A Brush With Romance

A ROMANTIC SHORT STORY BY H. JOHNSON-MACK

In this story, set in the 1830s, Cordelia would do anything to ensure her father’s painting commission went to plan…

It had snowed overnight, plunging the world into white. Not the best for travelling, Cordelia Belfour considered, but her father’s commission could lead to a much-needed reversal in their fortunes.

“I’m excited to see what you produce for Sir Richard Stanway’s bride,” she said.

“If gossip speaks true, Lady Caroline has more wealth than wit.”

“Ah, but we do not heed such talk, Cordy. I am sure she will be a patient sitter for her Valentine’s gift.”

Peter smiled at his daughter, who tried not to worry at his weariness.

It had been just the two of them for a decade, since the death of her mother, who was irreplacable in her father’s heart.

Cordelia hoped one day she would meet someone who inspired such love.

“Look.” Peter pointed out a pebbledash crenelated manor house. “Medenham.”

Cordelia looked around with interest as they were led into a handsome parlour.

“Ah, our artist!” Richard Stanway came with hands outstretched to greet them.

“Welcome to Medenham. You will treat the house as yours whilst here.”

Cordelia returned his smile.

“It will be our pleasure,” Peter said.

“Splendid. Now, I’ve promised my bride a magnificent portrait of her as my Valentine gift.

“Is not that right, rosebud?”

Roses were not the flowers Cordelia pictured when she saw Caroline Stanway.

With her stiff, pale colouring, only enhanced by the ice-blue gown she wore, she was far more similar to a snowdrop.

Her greeting held none of her husband’s warmth.

A young boy came rushing into the room, screaming loudly.

Lady Stanway’s features were immediately suffused with smiles.

“Darling! Look, the painter has arrived.”

“Paint!” the child shrieked. “I want paint!”

Peter and Cordelia shared an alarmed glance as, evading his mother’s fingers, the child snatched up her embroidery and threw it across the room.

“Later, perhaps, Bertie,” Sir Richard hastily intervened. “We’ve your riding lesson, remember?”

Bertie, distracted, flung himself at his stepfather.

Cordelia sighed. This child could cause trouble.

The winter scene was beautiful, with its mediaeval church on the hill and cottages below.

“Too contrived, do you not think?”

A gentleman stood at her shoulder, blond hair swept nonchalantly to one side.

“Did I startle you? Apologies.”

He didn’t seem sorry, Cordelia thought, judging by the lilt to his mouth.

“What do you find so fascinating?”
“The peace, Mr Stanway.”

“You know who I am?”

She sent Evan Stanway a wry glance.

“You share your elder brother’s eyes.”

“Really?” Those eyes now twinkled at her.

“And you would be a fair judge of colour, Miss Belfour, with such an artist in the family.”

Cordelia’s smile was instant.

“You know of my father?”

“Yes, and I admire his work.

“He has a way with a brush to rival the Dutch masters, hence why you’ve been dragged here.

“Richard thinks a fine portrait of his bride might help melt her heart.”

“Caroline’s an insufferable snob. I’m sure you noticed.

“But he’s a romantic, and believes if she can adore her son so blindly, there’s hope for him, too.”

“Sir Richard seems a fine man,” Cordelia said stiffly.

“With better manners than mine?” Evan laughed.

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

Evan eyed her appraisingly.

“I don’t usually speak so freely to strangers.”

Cordelia couldn’t tell if he was mocking or complimenting, so took refuge in hauteur.

“Indeed? Well, I’m not flattered, sir. Excuse me.”

Picking up her skirts, she made a dignified exit as his rich laughter followed her down the gallery.

A suite of south-facing rooms was set aside for the Belfours, displaying the best of the February sun through long windows.

Cordelia was pleased to find her father in artist’s mode.

Knowing he’d abandon all practicality, she set about unpacking his easel, paints and brushes whilst he strode around, pausing at different positions to discover the prime spot for his subject.

She duly arrived, extremely handsome in lace shawl and satin gown.

Lady Caroline allowed herself to be tilted and draped until her painter declared himself satisfied.

Once he had a brush in hand, Peter would work without stopping.

Cordelia stayed close to intervene when necessary, giving the sitter a chance to move stiffening limbs, and forcing tea on her father.

Once she saw that the pair had established a good rapport, she felt safe to seek some fresh air.

She lingered in the slumbering winter garden, then, checking furtively for any sign of Stanways, entered their library.

The natural light had long gone when Peter finally downed tools for the day.

Once Caroline had left, Cordelia joined him before the developing portrait.

“Papa, you’re a genius. You’ve captured my lady’s likeness already. It’s going to be one of your best.”

She sighed, recalling Evan Stanway’s words.

“She’s handsome, but it’s a cold beauty.”

“Regal, she would say,” Peter added with a smile.

Before Cordelia could reply, the door opened and Bertie came haring in, followed by a breathless nursemaid.

“Paint! Paint!”

Peter instinctively used himself as a shield to preserve the canvas as the nursemaid tried and failed to grab the boy, who laughed as he snatched at brushes by the easel.

“Master Albert, stop!” the nursemaid cried as one of his random flings caught Cordelia across the chest.

Bertie froze.

Then, when Cordelia moved, he flung down the brushes and ran out before she could exact any vengeance.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry!” The nursemaid sobbed.

Cordelia smiled reassuringly.

“It’s not your fault, and no harm done.

“Poor girl,” she added when the maid disappeared after her charge.

Dinner was a pleasant affair, even with Evan Stanway placed opposite Cordelia at the table with only a candelabra to shade his mocking glances.

