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

Julius Hennington—a man she remembered quite clearly. They’d gone to a few events in the same company, but it hadn’t been hard to ascertain that he wasn’t welcoming of her presence. In fact, he hadn’t wanted her there at all. Not that he was directly rude, but one always felt when one wasn’t wanted.

So no, she did not want to paint some arrogant aristocrat for two months. Someone would find that to be the dream commission, but not her. Obviously, she liked to help Eliza whenever she could, but this was one she would pass on.

Drinking her coffee, she put the letter away and focused her attention on her surroundings. There were a few folded newspapers available for the patrons, but there was never anything worth reading in there. At no point had she ever picked up a paper and felt she’d been enriched by it. There were some quarterly magazines she enjoyed, written by artists, with in-depth articles about important topics such as artistic freedom, or the philosophical movements on the continent. Those were interesting reads that expanded the mind.

The sun came out on the street outside, and she enjoyed watching the light play and cast shadows. Light was always on her mind, her muse. Nothing existed without light. It was the medium by which they existed in the world.

Finishing the last of the bun, she made her way outside again and breathed in the crisp sea air. This town was marvelous. Granted, it filled with visitors from London coming down by train for a day by the sea. Somehow, she felt they added to the charm, even as many people derided their presence. Brighton wasn’t a sleepy little coastal village, and that was just how it was.

Pulling on her gloves again, she wondered if she should drop past her favorite art supply shop on the way home. Admittedly, it was a little more expensive than the larger art shops in London, but there were enough artists here to keep the prices reasonable. And she’d used up her tube of yellow.

Walking along the backstreets, she made her way to the art supply shop and was met with the distinct smell. Not exactly pleasant, but a smell she loved nonetheless. At that moment, it struck her how much she loved her life.

“Hello, François,” she said to the surly man behind the counter.

“Miss Brightly,” he acknowledged with a nod. “What do you need today?”

In all the years she’d known him, she had never seen him smile, as if he was persistently weighted down with the sheer heaviness of existing. “Yellow. Two tubes,” she replied, and looked around the store while he collected and wrapped them for her. Most of the things on display were for the dabblers. Typically, women from wealthy families who counted painting with watercolors as one of their hobbies, and pretty products were made for them. Whereas Jane needed the charmless, smell tubes of oil paint in primary colors. But it was the finer ladies who supported François’ shop, and for some reason, they even put up with his surliness.

“Thank you,” she said as she approached the counter and pulled out her coin purse, noting how light it was. She needed to sell a painting. Her funds were presently on the meagre side. Handing over the necessary coinage, she took her parcel and tucked it under her elbow before making her way out and down along the parade. The wind was much stronger in the open. Bitingly cold, so the tourists were few.

Up the three flights of stairs to her small apartment was a note pinned to her door. An eviction notice. Her eyebrows drew together. What in the world was this? She’d paid her rent. This couldn’t be right. This apartment had perfect light.

Grabbing it, she tore it from the pin holding it. They were refurbishing the building, it said, improving the state of it. Jane swore. This meant they were aiming to make this building fit for a better class of tenants. Damn it. Brighton was becoming more popular, and it was also becoming popular with elderly ladies of a finer sort living on annuities, who sought small, but high-quality seaside apartments. Really, this was a little far from the center of town, wasn’t it? Apparently not. The landlord saw an opportunity to attract these better paying tenants.

So where was she supposed to go—and everyone else who lived here? Why did these society women have to come into their neighborhoods? It was, unfortunately, a repeating story. Artists made a community lively and beautiful, and then came the people who sought the charm of it. And now it was her turn to be turfed out, and likely the whole of the neighborhood was seeking to attract a better class of inhabitants. In the process, destroying the charm they promoted as part of the neighborhood.

This was the last thing she needed. Moving was expensive and finding an apartment with decent light wasn’t easy. It took time and luck.

Now she had to wonder if she, and her community, was to be priced out of Brighton entirely. This was unfair, but money always won. It was the sad truth she always fought against. Some things should be more important than money, but when it came down to it, little was. And now she was undesirable.

What was she going to do?

Turning the key, she made her way outside and threw the scrunched-up letter away in the corner. This was horrible. Where could she go? There was a chance she could find another apartment nearby, but this upgrading had been creeping in for a while now, so this wasn’t entirely surprising.

There was nothing for it. She simply had to move further inland, to a rougher neighborhood—which were often not all that welcoming to artists. In a way, this rippled down as the people who were turfed out then invaded another neighborhood and the displacement