Page 1 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
Chapter 1
London, England, Spring, 1813.
“Oh, Rosalind, there you are. Why weren’t you at luncheon?” Rosalind Fairchild’s mother, Lillian, Duchess of Lonsdale, asked, peering at her daughter, who hastily hid the book she was carrying behind her back.
“I… well… I wasn’t hungry. I ate so much at luncheon; the turbot was delicious. I just didn’t feel like eating anything else,” Rosalind lied.
She had missed luncheon because she had lost track of time, perusing the shelves in her father’s library, and looking at all the books neither of her parents approved of. The duchess looked at her and raised her eyebrows.
“I had to entertain Lady Tilly alone. She’s hard work, and your father’s no good at making small talk. If you intend to miss dinner, inform me, Rosalind. We live in the same house. It would take only a moment,” the duchess said, and Rosalind nodded.
“I will, mother,” she said, edging along the wall in the hallway beneath a portrait of her father, whom she could not help but feel was really watching her from behind.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” her mother asked.
“Oh… nothing, just… a book. Actually, mother, I feel a slight megrim coming on. I think I’ll go up to my bedroom and lie down. I won’t dine tonight, either. I’ll ask Molly to bring up a tray,” she said, hoping to distract her mother, who sighed.
“Rosalind, you’re becoming something of a recluse. You’ve just had your debut. You’re out in society. Retreating now won’t do you any favors-a young lady not noticed in her first season becomes a wallflower in the second. This is your chance and mine, too. We must seize it,” the duchess said.
Rosalind nodded. She knew her mother had been disappointed by her debut at the Hayton Lodge ball. It had been something of a disaster. She had not wanted to dance with anyone and found herself left on the wall, much to the duchess’ horror.
Rosalind had tried her best, but the atmosphere had been stifling with its heightened expectations. She had wanted only to retreat into herself rather than blossom, as was the expectation.
“I know that, mother. It’s only been two weeks. I don’t think any woman receives an offer of marriage after two weeks,” Rosalind said, and her mother tutted.
“The Earl of Brancaster’s daughter was betrothed the day after her debut,” she said, citing a story the ton had marveled over the previous season.
But Rosalind was not the daughter of the Earl of Brancaster, nor did she possess aspirations to marry the first eligible bachelor presented to her. Rosalind was in no hurry to marry, and she was more than happy to pursue her own passions, rather than be caught up in the passions of anyone else.
“Yes, well… I’m sure she was possessed of estimable qualities I find myself lacking in, mother,” Rosalind replied.
Her mother was forever comparing her to the daughters of other aristocrats. She was not as pretty as the daughter of Lord and Lady Sotherby or as vivacious as Charlotte Pilkington, daughter of the Marchioness of Hetton. Her hair was not as long, her eyes not as blue, her French not as pronounced. The list went on.
“Oh, Rosalind, you’ve got many estimable qualities. It’s just that… well, you don’t always make them clear for others to see,” her mother replied.
Rosalind sighed. She was not the sort of person to push herself forward or make herself the center of attention. If others saw her qualities, so be it, but as for forcing them to the fore…
“I’m going to lie down, Mother. I’ll come down later,” she said.
Her mother nodded.
“And no more painting, Rosalind; don’t waste yourself on painting. It’s a pursuit for the nursery, and a watercolor can be an idle distraction. As for these ideas about displays and exhibitions… it’s not going to get you a husband,” she said.
Rosalind forced a smile, and still with the book behind her back, she edged along the wall to the stairs, making a swift pirouette, and burying the volume in her skirts before hurrying up to the landing. It was not until she was back in her bedroom she breathed a sigh of relief, taking out the book and looking at it with a smile.
“Europe’s Masterpieces,” she read, opening the book to reveal colored prints of the masterpieces of the great European painters. Caravaggio, Raphael, Michelangelo, Giotto, Botticelli.
Rosalind was a painter, not an idle sketcher or watercolor enthusiast, but a real painter, who painted real portraits. Her parents did not approve, actively discouraging her, particularly in light of her subjects. Rosalind painted lovers, despite never having had a lover herself. She was fascinated by the subject of love… of passions entwined, of lips pressed together, of forbidden romances.
She painted classical scenes. Myths and legends of the ancient world as a backdrop for the paintings now hidden beneath her bed. Her latest work is a depiction of the love between Ariadne and Dionysus.
It was half finished, and taking it out, she gazed down at the depiction of the lovers. The god, Dionysus, presenting the naked Ariadne with the crown he would eventually turn into a star.
“If I can ever get it right,” Rosalind thought to herself.
She had painted over the canvas half a dozen times, and now she hoped the book she had taken from her father’s library would provide the key to finishing the painting. It depicted many of the paintings Rosalind had taken for inspiration, and she hoped to copy some of the techniques, particularly when it came to the figure of Ariadne herself.
“I just find the faces so difficult,” she said to herself, setting the painting on her easel and taking out her paints.
