind and fresh air causes the paint to dry unevenly. So it can be a challenge.”
“Your technique is astonishing . . .” Violet paused, questioning the wisdom of voicing her thoughts. But they had begun by telling truths all those years before in her carriage. It seemed a shame to stop now. “But that isn’t what I was referring to earlier. I was pondering how your light and form create meaning. How you construct the soul of the painting, as it were. Everything tells me that this place, this house. . .” She pointed to the canvas. “This woman . . . they are important to you somehow.”
She lifted her gaze to his at her last words.
The sun blazed through the racing clouds right at that moment, bathing him in sunlight. And so she clearly saw the way he froze, an almost panicked sort of look flashing across his face before he ruthlessly suppressed it.
The entire event should not have been fascinating.
It should not have sent Violet’s mind to puzzling.
And yet . . .
What happened to you? Who is the mysterious woman? she wondered. What is your story?
“How do ye reckon that, my lady?” he finally asked. “Why do you think there is hidden meaning here?”
Mmmm.
Why did she think it to be so?
She pondered, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Birds called over the ocean, flying upward toward the cheery sun now dancing across the ocean.
Her words had been more feeling than conscious thought. And wasn’t that nearly the very definition of art?
But as she looked at it more closely, she realized that it wasn’t entirely true.
“All the lines lead to the house and the woman.” She pointed at the canvas. “The horizon of the ocean, the break of the cliffs, the row of gorse just there . . . it’s as if everything in the painting is pointing inward, a large arrow saying, ‘Here! Pay attention to this place.’”
Silence greeted her words. Mr. Campbell stared at the painting for a moment before raising his eyes back to hers.
“That is . . . observant of you, my lady. I do not suppose I set out to find meaning when I began this. I merely wished to capture the silver-gold of the sun on the ocean and the play of light across the cliffs.”
She nodded. “Sometimes meaning happens anyway. Even when we least expect it.”
His eyes locked with hers for a heartbeat. And then two.
Violet felt spellbound, tangled in the web of their words, in the breadth of what was left unsaid.
Much to her horror, she realized she had been drawn into the conversation, bit by tiny bit. But then, this was how things had happened all those years ago when they first met.
Mr. Ewan Campbell with his calming deep voice and measured replies was effortless to converse with. The man had made her giggle, for heaven’s sake!
How simple it would be to remain here. To continue their discussion, to plumb his thoughts and find that aching similarity of thought she suspected they shared—
No.
She could not permit it.
Was this the curse of the Kerr women? To continually want that which was, for lack of a better word, forbidden? Her fascination with the man had to end now, before her emotions traveled any further down destructive paths.
Too much rode on Violet’s behavior. No whiff of scandal could be attached to her name. Dahlia’s actions had already caused so much damage. Anything more, and Aster and Rose would have no chance at marrying within their own class.
Much as it pained Violet to agree with Lady Graham, the lady had a point. She did need to take greater precautions to protect her reputation.
To that end, Violet took two steps back, placing much needed distance between them.
“I thank you for letting me interrupt your painting.”
Their gazes tangled, his eyes holding a soft sadness, a sort of ache . . . as if he had heard her thoughts and understood her reasons for leaving so quickly, but like her, regretted what could never be.
She nodded her head and turned to leave.
Just walk away, Violet. Do not say anything more.
But her mouth refused to listen. She took only three steps forward before turning around again. He had not moved from his position. Had he been watching her leave?
“Have you considered using the greenhouse?” she asked.
“Pardon? Greenhouse?”
“There is a greenhouse on the leeward side of the castle tucked into the gorse. You have to walk around the castle to see it.” She pointed back toward Old Kilmeny. “My late mother had it built as she enjoyed cultivating camellia flowers, and the greenhouse receives excellent light. But the building hasn’t been used in several years.”
A long pause. “Are ye encouraging me to cultivate citrus in earnest, my lady? Face my traumatic memories head on?”
Another giggle threatened to break through.
“Only if the fancy strikes you, Mr. Campbell.” Violet was unable to stop a smile. “The greenhouse has beautiful views over the ocean and receives ample daylight. But the building is also quite damp, which might prevent the elements from drying your paint so quickly.” Violet could feel the heat rising in her cheeks under his intense scrutiny. “You may wish to attempt painting there.”
“No citrus, then?”
“No citrus.”
He heaved a put-upon sigh. “I suppose I shall simply have to make do without.” He grinned abruptly, confirming his teasing tone.
Drat the man! He was entirely too likable for her peace of mind.
He bowed, a small, precise motion. “Thank ye, my lady.”
She nodded her head once more and turned on her heel.
Though her pace was measured and calm, most of her felt as if she were fleeing temptation as fast as her feet could carry her.
8
For Ewan, the next few days flew past in a blur of creative activity.
He began by helping Sir Joshua set up his studio in the great hall of the castle. Lady Kildrum’s grandmother had indeed enlarged the windows, letting in an astounding amount of sunlight. Sir Joshua had beamed for days after observing the beautiful lighting conditions.
A small army of servants descended, moving furniture and carting stacks of canvases from Sir Joshua’s studio in Kilmeny Hall. Now all the paintings—in various stages of completion—rested in the great hall, leaning against the old stone walls. A sheer drapery had been hung over the south-facing window, allowing Sir Joshua to diffuse the light, if necessary.
Each morning, Ewan would assist Sir Joshua in whatever needed doing on the man’s large canvas, whether that was mixing pigments, filling in background elements, or modeling for various figures as the older painter sketched.
Though the great hall was large enough to accommodate both men, Ewan preferred to have his own studio. His enormous body took up more than its fair share of space, and he loathed feeling like an imposition. Moreover, he needed the freedom to experiment without eyes peering over his shoulder.
