And she set her horses briskly off once more, leaving Eliza in the dust with a great deal to think about.
Camden Place
March 2nd 1819
Oliver,
The days without you draw long, but I have waited for too many years to quail at six weeks. However long they take to pass, I know our reunion will only be sweeter for its interlude.
As I said to you on that night—I need not, I am sure, specify which I mean—there is much we must speak of still. So much that I wonder we wasted so much time upon pleasantries, when there are such vast quantities of each of our lives that remain a mystery for the other.
I do not think I mentioned, for example, that I am still painting. Perhaps you do not even remember that I used to do so, but I have received a commission while in Bath—to be fulfilled anonymously, but a proper artist’s commission, nonetheless. And while you may think it sadly self-indulgent—as you well know, I lack for neither income nor diversion—even if vanity were my only motivation, I should wish to see it through. I will see it through.
I await your reply—your thoughts—with truly excessive eagerness, and remain
Yours forever,
Eliza
17
Eliza raised the subject with Melville the very next day. He and Caroline arrived at the agreed hour—two o’clock in the afternoon, today, for the best light—and while the ladies had cloistered themselves in the drawing room (“je te trouve belle” floating in through the open door) Melville had cast himself down upon the sofa, as normal. The canvas that stood upon the easel was coated in a mix of yellow ochre and white lead, but otherwise marked only by a charcoaled outline of Melville’s form, and the first assays of color upon his face and torso. Eliza twisted her hands in her skirts. If he did not think the exhibition a good idea—if he did not agree, if he scoffed or thought her deluded—then Eliza would not do it. She took a deep breath, sat down beside Melville and opened her mouth . . .
“Somerset is gone, then,” Melville said.
“Oh—yes,” Eliza said. “I have something I should like to discuss . . .”
“Gallant of him to escort you home from the concert,” Melville observed. “He returned looking mightily pleased with himself.”
“Did he?” Eliza said, as if she did not care.
“I thought he might have proposed,” Melville admitted.
Eliza inhaled sharply, choking back a shrill denial that would give her away immediately.
“You are outrageous,” she managed calmly. “You may see for yourself that my ring finger is bare.”
She waggled her hand at him and Melville took it in his own, pretending to hold it to the light, examining it this way and that as if a betrothal ring might be hidden in plain sight.
Eliza started a little, for that had not been her intention, and she was not wearing gloves—she never did, while painting—and neither was he: it felt shockingly intimate. His skin was warm and smooth, save for the calluses she felt on his fingers—from holding a pen, or riding a horse without gloves, she could only guess.
“So it is,” Melville agreed at last. “And it is all the prettier for it.”
He took a moment more to let go, and Eliza withdrew her hand, feeling a little discombobulated.
“Will you write to him while he is away?” Melville asked, still in that light, conversational way.
“If an occasion calls for it, I should think so,” Eliza said carefully. “Letters of . . . business.”
“I thought they might rather be letters of love.”
Eliza inhaled sharply and willed herself not to blush.
“You thought incorrectly,” she said.
“A shame,” Melville said. “A good love letter is worth its weight in gold.”
As Eliza could attest . . . But now was not the moment to dwell.
“I hear you receive piles of them from readers,” Eliza said, trying to steer the conversation away from Somerset. “Is that true?”
“Not quite piles—perhaps rather a small heap,” Melville said. “Have you ever written to me?”
“I have not!” Eliza said indignantly.
“You can tell me,” he said. “I shan’t make fun.”
“You absolutely would—and I have not! I would never.”
“Your horror is unwarranted,” Melville protested. “Some of the letters are quite affecting: one lady created such an evocative idea of our life together, that I was on the point of agreeing to it until Caro pointed out the billet had come from Coldbath Fields Prison.”
“You are not serious,” Eliza protested.
“I am!” he said, grinning. “To this day I feel a little wistful about dear Mary, for she may well have been the great love of my life. But when I would not send her a lock of my hair, she vowed to murder me and I deduced this indicated the end of our affair.”
“A wise deduction,” Eliza said, laughing.
“Why thank you,” Melville said.
There was a discreet knock upon the door, and Perkins entered with a tray.
“Marvelous,” Melville said. Eliza took a moment to remarshal her thoughts.
“Did you attend Mr. Berwick’s exhibition yesterday?” she asked.
“I did. And to think you would have had him paint my portrait. What that man would have done to my legs!”
“You do not yet know what I may do to your legs,” Eliza said, biting back a smile.
“I know you are the better artist,” Melville said.
There was not an ounce of doubt in his voice and hearing it emboldened Eliza.
“It made me wonder if I might submit your portrait to the exhibition,” she said in a rush. “Only if you approve, of course!”
Melville tilted his head consideringly.
“It may invite spectacle,” Eliza continued hurriedly, “though if I submit anonymously, the secret should be kept.”
“A famous notion,” Melville said. “I wonder I did not think of it.”
He agreed with such ease—no question or hesitation—that Eliza was almost unnerved.
“It could be a fruitless endeavor,” she said, feeling a strange need to clarify matters. “Selection may be more rigorous this year.”
“Which might weed out Mr. Berwick,” Melville said. “But you will certainly pass muster.”