“Really?” Emily asked with relief. “I was beginning to feel as though I was wasting the day away in bed. Back home, in Hardington, I would always be up by seven at the latest.”
“Well, you have your own house to run there—that’s a full-time job in itself, even with your sisters’ help. But here nobody expects you to do anything other than enjoy life, and if I have anything to say about it, you’ll never have to do laundry again.” He took her hand in his, turning it over to study her fingers. “All those years of hard work are still visible on your hands and fingers. I’m sorry it’s been so difficult for you, Emily—for all of you.” Bending her fingers into a fist, he brought her hand up against his lips for a kiss.
“In many ways I can’t help but think of it as a welcome escape, following the loss of our parents. It was so sudden . . . so terribly difficult to get through. We were forced to busy ourselves with so many chores, many with which we had to acquaint ourselves for the very first time. It gave us something to do—a purpose—and something to take our mind off things. Then gradually it just became routine, so much so that I find myself missing certain aspects of it—though I doubt I’ll ever miss scrubbing the floors.” She sighed, then raised her eyes to meet his. “Were you sincere when you said that you wanted to court me?”
“I was,” he told her earnestly as he held her gaze.
“Why?”
“Because I believe that we would both be extremely happy with such a union. We have so much in common, Emily, and though I realize I’m not the man you’d hoped for, I’m quite confident that I’ll be able to make you happy.” He paused for a moment, then added, “At the very least, I’ll do my damndest.”
He hadn’t mentioned love, Emily thought, but why would he? She knew that he did not love her, but did that really matter? In time, she was sure that they would come to love one another in some way—even if it wouldn’t be the kind of love that Homer had written of in the Iliad, the kind of love that people would happily give their lives for.
They had something else, though—something which was in all likelihood just as important, if not more so: they were content with one another, enjoying each other’s company immensely. She’d never felt more capable of just being herself around anyone else before, other than her sisters, of course. What was more, she felt as if she could tell Francis anything. He respected her as an equal, something that was of great value to her. And then of course there was the passionate desire that they felt for one another. The air seemed to sizzle when they were in the same room.
She’d been willing to marry Adrian in a heartbeat, knowing full well that he didn’t love her as much as she’d loved him—as it turned out, he hadn’t loved her at all. And with him, she’d never experienced that spark that she felt each time Francis looked at her or touched her.
Francis had only one thing against him, Emily decided. He had secrets, dark secrets, but somehow he’d still managed to brighten in her presence these past few weeks. He’d opened himself up to her, even though he hadn’t shared his secrets with her. She didn’t want to press him, and yet, she didn’t want there to be anything between them.
“All right, Francis,” she told him. “I’ll accept your courtship, on one condition.”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.
“You know everything there is to know about me, and what you don’t know, I will readily tell you if you ask. I refuse to enter into a marriage that’s filled with secrets, and I know that you have secrets—unpleasant ones, if I’m not mistaken.” He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. She couldn’t help but notice an ominous shadow flickering across his eyes, though. She shuddered, but pressed on. “You don’t have to tell me now, or tomorrow, or even the day after that. But you must tell me before you ask me to marry you, for I will not say yes unless you tell me what it was that had such a dramatic effect on your life that it’s still affecting you to this very day.”
He sat in silence for a moment, a struggle raging within him. He longed to tell her—in fact, he’d decided to do just that when he’d returned to London from Dunhurst Park. But now that she was sitting there, asking him point blank about it, he lost his nerve. Later, he thought. I’ll tell her later. He nodded slowly. “You have every right to know, and I promise you that I will tell you, just not right now. I’m not ready, Emily, and besides, I’ve no desire to ruin our chance to spend an enjoyable day together. So, since it’s just the two of us . . . I thought I might take you to see the Dulwich Gallery. Would you like that?”
“Oh, you know that I would!” Emily exclaimed. “I haven’t been to a picture gallery since . . .” she paused. “Well, in more years than I care to remember. Who do they have on display? Do you know?”
“Well, you know I’m not so good at remembering the names of the artists—I just enjoy looking at the paintings—though I do recall seeing a Rembrandt there.”
“Really? Oh Francis, when can we go?”
“Why don’t you have a little something to eat first—you’ve done nothing but sip your tea since you walked in here—and then we can be on our way afterward. We’ll ask your abigail to come along and chaperone, so that Beatrice doesn’t jump to any conclusions. And then perhaps, once we’ve had our fill of art, we can take some refreshments at Vauxhall Gardens.”
