Page 65 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
His father had detested such occasions, but his stepmother had always enjoyed playing host, and Sebastian had no doubt she would relish organizing such a gathering. He would play along, and having done so during the course of breakfast, he asked one final question before excusing himself.
“Will Lady Rosalind be attending? I don’t remember who exactly we’ve invited,” Sebastian said.
His stepmother smiled at him and nodded.
“Oh, she’ll be there, yes. Her mother replied immediately to my invitation,” she replied.
As Sebastian left the dining room, he pondered this fact, wondering if Rosalind herself had any knowledge of the invitation, or whether it really had been accepted with the intention of attending. The Duchess of Lonsdale was no friend to Sebastian, and she would surely not want her daughter anywhere near a madman.
But Sebastian remained hopeful, for even if he could not remember discussing a soiree at Southbourne House, he was pleased to think Rosalind might be there. The lingering memory of their kiss still foremost in his mind.
***
“Rosalind, is that you?” Rosalind’s mother called out, as Rosalind let herself into the house.
She sighed, having hoped to make her way upstairs without being seen or heard. But her mother’s shrill voice was both question and command, and Rosalind knew she was now summoned.
“Yes, mother,” Rosalind called out.
The drawing room door was open, and taking off her gloves and bonnet, Rosalind approached cautiously, fearing the tone of her mother’s voice suggested she had done something wrong. As she entered the room, she realized she had. Her father was there, his foot resting on a gout stool, and her mother was standing by an easel, the picture on it covered with a drape. Rosalind’s eyes grew wide and fearful. She recognized the easel; it was her own.
“This, Rosalind… this… this… filth,” her mother exclaimed.
Rosalind raised her eyebrows, her hands trembling with anger as now she realized what had happened. Her parents had betrayed her. They had searched her bedroom; they had found what was most precious to her, and now her mother pulled off the drape, uttering an exclamation of disgust, as Dionysus and Ariadne came into view.
Her father turned away in embarrassment, and her mother shook her head, glaring at Rosalind, who fixed her with a defiant look.
“You had no right, mother,” Rosalind cried, as her mother shook her head.
“I’m ashamed of you, Rosalind. Didn’t I forbid you from painting such… obscenities? I wanted to encourage you in your landscape painting and using the gentle watercolors of an English pastoral scene. And instead… this,” her mother said, pointing at the painting, where the two lovers gazed at one another in the throes of their passion.
“It’s the myth of the Ariadne and Dionysus, mother. It’s a classical story, told for generations. Dionysus threw Ariadne’s jewels into the heavens to create the constellation Corona,” Rosalind said.
But the duchess did not seem interested in classical myth, and certainly not in its depiction. She considered it nothing but filth, and shaking her head, she threw the drape back over the painting in disgust.
“Perhaps it is, Rosalind, but I doubt any classical text makes reference to the faces of these two individuals sharing the remarkable similarity to yourself and the Earl of Southbourne,” her mother said.
To this, Rosalind had no ready reply. It was true; the likeness was remarkable. She had made it so. Rosalind had painted herself as Ariadne and Sebastian as Dionysus. They were star-crossed lovers, and it was Rosalind’s jewels Sebastian had thrown into the heavens.
“Because I love him, mother,” Rosalind replied, even as she knew her response would only elicit further horror on the part of her mother and father.
“You… what did you say?” her father exclaimed, and had it not been for his gouty affliction, he would surely have risen from his chair in anger.
“I said I love him, father. That’s why I painted the picture of the two of us together. I love him and he loves me. But you wouldn’t listen when I told you. You wouldn’t listen when I tried to explain,” Rosalind replied.
She was feeling defiant now. They had betrayed her trust. But this was now the opportunity to tell the truth. She wanted them to know she was hurting, to know her true feelings for the man they had so readily dismissed as nothing but a madman. Her mother sank down into a chair by the hearth. Her face turned even paler than before.
“You can’t love him, Rosalind,” she said, shaking her head.
“But I do, mother. Can we help who we fall in love with? You refuse to even acknowledge him,” Rosalind replied.
She did not want to be angry with her parents, even though she was. But she wanted them to understand her feelings for Sebastian, her feelings about marriage and courtship, her desire for a choice. But it seemed they were having none of it.
“Acknowledge a mad man? It seems he’s driven you mad, too, Rosalind,” her father said, shaking his head.
“But he hasn’t, father. Can’t I make up my own mind on these matters? Why can’t I paint? Why can’t I do those things I gain pleasure from?” Rosalind said, her tone now one of pleading, even as her mother and father both shook their heads.
“No, Rosalind, you can’t, not when you’ve proved yourself so incapable of making the right decisions. This paining proves it. Imagine what the Duke of Northridge would say if he knew about it. No… it can’t be,” her father said, and nodding to Rosalind’s mother, she pulled the painting from the easel and tossed it into the hearth, where the flames from the fire sprang up around it, as Rosalind let out a cry.
