She could not have said exactly when they both stopped laughing. Could not have said at what moment her breathlessness ceased to be caused by quick steps and started to be caused by . . . something else. But it must have been about the same moment Melville began to hold her tighter, pull her even closer—the same moment that he rearranged their hands so that, instead of the traditional clasp, palm to palm, their fingers were intertwined—and without quite knowing why, their giddy and reckless dance felt abruptly edged with a kind of desperation.
They did not stop moving until the very last violin strings had faded from the air, and even then they did not draw back from one another, remaining where they stood, entangled in one another, gazes locked, utterly still. Eliza was not sure of the expression on Melville’s face. Having spent so long studying his countenance, she thought she had seen every shade of emotion upon it—but she had never seen him look as he did now.
Slowly, silently, by increments, they drew back from one another. Melville offered Eliza one final, very deep bow. In the silence the music had left, their breathing was the only sound upon the air, heavy with more than simple exertion.
“My lady—”
And she did not know what he was going to say but . . .
“We ought,” Eliza said, clearing her throat when her words came out a little hoarsely, “we ought to go inside.”
Melville nodded without speaking. They crept back into the drawing room, Eliza first, then Melville after a few moments, just in case anyone was looking in that direction. But they were not. No one had seen. No one suspected. The wildest moment of Eliza’s life, and only she and he knew it had happened.
21
Eliza finished the portrait the next day. The next morning, truly, for no sooner had she woken from a disjointed sleep than she was jerking upright—falling into her dressing gown and down the stairs as if she were late for an appointment. Opening the parlor’s door, Eliza crossed the floor and opened the bureau to rummage through the oils within. Seizing the yellow and the brown and the white, she squeezed out drops of each onto a clean stretch of her palette.
She did not put on her apron, nor fold back her sleeves, before setting to work, uncaring of any risk to her grey robe and nightgown. Finally, when she had reached exactly the right shade, she selected her tiniest brush of finest sable and approached the portrait. It was the work of a moment, the final touch she had not even known was missing: the tiniest fleck of gold within each eye.
There!
Eliza took exactly six steps backward, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, so that she might look upon it with fresh eyes, as an audience would. The likeness, she flattered herself, was clear—and better than she could have hoped. It was a head and shoulder view. One hand rested lightly upon the chest, as if Melville were about to play with his collar—which he often did when he was thinking—and even in the stillness of the painting, there was somehow a sense of motion: his face set at a tilt, while the eyes remained directly regarding the viewer, a playful challenge within them. Exactly how he had looked at her last night as he asked her to dance.
It conveyed all she had wanted to: Melville’s humor and slyness, but also his warmth and countenance. One hand upon a notebook—cuffs bedecked with ink—suggested he might be about to compose you a poem, the curl to his lips that he was about to say something outrageous. Eliza felt her own mouth twitch in response, as unable to resist this Melville’s teasing as she was the real one.
Eliza took a step closer. Yes, now that she had seen Melville at . . . at such close quarters, she could be quite certain the likeness was very good. With the eyes finally right, the whole portrait seemed to come alive, and while it could never be as compelling as he was in real life, as he had been, hand in hers upon that terrace, his draw so palpable that she wondered it had not pulled more people out onto the terrace with them, it gave an impression of it.
She had been able to convey, too, as she did when painting Margaret, her affection for the subject. It was there, obvious to her even if to no one else, as clear as if it were another color on the canvas, the strength of the regard she felt for him. In a portrait that seemed all about touch—of fingers, of lips, of eyes, the paintbrush too seemed almost to be caressing its subject with warmth, with affection, with . . .
And all at once, as if it had always been there, it became very clear to Eliza that she was in love with him.
The revelation came slowly and yet instantaneously. As when one searches for a word that stands out of reach of the mind for days—but then, when hearing it, one knows immediately that it is the correct one. She was in love with Melville. And it seemed quite possible that she had been for a long time. She had felt drawn to him from the beginning, of course—but then, so very many people were, and attraction was not love, however thrilling. It must have crept up on her, stealthy and unobserved, born out of their long conversations, his regard and curiosity for her thoughts, opinions, skills, the laughter they had shared . . .
Eliza staggered back from the portrait and sank down onto the sofa. It was impossible! It was surely impossible. She was in love with Somerset. She was engaged to Somerset. She could not be in love with Melville, too. But when she looked at the portrait, the truth stared her in the face, as plain as day.
“Margaret!” Eliza called, her voice shrill. “Margaret, can I borrow you for a moment?”
“Is something wrong?” Margaret called back, though she appeared obediently in the parlor a few moments later, hastily dressed and red hair falling about her shoulders.
“Oh, Eliza!” she said. “It’s wonderful! The likeness is superb.”
Eliza searched her face closely, there seemed to be no evidence that she was undergoing any of the same revelations as Eliza.
“You like it?” she said. “It seems . . . normal to you?”
“Normal?” Margaret said quizzically. “It resembles him, if that is what you are meaning, most strongly. You ought to be proud of it.”
Eliza breathed out a sigh. There was no need, then, to make a confession.
“I think I’m in love with Melville!” Eliza blurted out, her voice so loud it made Margaret jump backward.
“Goodness, Eliza!” she complained.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, for it was right in my ear,” she said, rubbing at it.
“You do not seem shocked!” Eliza said, accusatory.
“Well, I am not,” Margaret said.
“Excuse me?”
“Come, Eliza,” Margaret said, as if Eliza were a small child refusing to behave. “The way you speak to one another. The way you flirt. You must have suspected something before now.”
“I did not,” Eliza said faintly. “I swear I did not. I have been so focused upon Somerset, I—I have always loved Somerset . . . I never considered this to be even the slightest possibility.”