Page 2 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
Her bedroom was a hidden studio, where canvases and frames were concealed behind large pieces of furniture, and paints and acrylics hidden in the draws beneath her clothes. When Rosalind had tentatively revealed the beginnings of her passion for painting, her parents had been horrified, telling her it was a pursuit for penniless Italians who painted baroque ceilings for the papists.
“And why must everyone be without their clothes?” her father had demanded, when Rosalind had spoken of her fondness for such scenes.
“It’s artistic, father,” Rosalind had said, but her father had only raised his eyebrows and made a comment about continental excesses.
Her mother had expressed similar sentiments, and Rosalind had been left with little choice but to keep her passion a secret. But the more she painted, the more she was convinced it was her true calling. To see the figures in her mind emerge on the canvas, to bring them to life; it was exhilarating.
“Something more… in the face: the eyes aren’t right,” Rosalind said to herself, peering into Ariadne’s eyes and wondering what the daughter of King Minos must have felt when she and Dionysus were wedded.
She had painted Dionysus pointing into the heavens, where the constellation Corona was emerging in the night sky. This was Ariadne’s crown, and she was pointing upwards, as their lips met in a kiss. Rosalind liked to imagine herself in the paintings, and now she closed her eyes, allowing Dionysus to take her by the hand and bring his lips to hers.
She envisioned him whispering, “I would bring down the stars for you,” while his hands slip around her waist.
Rosalind breathed a deep sigh, arching her back, as she imagined Dionysus tracing a trail of kisses down her neck. She had painted Ariadne in the nude, her breasts pert and pale, a trail of silk covering her lower half. Rosalind imagined the god’s hands caressing her body, taken within the pleasure of his touch. A knock at the door caused her to jump. Opening her eyes, she scrambled to conceal the painting and her paints.
“One moment,” she called out.
“It’s just me, my Lady,” her maid, Molly, called out. Rosalind breathed a sigh of relief, calling out for her to enter, as she rose to her feet, blushing at the thought of what had just gone through her mind.
“Oh, Molly, I thought you were mother,” Rosalind said, for her maid knew all about her passion for painting.
“No, my Lady. Your mother told me you weren’t feeling well. I thought you might like a cup of chamomile tea. Lady Elizabeth’s just arrived, too. She’s speaking to your mother in the drawing room. Will you receive her, or should I tell her you’re not well?” Molly asked.
Molly had been Rosalind’s maid since she was fifteen and deemed old enough to require someone other than a nanny or governess to see to her needs. She was fiercely loyal, and the only other person, apart from Lady Elizabeth, Rosalind trusted to know about her secrets.
“I’m not unwell. I just wanted an excuse to get away from her,” Rosalind said. Her maid smiled.
“It’s very good, my Lady,” she said, glancing at the half-finished painting on the easel.
“I can’t get the eyes right.” Rosalind complained, taking the painting off the easel, and tilting it to one side.
“Shall I tell Lady Elizabeth to come up, my Lady, or will you go down?” Molly asked.
“Ask her to come up. She can advise me on the eyes,” Rosalind replied.
A few moments later, her friend, Lady Elizabeth Thornton, entered the room. She was a pretty creature, dressed in a yellow dress, and wrapped in a shawl. She greeted Rosalind with a smile.
“Your mother tells me you’ve got a terrible megrim. She’s worried you won’t make it to the masquerade ball. I’m to talk some sense into you,” she said, and Rosalind laughed.
Elizabeth, the daughter of the Marquess of Thornton, was always told to talk sense into her. Rosalind’s mother held Elizabeth as a paradigm of everything Rosalind was not. The two of them found amusement in the comparison. They had been the closest of friends since childhood, though Elizabeth was a year older, and they shared all their secrets.
“Oh, that… well, what choice do I have? Even I can’t prolong a megrim for three days,” Rosalind said.
She was not looking forward to the Graystone masquerade, even though Graystone Manor itself was home to an impressive art collection. But the Marchioness of Graystone was a close friend of Rosalind’s mother, and the masquerade ball was to be a highlight of the season. There could be no getting out of it.
“Oh, it’ll be fun, Rosalind. Don’t you think so?” Elizabeth said.
Rosalind raised her eyebrows, though she had to admit it would provide a modicum of entertainment, particularly the prospect of seeing the art her mother had once described as “vulgar.” Rosalind had painted her own mask and Elizabeth’s. Now she took them out of the wardrobe, much to the delight of her friend.
“Do you like them, Elizabeth?” Rosalind asked.
She had taken her inspiration from a book on the Venetian carnival she had found in her father’s library. The prints depicted brightly colored masks in red and gold, and Rosalind had made two matching masks, decorated with peacock feathers, and held up to the face by ornately decorated sticks.
“They’re wonderful, Rosalind; you’re so talented,” Elizabeth exclaimed. She held up the mask Rosalind had made her, disappearing behind the expanse of painted papier-mâché and feathers.
“I hope they’ll be all right. We don’t want to be recognized,” Rosalind said, and Elizabeth looked out from behind her mask and smiled.
“Everyone’s going to be masked; we’ll not know who anyone is. Even your mother’s going to wear one. She told me so, though I don’t know who’s going to make hers,” Elizabeth said.
