‘What is it, Richard?’ Jane asked curiously, standing before the easel with her hands at her waist. ‘What are you hiding?’
‘I thought you said you wanted to wait,’ he teased. ‘I thought you—’
‘Hush,’ she said sternly. ‘Show me.’
‘Very well, your Grace.’ He handed Brecon to her, and the babe made a contented cooing as he settled against her. Just like Richard, she’d risk every silk gown in her wardrobe for that happy little sound.
With a conjurer’s flourish, Richard tweaked the corner of the cloth to build her suspense. Then, at last, he swept the cloth aside, and stood back to watch her reaction.
And Jane reacted. How could she help it? Her eyes filled with tears, and she bit her lower lip to keep them from spilling over. He’d known exactly what would delight her, the one thing she’d never realised herself that she wanted the most.
The painting was a beautifully detailed scene of Venice, similar to the ones that a great many English gentlemen brought home as souvenirs of their Grand Tour. But this one was different. This one showed the corner of Venice where she and Richard had fallen in love, and captured that magical place exactly as she wished to remember it.
There was the Ca’ Battista, with its balconies as lacy as spun sugar. There were the windows with the pointed arches that had belonged to Richard’s bedchamber, and the filmy red curtains that had filtered the sunlight as they’d lain together in his bed. There was the narrow arched bridge where Richard had first kissed her in the moonlight, and there in the distance was San Marco’s square tower, whose tolling bells had called the hours of their day. Even the sky was the same, the bright enamel blue that had marked the Venetian winter when they’d been there, with the gondoliers and others on the water and at the windows all bundled in bright hats and coats exactly as Jane remembered.
‘Love, love,’ she said softly in wonder, unable to look away from the painting. ‘How did you know?’
‘I knew, Janie, because it was what I wanted, too.’ He came to stand beside her, looping his arms fondly around both her and Brecon, who’d fallen peacefully asleep against Jane’s shoulder. ‘But here, sweet. You’ve missed the best part. Look down in this corner, directly in front of the Ca’ Battista.’
Jane leaned forwards to study the part of the painting he was pointing to. A black gondola with two passengers sitting closely together, a small, dark-haired woman tucked beneath a fur coverlet, holding hands with a broad-shouldered blond gentleman, his hat pulled low over his brow against the cold.
‘Oh, Richard, it’s us,’ Jane whispered. ‘The way we were. It’s us, there in Venice, for ever and ever.’
‘The way we’ll always be, Janie,’ he said, bending over their now-sleeping son to kiss her. ‘In love, for ever and ever.’
* * * * *
ISBN: 9781459219588
Copyright © 2010 by Miranda Jarrett
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