The greenhouse, Ewan discovered, was simply . . . brilliant. Despite Lady Kildrum’s words, he had been expecting a rather ancient building with inadequate panes of glass.
Instead, he found a beautiful, modern structure with wide, arched windows on two sides and a bank of skylights. Not only was it light-filled and secluded, the air inside was somewhat damp. This humidity would slow the drying of his oil paints, allowing him to work the paint alla prima even longer.
It only took him a couple hours to move his canvases to the greenhouse and hang panels of gauze over the windows to diffuse the light, as needed. From there, he was free to paint in well-lit solitude.
Over the next few days, Ewan managed to avoid thinking overly much about Lady Kildrum.
Well . . . more or less.
Every time the sun glowed over the ocean, the green-blue of her eyes popped into his mind.
And each time he walked into his glasshouse studio, he mentally thanked her for the perceptive suggestion. It had been kind and thoughtful.
But then . . . didn’t those two words sum up Lady Kildrum?
He had accidentally tripped her, nearly sending her tumbling headlong into a stone outcropping. Given this, he would have expected her to lash out in fright and anger, berating him for his clumsiness.
But not Lady Kildrum. Instead, she had shown concern for him. Concern that she—a countess, no less!—might have inadvertently hurt him as she fell.
Was that why he had shown her the painting of Mhairi and the blackhouse? It was unlike him to share something so intensely private.
Yet, Lady Kildrum made him feel safe. Because he recognized the compassion within her. That she would be gentle with what the painting revealed.
And she had been thoughtful, taking time to formulate her clever observations, laying her words with kindness.
Though, he supposed, the word kind was rather inadequate. Kindness wove through Lady Kildrum’s actions the way the sun warmed the earth—effortless and yet vital to those who received it.
In his mind, she moved through the air in glittering strands of red and gold, gilding everything she touched.
He didn’t want to admire her more and more. Admiration and infatuation were useless emotions in this situation and would only lead to heartache for himself.
And yet . . .
Just the memory of catching her atop the cliff, of pulling her against him, sent a wash of awareness through his blood and settled a yearning tightness in his chest.
She had been a lush armful—tall and curved and molding into his arms as if she belonged. Days on, his body still burned from the touch of her waist, the soft give of her hips branded into his hands.
She was the sort of woman he would never worry about breaking. A lady who would always meet him head on.
He longed to know her better. To have the right to query her opinion whenever he wished, to gather all the sweet goodness of her into his arms—
He took in a long, stuttering breath.
So . . . perhaps he wasn’t doing as well as he supposed.
Nothing would come of his thoughts of her.
Nothing.
He knew this.
He had to quash every ounce of attraction he felt for her.
How piteous would it be to allow this fascination to deepen?
He was the son of a Highland crofter. A nobody. So monumentally below Lady Kildrum’s station in life as to be a nonentity . . . a grain of sand to her palace.
At best, such infatuation would render him miserable and ridiculous, pathetically longing after a woman so monumentally above him socially.
At worst, his attention could taint Lady Kildrum’s reputation and, in turn, destroy his prospects as a painter.
They were star-crossed lovers, in truth. Any association between them could only end in embarrassment, scandal, or ruin. Likely a toxic mix of all three.
He ignored the voice that whispered he was a painter, and a damn fine one at that.
That his star was rising.
That he fully intended to become a Somebody.
There were precious few professions in Britain that could elevate a man’s status from lowly provincial to dinner guest of the King.
One was being a celebrated artist.
The other?
Prizefighting.
The irony was not lost on Ewan.
Champion boxers were feted in the broadsheets and extolled in Boxiana. But Ewan had never been interested in acquiring fame through his fists. The celebrity of prizefighting was a hollow thing, unable to mitigate the ugliness of the sport.
In the end, Ewan had been glad to eschew his Red Renegade moniker and lose himself in painting. The beauty of art justified the commitment and struggle it
commanded.
His overarching goal remained the same—to become a man like Sir Joshua, knighted for his substantial contribution to art. An artist who would be remembered long after his death for the beauty and meaning he had given to the world.
But Ewan recognized that eventuality was decades off. And even then, such men did not court and marry women from the highest reaches of the ton. They were merely allowed to mingle with them.
He would not make a fool of himself, haring after Lady Kildrum like some gauche, glaikit oaf.
His solution, therefore, was to avoid her ladyship as much as possible. He would only see her during their portrait sessions together which were set to begin next week. Eventually his fascination would die, and she would fade into the background of his thoughts.
Eight days after Ewan’s arrival, a small stack of letters was waiting for him in the great hall, having been brought down from Kilmeny Hall. Several were from clients and fellow artists.
But three stood out.
There was a letter from Alex, responding to concerns over Kieran. Kieran had been dismissed from his post. Fortunately, Alex had convinced Kieran to stay with him for the time being, if only to monitor his whisky consumption.
Alex wrote:
Kieran refuses to talk with me about Jamie. I still sense that there is something more to this story that I don’t understand. It has all set me to wondering if someone else might know the particulars. And if so, would they tell me in order that I might help our friend?
Ewan winced at the question. Alex, being the good doctor, was clearly probing for information.
Ewan did know, of course. He knew the source, the reason for the depth of Kieran’s pain.
But Ewan had to ask his own question—if Alex did know, could he assist Kieran?
Ewan pondered it for a moment and then rejected the idea.
There was nothing positive to be gained by spilling Kieran’s secrets.
The damage to Kieran’s psyche if Ewan betrayed his trust would be far worse than any additional help the information would lend Alex.
More to the point, in the end, it wasn’t Ewan’s secret to tell.