A Closed Heart by Oster, Camille (acx book reading txt) 📕

“What tradeoffs?”

“A portrait from the waist up allows for closer framing, which makes for a more... intimate study of the person. While a full portrait puts distance between the viewer and the subject.”

“What do you recommend?”

“I think people care about the face and the eyes rather than seeing someone’s legs. I suppose it depends on the purpose of the portrait. If you wish for people to admire your stature and standing, then a full portrait gives that distance, that degree of untouchability.”

Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure what she referred to, but he supposed he’d seen portraits of kings and emperors in full finery—some even with a horse. Julius wasn’t quite deluded enough that he wanted people to see him in the saddle with sword blazing. “This portrait is for my family to know me when the times comes that they cannot in person.”

“Then I suggest a portrait with a closer interpretation.”

With swift strokes, she started sketching on the canvas propped up in front of her on an easel. Today her hair was loose again. It curled around her shoulders. Intermittently, her eyes darted to him and back again, followed by more quick strokes. There was nothing for him to do but watch her.

There was a table behind her with brushes, tubes and bottles. A pail of water, too, and rags. These were the tools of her trade. And there was paint on her fingers, even as it seemed no painting had been done yet, which meant she’d been painting something from the point he’d seen her last until now.

Apparently, she’d been recuperating in the evening and hadn’t come down for supper. Julius had dined alone, and it had been a relief. While he enjoyed company generally, Miss Brightly wasn’t a good conversationalist by any measure.

The stillness in the room made her scratchings seem loud. “So do you travel from house to house painting people?”

“I live in Brighton, and mostly work from there.”

Now he remembered hearing she came from Brighton. She must have returned there after her season. “And this is how you support yourself?”

“Yes,” she replied. At no point did she look him in the eyes. Her gaze was elsewhere. On every part of him. It was a little disconcerting being so observed. Her eyes were blue. She sketched and sketched.

It wasn’t that she was unattractive, yet she was still unmarried—a spinster at this point. “You are without family, as I recall.”

Finally she looked him in the eyes. “That is so.”

“And you know nothing of your family?”

“I know who they were. There is no great mystery, simply misfortune.”

Now he wanted to ask who they were, but she wasn’t volunteering the information, which would make it rude to ask.

“My father was a scholar,” she finally said. “Consumption.” That perhaps explained why they’d ended up living in Brighton. “His family, while of gentle pedigree, were not attached to any kind of fortune unless you consider intellectual ones.”

So one of the impoverished families. There were many of them, who had to resort to some pursuit that supported them, such as the law or academic. More unusually, artistic. “Would he have approved of your choice in profession?”

“Probably not,” she said with a smile. “He was a very conventional man.”

“And you are not.”

“I pay little heed to convention.”

That hadn’t been the person he’d met during her season. From what he’d observed, she hadn’t been particularly unconventional. It must have been something that had developed afterward, which did perhaps explain her unmarried state. “Did you enjoy your season in London?”

She smiled again. “It was certainly interesting. I grew up in an orphanage, where parties and balls were fairy tales.”

“It appears it wasn’t all that successful for you. You were an artist before that, I recall. Did you not work for Eliza at some point?”

“Yes. I still do, on occasion.”

Julius grew bored of talking and watched the lake outside. The wind caused gentle ripples across the dark green water. This was incredibly tedious. Normally he would read if he had time to spare, but he couldn’t. All he could do was sit there. As he’d told himself before, the prestige in portraits wasn’t the cost to commission them, which wasn’t cheap, but being able to tolerate the idle time. Weeks and weeks of this stretched ahead. He sighed and understood why his father hadn’t done it.

Saying that, what was weeks of discomfort compared to a legacy that would last for centuries?

Apparently, this slight woman was up to the task of creating that legacy for him. Someone who paid little heed to convention. What she paid heed to was irrelevant if she delivered a portrait to be proud of. Eliza’s opinion had better be right, or he would be very cross having spent all this time in the folly to create it.

In all, he was probably going to spend more time in this woman’s company than he had with his wife. A curious thought.

Also curious was the loyalty this woman inspired in Eliza. Perhaps it was simply the fact that she was an orphan. Eliza did have a soft spot for women who had to make their own way and were making a go of it.

Admittedly, it was an impressive quality, even if done out of sheer desperation. In a way, Jane was the complete opposite of him. Her situation was precarious, while his was not. Equally there was nothing that anchored her, while he had the estate, the title and the family honor to guard and defend. She was utterly free from any encumberments, with the exception of supporting herself. No easy task for people without means.

The world was cruel to people without. Even to Eliza, who had been a member of his own family, for all intents and purposes, had lost everything. Perhaps not everything. Caius had given her a