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

upset a lot of people, she didn’t show much evidence that it did. “Perhaps. I’m not as invested in my status as an artist. Partially because I’m a woman and will never be accepted in the mainstream artistic circles. Portrait painting is also frowned upon by the haute artistic community. It’s equivalent to being in trade. Saying that, there are some spectacular portrait painters, and they have their own pride.”

“Eliza seems to think you count as one of them.”

“But I’m a woman. Hence, I’m excluded from consideration.”

“That must bother you.” It would certainly bother him if he was categorically dismissed based on his gender.

“It’s something you simply accept. There are certain freedoms in that too. If I explore something that’s quite a departure, then it’s because I’m a woman. If I fail, then it’s because I’m a woman. But there are some for which the work stands for itself, and those are the people that I care about.”

“Out of necessity.”

“But there’s also merit in someone who judges based on merit. But such is the world, isn’t it? Someone in trade will not be accepted no matter how pleasant or wealthy they are. It simply is.”

“I don’t know. The ton seems to be quite enamored with wealth. A generation or so in, the background of a family is overlooked. If one wants it sufficiently, there’s always a way in.”

“I can’t change that I’m a woman, though,” she said.

“You can still be the best.”

“I’m not going to run myself ragged trying to break into somewhere I’m not wanted. I know women who want that, who fume at being excluded. They even blame me for not striving against the injustice. Meanwhile, I just want to paint. That’s all I want.”

“So you don’t fight.”

“I do the best work I can. If you’re going to deny me, then deny me while I’m doing my very best work. It stands for itself, and it will highlight the hypocrisy. You can call the Stradivarius violin anything you wish, but you cannot deny the sound it makes.”

“Then you’ll depend on inherent superiority to speak for you.”

“I make no claims. I just do the best work I can.”

“I think my father would have liked you. He was admirer of inherent superiority.”

“It makes it sound negative when you say it like that.”

“He was also an admirer of objective truth and not emotional connotations.”

“Well, your sister is right, and you should get divorced.”

That was a sharp turn in the conversation. “That is not up for discussion with any houseguest, either sibling or of more artistic kind.”

“Sometimes we simply have to make sacrifices in order to be happy. I did. Many—most, probably—think I made a mad choice, but I sacrificed my place in society—as meagre as it was—for the sake of my passion.”

“Bachelorhood is hardly a passion.”

“I’m sure the Romans had something to say about cutting your losses.”

“As I said, this isn’t something I’m inclined to discuss with you, Miss Brightly.” In fact, he was deeply annoyed—to the point where he considered walking out of the folly to punish her for her impertinence. But for some reason he didn’t. Perhaps because he didn’t want to show he was ruffled by her sentiments—because he wasn’t. He wasn’t a man who ruffled—for any reason. Nor did he explain himself, or his activities with regards to his divorce.

Saying that, he was not as enthusiastic for conversation for the rest of the session, and instead he sat and she worked. Until it was mercifully time to finish. His back was sore when he finally stood and stretched. These really were torture sessions, he decided. Being grilled on his marriage and forced to sit still to hear it.

“Miss Brightly,” he said with a sharp nod before walking out.

“My lord,” she replied back.

With sharp strides, he walked across the lawn. Really, he hadn’t spent so much time outside as he did with her here. There was something refreshing about it. Perhaps he should even go for a ride tomorrow. It was true that he struggled with activities that had no specific purpose. Learning agricultural developments, reading investment proposals had a purpose. They made him better, allowed him better decisions. Even this portrait had a specific purpose, but going for a ride didn’t.

It was pleasure, and pleasure had no purpose. Too many people felt it did and invested everything they had into it. Idiots. Pleasure was fleeting, lasting mere moments, and often there was a high price to pay for it.

Saying that, there was no pleasure like success. When his endeavors were successful, there was no higher pleasure. It was what fed and nurtured him.

*

As a gentleman and the host, he was expected to be in the salon when his guests arrived. It had been some months since he’d had guests. Except perhaps that one evening when Jane had just arrived. It hadn’t gone well at all. Time had passed, and he expected their conversation would flow a little easier now.

Looking back, he’d had such a wrong understanding of her—almost seeing her as a pitiful creature, when she was anything but. What had been unfortunate circumstances were actually the choice of a strong will. Jane Brightly was fearless, and that was intriguing—and slightly incomprehensible. At times, he wanted to shake her and ask if she understood all the things that could go wrong.

Now she walked in, the first to arrive. “Miss Brightly,” he said with a nod and she smiled. Her dress was slightly nicer than some of the others he’d seen. Her wardrobe was sparse, but he now knew that her wardrobe wasn’t particularly important to her. It wasn’t designed to catch the eye of men, or to communicate where she belonged. It was simply to clothe her.

It felt a little as if they’d reached an understanding in their last session. Of what, he