Lady Caroline confirmed they were to host a costume party for Valentine’s Night, and showed her first kindness to Cordelia when her open expression betrayed her chagrin at the news.

“Do not fret. I have a few outfits you could choose from, and plenty of time for any alterations.”

Cordelia’s gratitude meant she had more patience for Master Bertie, who joined them after dinner for fireside games.

This soon wore thin, especially when Evan seemed determined to provoke her, teasing and ignoring her by turns.

Cordelia managed to refrain from letting him triumph, though was conscious of ruffled feathers as she retired with her father.

What was it about the man that disturbed her so?

She didn’t have time to ponder, for Peter was seized with one of his sudden creative doubts.

“I’ll never finish in time!”

“Cease, Papa. It’s coming on beautifully,” Cordelia tried to reassure him.

But Peter wouldn’t settle until he was before the painting, brush in hand.

Cordelia had worried that the time restriction might prey on his mind, so said no more, simply ensuring his tools were available.

The result was a wonderful image of a dignified Lady Stanway, curled hand inviting the gaze as one elbow rested on her gowned knee.

“Papa,” Cordelia breathed. “You’ve done it!”

His smile was triumphant yet weary.

Cordelia propelled him off to bed. She, however, was too keyed up to sleep.

Finally, she wrapped herself in her cloak and crept through the slumbering unfamiliar house to the library.

She was holding a candle aloft to illuminate the bookshelves when a footfall sounded behind her, followed swiftly by Evan Stanway’s voice.

“She walks in beauty, like the night…”

Cordelia moved her candle.

“A poetry lover, sir? You surprise me.”

His smile was tinged with regret.

“Forgive me, if I have given you cause to mistrust my motives. There is something about you…”

Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat. He crossed the room to stand before her.

“Have you not noticed? We see the world in different colours.

“We lose ourselves in books and art, to reach for that which, at times, real life fails to deliver.

“So, yes, Cordelia, I am a poetry lover. Will you stay with me whilst I read?”

Instinct warred with propriety. But in that softly lit library, instinct won.

Cordelia sank into a dream where gorgeous phrases wrapped about her as warmly as her cloak.

As the hands of the clock crept past one, she shyly asked if Evan would like to see her father’s work.

They tiptoed upstairs and stood before the portrait.

Cordelia lifted her candle, only to almost drop it when she saw a hideous splash of blood-red across the lady’s poised hand.

“I don’t believe it!” She gasped. “It’s ruined!

“Your nephew must have been in here, that spoilt little…”

“Hush.” Evan took the light from her fingers. “You’ll wake the house.”

“But this is terrible!” Cordelia protested.

“Valentine’s is two days away; there’s no time to start again. We need this commission!”

Her trembling fingers were stilled by his.

“Courage, now. There’ll be an answer, don’t fret.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you sleep on it? Things seem better in the morning.”

Cordelia woke with a feeling of dread.

How could she face her father’s despair when he saw the painting? Was she right to have trusted things to her midnight poet?

She rose and dressed, dragging her feet to where the easel stood in silvery winter light.

Peter was already there, gazing at the canvas.

“Papa,” Cordelia began, having to clear her throat when her voice emerged thin and trembling.

He turned, his smile an uplifting surprise.

“An interesting touch, Cordy, if rather poetic.

“I wouldn’t have thought of it myself. But it works. Well done, dear.”

Cordelia stared at Lady Stanway’s image, now holding a plump scarlet rose in hidden fingers, and was lost for words.

She hurried downstairs in search of Evan, only to learn he’d left early, bound for London.

Though the portrait was a huge success, for Cordelia, the excitement fell flat.

She was delighted that her father’s talents were so appreciated, and Sir Richard was already discussing further commissions.

Plus, Lady Caroline had offered a selection of lovely costumes for the revels.

Yet the dove-grey sky seemed colder, somehow.

She joined in with gathering greenery to decorate the hall just for something to do.

But it was impossible to ignore the inner leap when Sir Richard announced his brother’s return in time for the party.

Cordelia was putting the finishing touches to her costume when a maid brought her a folded note.

Meet me by the sundial, it read.

The February night was tipped with moonlight.

A tricorned highwayman waited by the sundial and as Cordelia approached, he swept her a theatrical bow.

“Is this the way you keep your promises?”

Lifting his mask, Evan smiled.

“I could hardly lay my heart at your feet without an appropriate gift, now, could I?”

He offered her a silken flower wrapped in golden tissue.

“A rose for you, my lady.”

Cordelia gazed at him, the feelings she couldn’t hide ablaze in her eyes.

“Thank you. Lady Caroline’s portrait is saved, and this is now my favourite flower.”

He frowned.

“But your father…”

She stopped the words on his lips with her fingers.

“Would approve of anyone as artistic as himself.”

She pulled him to her and claimed their first kiss.

In his room, Peter waited with bated breath.

For years, he’d fretted over his beloved daughter’s future, willing to do whatever it took to ensure she’d never be unprotected after he’d gone.

He’d jumped at the chance to paint cold Lady Caroline, hoping against hope the young gentleman he’d often spoken with at the Royal Academy would be visiting his brother at the same time.

Initially concerned by their clashes, he quickly recognised the spark between the two. But Cordelia was cautious, and time was against them.

From the window, he saw the highwayman present her with a rose.

He knew Cordelia thought it was Evan who’d rescued the portrait, which was right in a way, as he’d roused Peter from his bed to help him do so.

What neither knew was it was the painter’s hand that had daubed that paint, not a spoiled child, though Master Bertie had provided the inspiration.

A deliberate ploy, yes –but did the means justify the ends?

Well, as any poet would say, sometimes love needs a little nudge.

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