paintings were crammed together, one atop the other, all the way to the ceiling. Florence didn't mind the confusion. She loved seeing these works in person, rather than as engravings in a magazine. Even the bad paintings pleased her, for she could see the brush strokes and the colors
and imagine the real live painter at his work. How wonderful it must be, she thought, to have the ability
to create.
Some of the pictures were very fine. For long minutes, she stood entranced by Mr. Millais's portrait of the grand Mrs. Bischoffshein, her character captured so thoroughly Florence felt as if she knew her. A termagant, she thought, but one with a sense of humor. She stopped as well when she reached Tissot's Too Early, which, by luck or design, hung by itself above a lovely marble fireplace. The picture depicted four lovely, but obviously embarrassed, girls, waiting with their escorts in an empty ballroom. "Do you like it?" said a deep familiar voice. Florence 's heart began to pound. She couldn't recall Edward soliciting her opinion before. She snuck a look at him but, thankfully, his stern blue gaze rested on the painting. She answered as steadily as she could.
"I like it very much," she said. "The artist has so perfectly captured the awkwardness of arriving first one can hardly help but smile."
Edward tugged his lapels. "You like a picture that tells a story?"
"As long as the story is interesting."
"What about that French fellow, Monet, or Mr. Sisley?" For the first time, he looked directly at her, both his gaze and his tone challenging. Florence felt an odd swooping in her stomach. No man should have lashes that thick. For a moment, her face was so hot she thought she'd faint. She had to swallow before she could speak.
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with their work."
Edward nodded as if her answer was no more than he'd expected. "Come with me," he said. "I have something to show you."
To her amazement, he took her not by the arm but by the hand. Even through her gloves she could feel the warmth of Ms hold . Her fingers were utterly swallowed in his grip. She could only pray he
did not sense the sudden dampness of her palm.
He led her through a maze of arched doorways to the very smallest of the galleries. There he handed her a pair of silver opera glasses and pointed to a painting which hung, as if the Academy were ashamed to have accepted it, in a high, dingy corner near the ceiling.
Florence put the glasses to her eyes. "Am I looking at Mr. Monet or Mr. Sisley?"
"Neither," he said, with the perversity she had come to expect. "This work is Mr. Whistler's."
She could feel him breathing, slowly, steadily. He stood directly behind her, his long legs brushing her skirts, his big hands tilting the binoculars to guide her gaze. Her arms began to tremble. They only stopped when she focused on the painting.
"Oh," she sighed, unable to keep her wonderment inside. The picture showed a bridge just after sunset on a misty night, with the shadow of a solitary boatman punting the current underneath. She'd never
seen anything like it. It was a completely new thing, a blur of subtle colors which somehow created a world. She felt her mind open in the strangest way. This, she thought, is a painting of the future.
Edward seemed to share her excitement.
"Isn't it something?" he said, the words a gentle stir beneath her hat.
"It's extraordinary! Why, it's nothing but smears of dark and light blue, but you know exactly what it is. He has it precisely: how the water looks at night, even how it feels, as if the whole world had gone to sleep but you. It makes me want to cry just looking at it and yet it's quite, quite beautiful."
Lost in admiration, she didn't even jump when Edward's hands settled briefly on her shoulders, just a quick, warm squeeze and they were gone.
"I was thinking I would buy it," he said.
Florence couldn't help herself. She lowered the glasses and turned to him. His expression was musing, his exquisite mouth
and imagine the real live painter at his work. How wonderful it must be, she thought, to have the ability
to create.
Some of the pictures were very fine. For long minutes, she stood entranced by Mr. Millais's portrait of the grand Mrs. Bischoffshein, her character captured so thoroughly Florence felt as if she knew her. A termagant, she thought, but one with a sense of humor. She stopped as well when she reached Tissot's Too Early, which, by luck or design, hung by itself above a lovely marble fireplace. The picture depicted four lovely, but obviously embarrassed, girls, waiting with their escorts in an empty ballroom. "Do you like it?" said a deep familiar voice. Florence 's heart began to pound. She couldn't recall Edward soliciting her opinion before. She snuck a look at him but, thankfully, his stern blue gaze rested on the painting. She answered as steadily as she could.
"I like it very much," she said. "The artist has so perfectly captured the awkwardness of arriving first one can hardly help but smile."
Edward tugged his lapels. "You like a picture that tells a story?"
"As long as the story is interesting."
"What about that French fellow, Monet, or Mr. Sisley?" For the first time, he looked directly at her, both his gaze and his tone challenging. Florence felt an odd swooping in her stomach. No man should have lashes that thick. For a moment, her face was so hot she thought she'd faint. She had to swallow before she could speak.
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with their work."
Edward nodded as if her answer was no more than he'd expected. "Come with me," he said. "I have something to show you."
To her amazement, he took her not by the arm but by the hand. Even through her gloves she could feel the warmth of Ms hold . Her fingers were utterly swallowed in his grip. She could only pray he
did not sense the sudden dampness of her palm.
He led her through a maze of arched doorways to the very smallest of the galleries. There he handed her a pair of silver opera glasses and pointed to a painting which hung, as if the Academy were ashamed to have accepted it, in a high, dingy corner near the ceiling.
Florence put the glasses to her eyes. "Am I looking at Mr. Monet or Mr. Sisley?"
"Neither," he said, with the perversity she had come to expect. "This work is Mr. Whistler's."
She could feel him breathing, slowly, steadily. He stood directly behind her, his long legs brushing her skirts, his big hands tilting the binoculars to guide her gaze. Her arms began to tremble. They only stopped when she focused on the painting.
"Oh," she sighed, unable to keep her wonderment inside. The picture showed a bridge just after sunset on a misty night, with the shadow of a solitary boatman punting the current underneath. She'd never
seen anything like it. It was a completely new thing, a blur of subtle colors which somehow created a world. She felt her mind open in the strangest way. This, she thought, is a painting of the future.
Edward seemed to share her excitement.
"Isn't it something?" he said, the words a gentle stir beneath her hat.
"It's extraordinary! Why, it's nothing but smears of dark and light blue, but you know exactly what it is. He has it precisely: how the water looks at night, even how it feels, as if the whole world had gone to sleep but you. It makes me want to cry just looking at it and yet it's quite, quite beautiful."
Lost in admiration, she didn't even jump when Edward's hands settled briefly on her shoulders, just a quick, warm squeeze and they were gone.
"I was thinking I would buy it," he said.
Florence couldn't help herself. She lowered the glasses and turned to him. His expression was musing, his exquisite mouth
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