by Nichole Van
As ever, Ewan was struck by the older man’s endless affability. Sir Joshua had taught several of Ewan’s classes at the Royal Academy, but Ewan had not formed a close relationship with the man. That said, he had recently learned that Sir Joshua had advocated for Ewan to receive a much-needed scholarship to fund his studies at the time.
Sir Joshua utterly dispelled the myth of artists being tortured, vain souls. He laughed at himself and complimented others with ease. How could a talent of such impressive genius be housed in this good-natured man?
Ewan often wondered if the older painter’s amiability was borne of pain. The kind of hurt that scrubbed a man raw and reduced life to its most essential components, bringing fundamental truths of love and kindness into sharp focus. It seemed the only explanation for the depth of feeling in Sir Joshua’s art and the affability of his personality.
In short, Sir Joshua was a conundrum.
So it was with good humor that Sir Joshua explained that the chaperone to Lady Kildrum’s sisters had taken a leave of absence, resulting in Ewan and himself being banished to the ancient castle to “give the lasses the run of the great house.”
Ewan was quite sure it was a polite way of saying that Lord Kildrum did not particularly appreciate having a brute of a fellow thrust into his household at a moment’s notice.
Ewan could hardly blame his lordship. Had he a wife as lovely and caring as Lady Kildrum, Ewan would certainly want her to himself. They would nestle together before the fire on a chilly evening, her snugged into the curve of his chest, pressed against him from thigh to shoulder—
Ewan stopped the thought right there.
Enough. The lady is married. You are a better man than this.
Ewan clenched his hands into fists and, once more, forcibly cut Lady Kildrum from his mind.
After greeting him, Sir Joshua had dispatched a harried pair of maidservants to air rooms and make up beds for them in the old castle. His employer promised that there would be more permanent staff arriving tomorrow, as if Ewan were a gentleman like Sir Joshua and required tending to.
Now, hours after sundown, the few servants had departed, and Ewan and Sir Joshua huddled in front of a fire in the great hall, eating a late supper of toasted cheese and bread, all washed down with some excellent whisky from the earldom’s distillery. Sir Joshua had swapped his clawhammer coat for a ruby-red banyan, the color clashing with the older painter’s orange waistcoat.
Sir Joshua was nothing if not colorful, Ewan was coming to realize.
Sir Joshua checked the state of his toast and, ascertaining it to be adequately hot, he layered a slice of cheese atop before extending the whole back over the fire again.
“This castle may be old, but it certainly doesn’t lack for atmospheric charm, does it now lad?” the older man said, shooting Ewan a wry grin.
“Nae, sir.” Ewan craned his head around the high back of his chair, surveying the deep shadows dancing in the dim firelight. Shields and the occasional claymore glinted from the walls. The furniture was sparse and most still covered in ghostly-looking Holland cloth. “Ye willnae need to look far tae find swords and such as props for painting.”
Sir Joshua chuckled. “Right you are, my boy. I’ve been sketching ideas for months, but now I am fair itching to get paint on canvas.”
Sir Joshua went on to describe how he intended to place the modern Battle of Waterloo into the larger context of traditional allegorical painting. He conceptualized the battle between Alexander the Great and the Persian army at Granicus to be a mythological metaphor for the conflict between Wellington and Napoleon on the fields outside Waterloo.
Ewan listened attentively, devouring a thick slice of toast and cheese. He reached for the loaf and cut off another slice, slid it onto a poker, and extended it over the fire.
“Of course, such a grand scope cannot be done on a small scale. The piece will be monumental in size, nearly twelve feet across.” Sir Joshua smiled, ruefully. “When subsequent generations hear the name ‘Sir Joshua,’ it is my intent that this painting will leap instantly into their minds.”
Knowing the older painter’s style as he did, Ewan could almost envision the image—writhing, half-clothed muscular figures alongside horses, the whole lot twisting in motion and delineated in bold color.
“Ye’ll be the toast of the Academy’s Summer Exhibition,” Ewan nodded.
“That is my wish; I shan’t deny it.” Sir Joshua grinned. “I aim for the king to purchase the painting for the Royal Collection.”
Every year, the Royal Academy of Arts solicited artists to submit works to be included in their prestigious annual exhibition. Anyone could submit, but only a handful of the best works were chosen for the Exhibition. To have your work singled out and honored by the Royal Academy was the pinnacle of an artist’s career.
The selected pieces covered the walls from floor to ceiling in Somerset House for several months, making those hung “on the line” or at eye level the most esteemed. Thousands of Londoners from all walks of life paid a shilling to tour the exhibit, marveling at the talent and skill displayed.
Sir Joshua darted a side-glance at Ewan in the dim light. “What will you be submitting to the Exhibition this year?”
Ewan froze, toast held over the fire. “Pardon?”
“The Exhibition, lad. What will you be submitting to it?” Sir Joshua cut another slice of bread off the crusty loaf between them and patiently wiggled it onto the poker for toasting. Ewan forced his breathing to remain even, acting for all the world like the older man’s question hadn’t detonated like cannon fire in Ewan’s brain.
“I . . . I cannae say that I’ve given the matter any thought,” Ewan replied, pulling his bread back and making a show of inspecting it before returning it to the fire.
That was a bald lie.
He thought of little else, sometimes. How he would make his name. How he would achieve the fame and success of a painter such as Sir Joshua.
But Ewan knew his own limitations. His skill and technique were excellent. But great art was not borne of technique alone. It required unique pieces of self. What part of Ewan would be grand enough for the Royal Exhibition?
