a drop of wax, she blew out the candle.
She could only pray for his answer.
‘This morning is the morning of the day.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
‘The answer is no!’ Gerald St Clair, Earl of Buxton, threw his newspaper down on the breakfast table. ‘Don’t ask me again, Cameo!’
Cameo leaned forward. She clutched the carved stone of her necklace so hard it dug into her skin. ‘Please, Papa, please.’
The earl shook his head, his whiskers quivering. ‘I’ve had quite enough of this. You’re Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. You have a place in society to uphold. All this nonsense must stop immediately. No daughter of mine is going to be an artist.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Being an artist isn’t so unsuitable. I’m asking for some proper painting lessons, that’s all.’
The vein on the earl’s forehead popped out. ‘It’s quite ridiculous. I blame myself. I should never have allowed you take up art in the first place. It’s all you talk of, all you do.’
And all she thought of, Cameo reflected guiltily. At that very moment she wished she had her sketchbook and pencil with her, to make a study of her father’s irate expression.
‘Listen to me, Cameo. Painting may remain your hobby, but nothing more. I’ve been too lenient with you, I see that now. It’s time to think of your future.’ Her father’s gruff tone had softened. She knew how much he loved her and he always sounded particularly gruff when he was trying to protect her from the outside world. But she didn’t want to be protected. Not from the world. Not from art.
‘I am thinking of my future, Papa.’ She took another huge breath. ‘My future is as a painter.’
The earl choked on his bacon and kidneys. ‘Your future is marriage.’
From the other end of the long, polished table Lady Buxton spoke in her soft voice. ‘You’ll forget all about painting lessons when you’re married, Cameo dear. Take our Queen Victoria. She and Prince Albert are an example to all those who seek the happy estate. Even though she is queen, she believes the best place for women is home and family.’
Cameo turned to her mother, sat behind the silver coffee pot. ‘I’m not against a home and family, Mama. It’s just I’ve discovered there’s more to life. There’s art. Art is real life.’
‘Art! Real life!’ blustered Lord Buxton. ‘You’ll put off your suitors with all this nonsense.’
‘Lord Warley asked especially if you were to attend Lady Russell’s ball,’ the countess chimed in with a smile. ‘He’s such a lovely young man. So well mannered.’
Cameo shuddered, as if Lord Warley had taken her hand to bow. Even the slightest touch of Robert Ackland, Earl of Warley, always turned her stomach. He came from a similar background to hers. Their fathers held the same rank in society. But couldn’t her mama sense what lay beneath Lord Warley’s good manners? Perhaps because Cameo spent so much time sketching, always trying to capture character, she had become more attuned to what was hidden behind propriety. ‘Oh, no, Mama. Not Lord Warley. Never.’
‘Our family has been friends with their family for years,’ her papa reminded her. ‘I was very fond of my old friend Henry Ackland. I don’t know his son well and he doesn’t seem much like his father, but Henry was a good man, God rest his soul.’
Her father still missed his old friend. Cameo gentled her voice. ‘I don’t want to think about suitors yet, Papa, that’s all. Please. I long to learn to paint in the new style, like the Pre-Raphaelites.’
‘The Pre-Raphaelites,’ her mother repeated in a horrified whisper. ‘The way they carry on is shocking, I’ve heard.’
‘But the new style of painting is wonderful. Why, I saw an extraordinary work in the Royal Academy of Art.’ Cameo’s heart beat faster as she recalled it. ‘If I took lessons, perhaps I could learn to paint like that. I’ll never be that good, but one day, I might be able to exhibit.’
Her mama almost dropped her coffee cup. ‘You couldn’t possibly show your paintings in public. What would people say? Perhaps you could paint some flowers on the name cards for our dinner parties this Season instead,’ she added hopefully. ‘That would be lovely.’
‘I suppose George could have art lessons if he wanted them?’ The question burst out before Cameo could halt it. She gripped her hands together.
‘It’s different for your brother.’ Her mother put her fingertips to her temples. ‘And please don’t raise your voice.’
Her father glowered. ‘Stop upsetting your mama and stop these foolish ideas. I’ve let it go far enough. I ought not to have allowed it in the first place.’
‘Papa...’
‘Enough, I said. I won’t discuss this matter with you again. Why are you arguing in such a manner? It isn’t like you, Cameo. Now, behave like a young lady.’
I’d rather behave like an artist. Cameo choked back the words.
‘I’m sorry, Papa.’
With shaking fingers she picked up her cup.
She hated to deceive her parents, but she had no choice.
Alas. It was already too late.
* * *
‘Cameo?’ Maud poked her head around the drawing-room door. ‘Briggs told me you were in here. Am I interrupting?’
‘Not at all.’ Cameo laid down her paintbrush. No matter how hard she tried there was no discernible improvement in her work. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Maud. It isn’t going well this morning.’
Cameo stood at her easel, an old linen sheet spread beneath her. She was fortunate to be allowed to continue to paint in the drawing room, after an incident with some spilt paint. Of course, it had been ochre.
Her easel was placed where the light was best. Through the windows the March sun cast its spring promise. Cameo had asked her mama if she might fling wide the heavy curtains for more light, but at her mother’s shocked face the question had trailed away.
Now Maud peeped over her shoulder. ‘What are you working on today?’
Carefully Cameo wiped her hands with a rag. She’d promised her mama to try to keep her hands clean, too, after she’d appeared at luncheon with oil paint under her fingernails.
‘I’m doing what apprentices used to do when they worked in the studios of the Old Masters,’ she explained. ‘They copied the Masters’ work to learn their technique. It’s a good way to learn, though not as good as actually watching a master at work with his own hands. I’m not up to landscapes yet so I’m making a copy of that portrait.’
She pointed to