Emily beamed with delight, all worries of buried secrets and impending marriage proposals forgotten. “It sounds wonderful, Francis—I can’t think of any other way in which I’d rather spend the day.”
“I can,” he told her with a devilish smile as blatant desire flashed behind his eyes. “Unfortunately we’ll have to wait on that a while longer.”
Emily was sure that her entire body must be flaming red from blushing. “Unfortunately, indeed,” she muttered as she reached for a scone in an attempt to quell the tightening in her belly and the rush of heat that had quickly spread to the place between her thighs.
“Oh Francis, do come and take a look at this. What you’re looking at there is far too dismal.”
“It matches the drabness of my soul,” he told her as he eyed the painting of the windmills, cast against the darkening skies of an impending storm.”
“Are you not in the least bit happy then?” she asked with a twinge of sadness.
“Emily, I haven’t been happy for so long . . . but I find that when I’m with you, there’s still a spark of hope that happiness may one day be restored to me.”
“Then come and look at this,” she urged him brightly. “If you keep surrounding yourself with dreariness, you’ll never be able to rid yourself of it. You have to try to let a little light into your soul, to battle the darkness.” Moving away from the picture of his choice, he strode toward her. “Now, tell me what you see,” she told him.
Francis studied the painting before him. “I see a number of ships at different distances from the shore,” he told her. “And there’s a rowboat, too, with some sailors in it.”
“That’s right. Now, tell me what feeling it evokes in you.”
“I’m not sure, I . . .” he paused, a bit puzzled by her question. “Peace and tranquility, I think.” His eyes widened in astonishment as he noticed the plaque that hung beneath it, carrying the title.
“That’s right,” she said. “It’s called A Calm. It’s by Van de Velde, who’s especially famous for his seascapes. I’ve seen a few lithographs of his work, but they were all in black and white—the color makes a world of difference, don’t you agree?”
“I never thought I’d find a painting of ships on the water to be so beautiful,” he told her. “In fact, I must confess that I probably wouldn’t have given it a glance if you hadn’t drawn my attention to it. Thank you, Emily.”
“It’s the blues, you know.”
“The blues?” he asked as he looked at her quizzically.
“The tones—the way in which he makes the sky glow with light and how the water shimmers. The title is so very apt.” With a small sigh and a final glance, Emily moved on to look at the next painting while Francis remained transfixed.
Never in his life had he thought to enjoy a museum visit as much as he was enjoying this one. It was as if each painting had a story to tell, a story that he was incapable of reading without Emily’s help. He felt as though he’d always been blind and that Emily had just now granted him the gift of sight. He could think of nothing to say to her that might accurately convey his gratitude.
He caught up with her a moment later. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s quite as appreciative of art as you seem to be,” he told her with a gentle smile as he came to stand beside her.
“I believe that I appreciate it because I understand it. I think it would be difficult to appreciate something that one did not understand. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“And yet, most people appreciate love, or the act of being in love, though it’s often quite impossible to understand the logic behind it.”
“Perhaps there is no logic. Perhaps that’s what makes it so thrilling, and perhaps it’s what makes love so much like art. Art isn’t logical, Francis—it’s emotional, irrational . . . it’s meant to stir your soul and your senses. A work of art is not simply a depiction of a flower, a landscape, or a portrait of someone—it is rather an insight into the artist’s soul, a window if you will.
“Take this painting over here, for instance, of the Immaculate Conception by Murillo. The artist clearly poured his heart into it; such beauty and perfection could never be attained otherwise. Look at the Madonna’s poise, the light that surrounds her, and the attention to detail—one is tempted to believe that it’s possible for her to step down from the canvas and into this very room.
“Art challenges our mind, Francis. It makes us question the world around us, and it allows us to view it in a different light or from a different angle—it’s enlightening. In truth, I dread to think of what the world would be like without it. I believe our lives would be quite dull, indeed.”
They both stood silently, looking up at the beautiful woman that stood amidst the clouds, surrounded by angels. “You’ve given me a great gift today, Emily,” he told her.
“How so?”
He paused for a moment as he wondered how he might best explain himself to her. “I feel as though I’ve been hearing music around me all my life without actually listening to it. You’ve taught me how to listen, Emily.” He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “Thank you,” he whispered and was rewarded by a dazzling smile.
It was six by the time they left the museum and entered onto Gallery Road. The evening air was balmy, so they decided to walk for a while, taking Croxted Road up to Brixton, where Francis hailed a hackney to take them the rest of the way.