Page 29 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
It was growing dark now, though the ball was far from over. Stewards and footmen were hurrying back and forth with tapers, lighting the candelabras, their flickering glow illuminating the ballroom in a low light, and casting shadows into the corners. Rosalind smiled, glad to have encountered him again, despite what she had overheard in the powder room.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” she said, for she had walked slowly back to the ballroom, fearing he might have already left or been warned off by Richard.
“I didn’t want to see you with him,” Sebastian replied, emerging from the shadows, and offering her his arm.
She smiled at him, not wishing to believe there could be any hint of madness behind his smile. She would not mention what she had heard, nor did it matter. All that mattered was the moment they found themselves in. It was like a painting, frozen in time.
He led her out onto the terrace, where the silvery moonlight picked out the marble flagstones, and the sounds of revelers from the shrubbery below suggested they were not the only couple taking advantage of the growing darkness.
“Isn’t it beautiful? The moonlight on the garden. It bathes everything in silver. But there’s still such warmth in the air. How I love midsummer,” Rosalind said, as they leaned next to one another on the terrace.
Sebastian smiled at her, his features illuminated in the moonlight, as the scent of the garden roses and lavender perfumed the surrounding air.
“It’s a truly beautiful night. It makes me think of some lines from Shelley, ‘Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, - and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy?’ Do you know them?” Sebastian asked.
Rosalind smiled. She had not realized Sebastian was a lover of poetry, too. Rosalind devoured the works of the romantics, though she knew only of Shelley by reputation. The words were beautiful, and looking up at the moon, Rosalind imagined it listening to the words and nodding sadly, for they were certainly true.
“I’ve never heard them before, but they’re beautiful. I know by heart about the moon, I mean. It’s by Byron. ‘So, we’ll go no more a roving so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we’ll go no more a roving by the light of the moon.’ I think it’s very beautiful, though I’m never really sure what it means,” Rosalind said, and Sebastian smiled.
“It’s very beautiful, too, I suppose. Does love ever rest?” he asked.
This was a question Rosalind, too, had pondered. She did not think so. If a person was in love, there would be no cause to rest. “Perhaps, like the moon, love waxes and wanes. But I don’t like to think it does. If one falls in love, why would it need rest? Isn’t love the thing that allows us so often to continue in our troubles, knowing we’re loved?” Rosalind replied.
She knew she was speaking from a position of naivety. She had never been in love. The poems she loved to read were just the same as the paintings she loved to look at. She could read the words or see the picture, but to truly know what was being conveyed.
“And was the night made for loving?” Sebastian asked, drawing a little closer to her and smiling.
Rosalind blushed.
“I don’t see why there should be a change. I really don’t understand the poem. Why not go roving by the light of the moon? Wouldn’t it be a pleasure? Can you imagine it? Setting off across a moonlight meadow, the way lit only by the starry sky and the waxy moon.
Have you ever seen a harvest moon? When it hangs low, it’s as though you could reach out and touch it. Why wouldn’t you go a roving, as Byron puts it? No, I don’t think love ever rests. Not when you’ve found it. It doesn’t need to. Or perhaps that’s the point. When you’ve found true love, you don’t need to keep on searching,” Rosalind said.
There was such a sense of ease in their conversation. They had discovered another shared passion, and Rosalind could hardly believe she had found a man with whom she could converse so freely. Sebastian was the very opposite of every other man she had ever known, even as her experiences with men were limited.
She could not imagine having such a conversation with Richard. He would merely give his opinion and assume she would agree with it. But Sebastian was different, and Rosalind could not help but feel at ease in his company. He nodded, looking up at the moon once again and smiling.
“I suppose we’ll always be fascinated by the heavens. We look up and see something so familiar, yet so distant. We know the moon and the stars, but we don’t, not at all. It’s no wonder the poets write so eloquently of it. They’ve thought the same thoughts. Do you ever write poems?” he asked.
Rosalind blushed. She had often attempted compositions of her own, but unlike painting, Rosalind did not believe her talents lay in the poetic arts. Her verses were often stilted, failing to communicate the images in her mind. With the brush, the matter was different, but Rosalind had never shared her poetry with anyone else before.
“I…well, I’ve tried, yes. But they never seem quite right. With a painting, one keeps altering it in the detail, but with a poem, it’s as though it becomes harder the more changes one makes. I write, then change, then write something else, do you?” she asked, tentatively, for he had mentioned his own paintings, and she was curious to know if he had written poetry, too.
He nodded, but also looked embarrassed, even as he could not very well refuse to answer the question he had just asked of her.
“Well…I do write a little poetry, but mainly to help…well, it doesn’t matter. I try to write my thoughts into verse. It helps me, but I can’t say it’s any good,” he replied.
“Would you let me hear something you’ve written? If I was able to show you one of my paintings?” Rosalind asked.
It seemed a fair exchange. An artist was always reticent in revealing their craft. While others might see perfection, they themselves would only see faults, a final missed brushstroke or a missing word in a verse. It was the nature of an artist to forever see the need for something more. The earl nodded.
“I could read one to you, if you’d like me to. But don’t ask me to remember one off the top of my head. I can recall poetry. Other people’s, at least. But with my own, I’m forever changing the words,” he said, and Rosalind smiled.
She would not force the matter, though she was certainly curious to hear what he had written. Rosalind had no doubt as to his talents, and she could not help but feel attracted to a man who had such hidden depths. There was surely no truth in what she had overheard in the powder room. Sebastian was not mad.
He had not forgotten the things that mattered, and perhaps that was the point. It was easy to forget those things one had no care for, but there was no sign Sebastian had forgotten such things as mattered to him, his love of art and poetry, and his ability to converse in such depth.
