by Fanny Finch
Georgette wanted to be an explorer, not a wife. She wanted to be brave and strong and independent.
She was none of those things, really. But the dream was nice enough. And if she was resigned to a life strapped to a board, there was very little to entice her to remain there.
After her lessons, Georgette made her way down the stairs to the dining room where her parents were already seated.
Mr. Caulfield looked up at his daughter curiously, and Georgette could not help but feel as though she was being examined.
She walked in with elegance, the extra flush in her cheek still visible from having rushed to dinner. She curtseyed before her mother and father before the footman pulled out her chair that she might be seated.
The dining room was decorated rather beautifully, and although it was dim, her father had done all he could to make the space appear larger than it was. Their home was vast compared to the previous one, but it was still an effort to make it appear as grand as others.
As Georgette sat silently, wordlessly observing everything around her, she still knew that her father was watching her.
Finally, he clasped his hands together and cleared his throat to speak.
“My dear Georgette,” he began.
“Yes, Papa?” she replied in a gentle, feminine way.
“It has come to my attention that you are still rather fixated on the thought of a journey to Italy. Is that so?” he asked.
“Indeed, Papa. If you think it would be wise, I should very much like to go, as I believe that it will expand my worldview and increase my value in society,” she told him calmly.
He observed her a moment longer before replying.
“Indeed, I believe it to be so as well. While I am not able to spend the entire duration of the journey with you and your mother, I believe it would do well for us all to have a brief stay outside of England and for us to… broaden our prospects, so to speak,” he remarked.
Georgette could scarcely contain herself. Her father had approved. She would finally be able to run off and spend time in Italy as she had been dreaming of! She would be able to see the beauty and the art and the history!
“Oh, Papa, thank you!” she replied, trying with all her might to stay restrained. But she knew that the joy could not be kept from her face.
Her father began to laugh a little as he watched her try to show restraint, but Mrs. Caulfield seemed slightly aloof in her attitude. Georgette could see that her mother was also looking forward to the trip, but it was simply not her typical demeanor to be glad to work on behalf of her daughters.
“So, having said that, my dear, we shall go in a week’s time. I will remain with you for merely a week before you and your mother are left with Miss Franklin as your chaperone. You may stay another three weeks without me,” he told her.
Georgette nodded obediently and didn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt whatever he had to say.
She would be spending four whole weeks in Italy! And if she was fortunate enough, she just might be allowed more times abroad.
Her heart felt light as it was lifted by the wings of her dream. For the first time, Georgette allowed herself to think of a future where everything was possible.
Chapter 2
Mattia was making his way outside in the hopes that he would find just the right flower to add to the painting. He had plenty of reds and yellows, but there were no oranges. And it was his philosophy that a painting of flowers must also resemble a sky.
This painting was to resemble a sunset. He had done another one like it only days before, with a series of blue and purple flowers imitating the periwinkle of the first moment in the morning, when the sun had lit the distant sky but remained still hidden.
Of course, most people found this sort of thing to be rather foolish, but to Mattia, it made all the difference. And now that he was continuing to work towards making connections outside of Italy, it was all he wanted to convince new patrons to hire him to take on their portraits.
London. It was a place he had always wished to visit. Now that he was finally managing to gain clients there, Mattia was entirely thrilled. Oftentimes, when the elite of that distant and beautiful city would come to visit his own home, he had indulged in the idea of following them as they returned to England.
He knew that, more than anything, he would love the opportunity to walk those streets, to taste their strange food, and to practice his language skills with them.
But life as an artist was far from simple. And for a man like him, it was simply shameful.
He returned to his home with the right flower, but Mattia soon heard the call of his father’s voice.
He made his way through the estate and reached the study of the Count De La Siga, his father.
“What are you doing with your days, I have to wonder?” the Count immediately asked in his deep Italian voice.
Mattia looked down in shame, knowing where this question would lead. His father was always disappointed in him for wanting to pursue art. Almost as disappointed as he was that Mattia preferred to communicate in English whenever he could, in order to improve it.
“What is this I have heard about you going through town, visiting the art museums, speaking with other wealthy men about the riches of your craft? Do you not know how this embarrasses me?” his father asked in muted anger, his heavy mustache bounding above his top lip as he spoke.
Mattia still did not look his father in the eye. They were the same eyes that reflected his own, a deep brown surrounded by thick, long lashes that oftentimes made him feel as though they belonged to his mother more than to himself.
Mattia had been trying to make new contacts in town that day, which was most certainly the scandal to which his father was referring. He had been trying to get to know some foreigners who were wandering the city and exploring the culture.
But for Mattia, it was the only way that he could find work. His contacts from abroad had mostly dried up. Having completed portraits for a few grand men while they were in Italy, he could only paint their friends if those friends actually managed to come to see him.
The Count would never approve of him going to London on his own. So he had no other choice.
Of course, if he simply could not find any new clients, then Mattia would have to follow through with the promise that he had made to his mother a year ago. He would give up his art and pursue business or anything else his father wished of him. No matter the pain of giving up his dreams, he would have no other choice.
A promise made to his ailing mother was the only promise that Mattia would ever truly hold to. He loved her and he did not know how much longer she would be able to survive with everything that had seemed to affect her health.
Yes, if he did not make the connections he needed by the end of the month, he would move on. He would fulfill the promise he had made to her. And then he might even manage to make his father proud.
“Forgive me, Father. It was not my intention to shame you. You must know that. It is just that I love the beauty of art more than I can express, and you know that as well,” Mattia said passionately. He was used to these talks with his father and not ever really knowing how to proceed in them. No matter what he said, the Count was not appeased.
