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

have second thoughts. Was this really something he wanted to subject himself to? Hours of sitting while someone painted him? But then he wasn’t someone who backed away from things simply because they were uncomfortable. This was his personal legacy, what he would leave behind of himself other than a well-managed estate.

“Fine,” he said. Eliza did know a great deal more about artists than he did, so if this was the one she chose to paint her children, he should trust her judgement. It wasn’t as if he had any means of making judgement on good art. It was something he barely paid attention to at the best of times.

“Now, you really must come to supper. We’ll invite Caius and have a proper family meal. Finn will be happy to see you. I have no idea why he likes you, but he does.”

From the moment they’d met, Finn and him had gotten on famously. While he would never admit it, he couldn’t imagine putting his sister in better hands, and their marriage seemed to be very successful.

Chapter 3

THE SKY WAS BRIGHT THAT morning and the sea glistened, but it was still biting cold. The wind seemed to come from all directions, at times tugging on Jane’s hair. Brighton was trying on hair, and bonnets could at times strangle one. Luckily, Jane hadn’t worn one in years. They simply didn’t suit her, and she felt restricted and confined inside one. Better to see and feel the entirety of the world around her, even if it got her hair wet every once in a while.

Walking along the promenade, she made her way to her favorite café. It was away from the beach, but the promenade provided a good thoroughfare from her building, which was close to the beach, but on the outskirts of town, in a neighborhood that no one would describe as ‘fashionable’. The people who lived there weren’t always classified as desirables, but it had a number of artists, philosophers, thespians, and other professions whose work people wanted, but not the more bohemian lifestyle that went with it. Ideally, the world wanted her to be free in mind, but not in action, life, behavior or perspective. Someone who conformed fully, but then also produce the work she did.

There was no way to be a painter and to conform to society’s expectations. The two things simply couldn’t exist together, unless she painted landscape watercolors under the watchful eye of her husband. It had been a fate she’d considered for a moment and then chosen not to pursue. A wife could not spend a couple of months working on a painting, certainly not when that work was rarely at home. And a husband didn’t want a wife who spent endless hours in her study, covered in paint and turpentine.

“Harvey,” Jane called brightly as she walked into the café with small Parisian tables and chairs and a dusty floor. Paintings covered every inch of the walls, and it was dark and gloomy, but she loved coming here every morning for coffee and a roll. It set her up for the day. Some days, these were the only people she saw.

“I wondered what time we’d see you today. You have a letter.”

“Right,” Jane said as she sat down at her usual table. She wasn’t the only regular customer, and they had their preferred tables established between them. Taking her gloves off, she placed them on the table. Her nails had a ring of blue paint around the cuticles that had just proven too hard to budge. Luckily, she’d managed to clean the smear off her face, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d turned up here in the morning with paint on her face. Usually, she had the wherewithal to check.

Both the letter and the cup of coffee were placed down in front of her. By the handwriting, she saw it was from Lady Warwick, her habitual employer and casual friend. They weren’t fast friends, but Eliza Hennington, Lady Warwick, was a lovely person, who used illustrators for the educational materials her company produced.

It had been a while since Jane had heard from her as her focus had turned more toward her young children. But perhaps this was about some work on offer. Paid work was always a good idea, but too often, these days, Jane’s interest lay more with the avant-garde painting she was currently interested in. They got accolades from her artistic community, but they rarely paid the bills, and painters always needed supplies.

Turning the letter over, she saw the Warwick coat of arms stamped into the red seal. This seemed to come from Eliza personally, rather than from the Babbling Brook Educational company. That was unusual.

At one point when things had been particularly grim, Eliza had employed her, and then gone above and beyond any expectations and offered her a season in London. That had been an interesting time. Balls and parties, and every delight that the ton could offer, but at the end of it, Jane had chosen a different life, and she’d never regretted it.

“Good news?” Harvey asked, returning with her bun on a small plate.

“A commission.”

“Excellent,” he said and retreated. No doubt he now looked forward to his bill being paid. Harvey was good in that he was prepared to wait until funds were available, which made him very popular with the artistic set.

Carefully, she cracked the seal and opened the stiff parchment. As she expected, it was a letter where Eliza asked how she was and mentioned her and her family were well. There was also mention that the educational business was doing well too, but she was writing about another matter. Julius, her brother-in-law, was commissioning a portrait of himself, and Eliza had recommended her based on her skill.

Jane’s immediate reaction was ‘no’. The last thing she wanted was to spend a couple of months painting