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Authors: A Man of Affairs
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stood a number of canvases, stacked one against the other.
"This is part of the nursery wing, which of course hasn't been used for ages. This particular chamber lies just off the school room and was used for games and reading on rainy days. Since it is large and provides a good exposure, it is perfect for my purpose. No one comes up here anymore—in fact, I think Mama and Papa have forgotten its existence—so I can creep up here, and it's as though I've escaped to a hidden lair."
Seth moved into the room and, glancing at Eden, raised his brows in an unspoken request. Eden waved her hand permissively. As he lifted the canvases to examine them, she sat down before the easel, pretending to make minute corrections to an almost-completed work.
Seth's progress was slow, for he became increasingly mesmerized with the perusal of each painting. Most were watercolors, but there were some oils. None of the paintings were large, no grand landscapes or mythological panoramas. Although most of them were outdoor subjects, they portrayed small delights, like the budding tree in the wood. Eden apparently liked to paint flowers, but her subjects were not pretty bouquets of daffodils or formally arranged roses. Eden's flowers cascaded in riots of colors that seemed to spill from the canvas into the viewer's hands. Her daffodils were a glorious burst of gold and green that almost assaulted one with their sensuous beauty. They were formed of strong, almost violent brush strokes, and they suggested rather than took the true shape of the blossoms depicted. Her roses were full and vibrant in their blazing reds and pinks and yellows, and swollen with an almost suggestive passion.
He came across a portrait of Zoë, and almost gasped. It had been painted at night, and the sole source of lighting was a candle, from which the viewer was shielded by a sweep of drapery. Zoë's face was bathed in the warmth of the candlelight, glowing against the darkness behind her. The contrast of light and shadow was dramatic, creating a lush, almost shocking sense of intimacy. Eden had captured Zoë's freshness and the innocence of her youth as well as the mystery of her awakening sensuality. The effect was stunning.
"My God!" whispered Seth. "These are like nothing I have ever seen. Have you considered offering any of them for sale?"
Eden uttered a high laugh. "Oh, no." She dropped her gaze. "At least, not seriously. I have given away some as gifts—although not many people really want them. I have done a few portraits of my friends' children. Those turned out rather well. Papa and Mama and my sisters think my pictures are quite dreadful. They don't understand why I must paint with such ... ferocity. They complain that my flowers and trees and whatever else I choose are hardly recognizable—and I daresay they're right. But I must paint things as I see them. In any event. Papa would not for a minute countenance my offering my work for sale. It would smell of trade, don't you see?"
Seth grunted. Yes, he did see. On the other hand, though he was by no means an expert on art, he could feel the talent fairly boiling forth from the canvas. He knew only that in these paintings he beheld a vitality, a sureness, a pure virtuosity.
Seth touched one finger to a particularly explosive chrysanthemum. "Your style is ... quite original," he murmured.
Eden laughed. "My family would agree—although they would not put it so tactfully."
"I meant it as a compliment," Seth said hastily. He glanced at the stack of paintings. "Have you any more portraits?"
"Y-yes—or no, they are not formal portraits. I do have one or two studies, and a few sketches."
From a cupboard she pulled several sheets of vellum. There were watercolors and pencil and charcoal sketches, mostly of children and mostly in preliminary stages. Seth chose one of the more or less finished products, a charcoal sketch of Zoë seated at the piano. It seemed to Seth that she had caught Zoë's personality in a few
"This is part of the nursery wing, which of course hasn't been used for ages. This particular chamber lies just off the school room and was used for games and reading on rainy days. Since it is large and provides a good exposure, it is perfect for my purpose. No one comes up here anymore—in fact, I think Mama and Papa have forgotten its existence—so I can creep up here, and it's as though I've escaped to a hidden lair."
Seth moved into the room and, glancing at Eden, raised his brows in an unspoken request. Eden waved her hand permissively. As he lifted the canvases to examine them, she sat down before the easel, pretending to make minute corrections to an almost-completed work.
Seth's progress was slow, for he became increasingly mesmerized with the perusal of each painting. Most were watercolors, but there were some oils. None of the paintings were large, no grand landscapes or mythological panoramas. Although most of them were outdoor subjects, they portrayed small delights, like the budding tree in the wood. Eden apparently liked to paint flowers, but her subjects were not pretty bouquets of daffodils or formally arranged roses. Eden's flowers cascaded in riots of colors that seemed to spill from the canvas into the viewer's hands. Her daffodils were a glorious burst of gold and green that almost assaulted one with their sensuous beauty. They were formed of strong, almost violent brush strokes, and they suggested rather than took the true shape of the blossoms depicted. Her roses were full and vibrant in their blazing reds and pinks and yellows, and swollen with an almost suggestive passion.
He came across a portrait of Zoë, and almost gasped. It had been painted at night, and the sole source of lighting was a candle, from which the viewer was shielded by a sweep of drapery. Zoë's face was bathed in the warmth of the candlelight, glowing against the darkness behind her. The contrast of light and shadow was dramatic, creating a lush, almost shocking sense of intimacy. Eden had captured Zoë's freshness and the innocence of her youth as well as the mystery of her awakening sensuality. The effect was stunning.
"My God!" whispered Seth. "These are like nothing I have ever seen. Have you considered offering any of them for sale?"
Eden uttered a high laugh. "Oh, no." She dropped her gaze. "At least, not seriously. I have given away some as gifts—although not many people really want them. I have done a few portraits of my friends' children. Those turned out rather well. Papa and Mama and my sisters think my pictures are quite dreadful. They don't understand why I must paint with such ... ferocity. They complain that my flowers and trees and whatever else I choose are hardly recognizable—and I daresay they're right. But I must paint things as I see them. In any event. Papa would not for a minute countenance my offering my work for sale. It would smell of trade, don't you see?"
Seth grunted. Yes, he did see. On the other hand, though he was by no means an expert on art, he could feel the talent fairly boiling forth from the canvas. He knew only that in these paintings he beheld a vitality, a sureness, a pure virtuosity.
Seth touched one finger to a particularly explosive chrysanthemum. "Your style is ... quite original," he murmured.
Eden laughed. "My family would agree—although they would not put it so tactfully."
"I meant it as a compliment," Seth said hastily. He glanced at the stack of paintings. "Have you any more portraits?"
"Y-yes—or no, they are not formal portraits. I do have one or two studies, and a few sketches."
From a cupboard she pulled several sheets of vellum. There were watercolors and pencil and charcoal sketches, mostly of children and mostly in preliminary stages. Seth chose one of the more or less finished products, a charcoal sketch of Zoë seated at the piano. It seemed to Seth that she had caught Zoë's personality in a few
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