“And you must know that I am also not a man who wished to give his life to business, but I’ve had little choice. This is the path we have for the men we were born to be. Family comes before dreams. Don’t you want to make your family proud?” the Count asked, seeming conscious of what he was asking his son to give up.
“Of course I do, but I don’t see why art cannot make my family proud. This is Italy. A place built on art. Why should it be shameful to indulge it?” Mattia asked, making sure to use Italian while he spoke to his father about their heritage.
“Because it is not the days for it anymore. And you are the son of a Count. A Count does not have the luxury of indulging in art and romance and passion. You know better than that,” the Count reminded him. “You have a posit
ion ahead of you.”
Mattia did know better. And no matter how much better he knew, it did not change his longing to paint. It did not change the way it made him feel. Nothing could ever change that.
“You know it is not that we don’t love your art,” the Count added, clearly feeling as though he had wounded his son. “But you can only see it as a bit of fun. It is not a life. It is only… a sort of entertainment.”
“Yes, I understand,” Mattia replied.
“Now, do me a favor and bring your family a bit of pride by leaving this art nonsense behind us all,” his father urged. “Just let it be a bit of joy that you allow yourself when you have time. But for the sake of your family, stop dreaming of other things.”
Mattia looked away again, ashamed to continue and ashamed to give it up. What sort of man did it make him if he did not fight for something that he loved so deeply?
It didn’t matter, not truly. His father would be appeased, that much he knew. Nothing in his life was really his own and he would have to change accordingly. He was the son of a Count. No, the rest did not matter.
“I shall do as you wish, Father,” he replied sullenly.
The Count seemed to respond well to this, the knowledge that his son was finally going to give up the thing that brought him humiliation. It was good news to him, Mattia knew. But inside, his heart broke.
“I am glad that you are understanding. It’s for your own good and the good of this family. Make us proud, Mattia. Make us proud and be the man that I know you can be, the man that is strong and brave enough to do great things with his life. A man who is born to be a Count,” his father said with great vigor.
Mattia nodded in defeat, allowing his father to believe that he was satisfied with this solution.
He had, however, maintained one very good idea in his days of pursuing art. And this idea could be the very thing that enabled him to continue.
Mattia’s family did not know that he had chosen a new surname for making his English contacts. And if he was wise, he would avoid being seen by those known to his father and would interact only with the English who came and went.
They would never know that he was a Count’s son.
It had seemed the best strategy in case of a situation like this, and now, Mattia was glad for it. After all, he would still hold to his decision. He wouldn’t be lying to his father. If, after one month, he was completely unable to make himself successful in this work, then he would give it all up as he had already committed to do.
But, if he found himself able to make a life under this new name, he would be a fool not to chase after it.
“You are dismissed,” his father said, apparently noting that Mattia had remained standing there longer than necessary, lost in his thoughts.
He bowed swiftly and made his departure, returning to the room he used for his paintings. Mattia arranged the flowers and began to put paint on the canvas, hoping that he might finish it before the night fell.
It wasn’t that his family had ever discouraged him from painting in general. It was the idea of being a professional artist that seemed to bring them so much disdain. It was the knowledge that their son wanted to be a great master of the arts that caused them to speak against his efforts.
But when his art benefited their home, or when it brightened up his mother’s room as he believed this piece would, he wondered how anyone could refuse art. How could a woman like his mother, a woman in great need of all things beautiful, not rejoice in the idea that her son followed his passion for art?
He thought for a moment about his mother and the difficulty of her life.
She tried so hard to appease his father by doing the social things that were expected of her. But over the past month, her health had deteriorated beyond what any of them could have imagined. She was no longer able to force herself to stand upright through an evening, to keep her legs strong for a dance, to stand and sit and kneel during mass.
It was heartbreaking to see her like this. It was horrible to watch as his mother had become so weak that she spent all her time in bed. She was a woman previously full of life. A woman who loved to eat, but was now scarcely able to keep a bite down.
He worried for her. And no matter how much Mattia wanted to pursue his goals of finding a patron in London and leaving his family behind, he knew that she would be nearly impossible to say goodbye to.
With each stroke of the brush, Mattia whispered life into the painting. The brightness of it would be a good addition to his mother’s wall. It would bring her joy, he hoped. And it was a simple enough piece, to be sure. It was not something that would take him so long as a portrait.
But that was another thing he wished to do again.
Mattia had painted his mother and father once before, but that had been nearly four years ago. The techniques he knew now would drastically improve the quality of his work. He wished to paint them once more, if only his mother was able to spend the hours out of bed, sitting upright.
He would have to lie a little bit. He would envision his mother as she had been before. The plump cheeks, the rounded chin, so far from what she had now become. He would not paint what she had become. It would only cause her grief.
With each stroke of the brush, Mattia lost himself in his art, where there was no pain or rejection, only his vision of beauty and his dreams of being free.
This Book will be Live Soon…
Also by Fanny Finch
● Book 1: Saving Lady Abigail
● Book 2: Engaging Love
● Book 3: A Forthright Courtship
● Book 4: A Love Worth Saving
● Book 5: Love Letters to A Lady
● Book 6: The Duke’s Cautious Governess
● Book 7: A Lady’s Choice
● Book 8: An Earl for Her Hopeless Heart
● Book 9: Last Chance for the Charming Ladies
● Book 10: A Second Chance for the Broken Duke
● Book 11: A Fiery love for the Reluctant Duchess
Book 12: Enchanted by the Mysterious Marquess
