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

small stipend to live on. The point was that means could be lost. Second sons and their families rarely lived in the circumstances they were brought up in, and subsequent generations fell further and further down the ladder of social and wealth security. Jane’s father, as an academic, would have been the second or third son—or the subsequent generation of. It was harder to keep wealth than to lose it—even without doing stupid things like gambling it away.

This was something Julius had always been aware of. Security was important. Keeping ahead was important, because it was all too easy to slip. Once one did, it was a vicious circle that just got worse and worse. He’d seen it at school. A few of his fellow students where misfortune struck through no fault of their own. A death, or a bad investment had started the descent and there was no saving them once it happened. The lesson had been one Julius had learnt.

As a young man, he’d assumed that his position in the world had been utterly solid. It had come as an utter surprise that someone could lose their position. And when they did, they had no inherent value. Oxford did not forgive students who couldn’t pay their fees.

Maybe his father’s lectures on how Rome had fallen from corruption and mismanagement had instilled this concern. They’d had the strongest and most advanced society in the world, but it hadn’t been enough. And while Jane Brightly’s ability to make her way in the world was admirable, Julius had much more to lose, and over his dead body would he do so. It was his duty, his honor and his privilege in one.

Chapter 8

THERE WAS A POINT WHERE one’s subject grew tired and Lord Hennington had reached it. The man didn’t complain, which was nice, but she could tell this was trying for him.

“I think we can finish for today,” she said. “I can continue without your presence for a moment.”

“Good,” he said and rose. With a quick nod, he walked out of the folly. Jane watched him go as he strode back toward the house with precise, long movements.

Their interaction hadn’t exactly gone as expected. Truthfully, she’d expected more derision from him, but this had felt more like a transaction—which was exactly what it was. She was providing a service, and he was tolerating it for that purpose.

During her season, she’d always feared his derision. Not feared, exactly, because it hadn’t mortified her, but his desire for her not to be there had been noted. She’d more feared the discomfort of not being wanted.

What was true was that he seemed a little different from what she remembered, more... contained. He took no pleasure in any of this. This was something he wanted and he was tolerating the discomfort of it.

That was fine. She didn’t need him to enjoy the process—or her company.

Continuing to draw, she refined the rough figure she’d started. This was all about getting the dimensions of the portrait and the background. The work absorbed her for a while and when she looked away again, she could tell that an hour or two had passed by the difference in the light. And much of the day’s warmth had dissipated. In fact, she was a cold. Sometimes she didn’t notice these things when working.

It was time to get back to the house, or she would start freezing as the sun disappeared further. That was a mistake she’d made before.

Putting her pencil down, she took a good look at the work she’d done. She could see the painting now in her mind’s eye, and hints of it on the canvas. It would be a nice composition.

As she walked out of the folly, she closed the double doors and left. She would return in the morning to continue sketching the background.

The lake and the parkland around it were lovely in the late afternoon. Quiet and still. She wasn’t used to such serenity. Brighton was lively both during the day and in the evening. Something was always moving, especially the sea, but here there was utter stillness. A bird squawked somewhere, but nothing moved. The air was impossibly fresh too.

The chill enveloped her as she walked to the house, entering though the salon doors. It was empty. It seemed Lord Hennington spent most of his time in his study. The house was just as still as outside, albeit not as chilly. Still, the house wasn’t warm. There was a fire in the salon and she walked over to stand by it for a while, taking in the heat through her outstretched hands.

Quiet steps sounded behind her and she turned to see a small face by the doorway. A child. Now this was unexpected. “Hello,” she said.

The child moved a step further into the room, but he didn’t say anything.

“My name is Jane. What is yours?”

“Atticus. Atticus Hennington.”

Jane frowned. “You must be Lord Hennington’s child.” How had she not known there was a child? Not that it mattered, she supposed. It seemed to have never come up in conversation. Then again, conversation about Julius Hennington had been sparse.

“He’s my father.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Atticus. I’m a portrait painter.”

This had his curiosity overcome his reserve, and he walked further into the room and slid over the arm of a sofa to sit down. “I paint, as well.”

“Do you? That is excellent.” As far as Jane had seen, Lady Hennington didn’t live here. That she had heard. The marriage hadn’t been successful, but apparently a child had come out of it. “What do you like to paint?”

“Horses.”

“Horses are good subjects. Good faces for painting.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Brighton. Do you know it?”

He shook his head.

“I know your cousins. Josie and Benny. I painted them.”

“Really?” he said, brightening with their mention. Clearly he