“Your silence reeks of self-doubt, lad,” Sir Joshua continued, plucking Ewan’s very thoughts from his skull. “But I know you have the potential to create something powerful. The scene doesn’t need to be grand, per se. It simply needs to be innovative in some way. Did you attend the Exhibition last summer?”
Ewan nodded, the remarkable images shuttling through his brain.
“Do you remember Mr. Constable’s painting? The Haywain?”
Again, Ewan nodded. The image tumbled through his memory—a pastoral countryside with a cottage along a river, a large hay wagon resting in the middle of the water. The subject was banal . . . commonplace. Simply a farmer allowing his animals to cool off in the stream on a hot summer’s day.
However, the image had been celebrated both for its simplicity and its use of modern art techniques, rejecting the almost clinically clean lines of paintings by Monsieur David or Monsieur Boilly, and opting instead for a sketch-like suggestion of form and light.
“Mr. Constable has been following the lead of other artists, like Mr. Goya in Spain. There is even talk that their suggestive use of light and shadow—you recall how it is? More a fleeting impression of shape and form than actuality?—well, some say that will be the future of art. You simply need a unique eye. And that, based on your time at the Royal Academy, you have got in spades.” Sir Joshua paused. “Don’t let the compliment go to your head.”
Sir Joshua brought his toast closer, examining the bread for readiness, before placing it back into the fire.
Ewan pulled his own slice out of the fire and placed a thick slab of cheddar cheese on it.
“Here is the thing,” the older man continued. “We’re living in progressive times. Generations past, artists relied solely on patrons. The patron would tell us what to paint and how to paint it. And in some
ways, that hasn’t changed. We all paint portraits of dowdy ladies and prized hunters when called upon.”
“I’ve heard discussion of how the Royal Academy, along with the Salon de Paris, are changing this.” Ewan took a bite of his toast.
“Hah! Precisely!” Sir Joshua nodded his head toward Ewan in acknowledgment. “The exhibitions are public spectacles of art. Thousands attend and form opinions. Works can gain a popular following and, from there, progress to sale. For us artists, this is a boon. We can create whatever sings to our soul and allow the buyer to find the painting, not the other way around.”
Sir Joshua took his toast out of the fire, gingerly sliding it off the poker and onto a plate sitting beside him.
“The problem, of course, is creating works that speak to others.”
“Ah.” Ewan barely suppressed a grimace. “Easy to say . . .”
“Harder to do . . . yes, you have the right of it.” The older man placed a thick slice of cheddar cheese on the hot bread before continuing on, “Like a doctor, we artists must open veins and bleed before seeing results. If your art is not making you uncomfortable as you create it, it will never have the power to touch another.”
Sir Joshua paused, fixing Ewan with a serious, intent gaze. Ewan saw a flash of something behind the older man’s eyes. A hint of buried pain, a sense that Sir Joshua’s geniality was hard won on the back of misery.
When the man continued, his voice betrayed that rasp of pain:
“We bleed every time we paint, lad. Never forget it.”
The words hit Ewan with visceral force.
A bite of bread stuck in his abruptly dry mouth.
We bleed every time we paint. Never forget it.
He mentally cringed, Sir Joshua’s words blending with those of other teachers over the years.
I need to see more of you in this, not just pretty lines.
Somehow Mhairi’s voice leapt into the mix.
I want ye painting somewheres far away from here, Ewan. Dinnae come back until ye’ve made a name for yourself.
That familiar salmon-colored emotion rose, the one that choked his throat and stifled his ability to speak of himself.
As if sensing Ewan’s turmoil, Sir Joshua swallowed a bite of toast before saying, “The world is littered with men who neglected to fulfill the measure of their promise. I see your paintings, but I will be honest—” The man paused and shook his head. “—I have yet to see you bleed. As artists, we can have no secrets. Our inner turmoil is fodder for public consumption. If you wish to be great, find the courage to paint your demons.”
Sir Joshua took another large bite of bread as if his words had not landed like a fist to Ewan’s jaw, setting his head to buzzing.
Find the courage to paint your demons.
The very words implied that Sir Joshua had faced his own demons, conquered them in his art.
However, they also summed up the difficulty of Ewan’s situation with brutal efficiency—
In order to paint your demons, you had to face them first.
The salmon color flooded his vision, a cold and clammy thing that seized his chest in a vise.
Ewan brushed crumbs from his fingers, wondering if the hammering of his heart was as audible as it seemed.
“You look like a kicked dog,” Sir Joshua snorted.
“That bad?” Ewan managed a wan smile.
The older man shrugged. “You’ll get used to the idea. If nothing else, facing your personal demons spurs important emotional growth. Think upon it tomorrow as we set up our studios.”
Mmmmm, about that . . .
Ewan swiveled to look at the large windows against the wall opposite the fireplace.
“That seems exceptionally large for a castle window.” He pointed to the shutters.
Sir Joshua looked over his shoulder. “Yes, it is quite large. I seem to remember some tale of Lady Kildrum’s grandmother enlarging the windows in order to use the castle as a summer house. And if my sense of direction and orientation serves me right, the window should face south, which will help with the light.”
Ewan nodded, his brow furrowing. There was an implication in Sir Joshua’s comment that jarred Ewan, but he couldn’t put his finger on what precisely it was.
Likely just the combination of a long day’s travel, an even longer afternoon spent under microscopic inspection, and now late-evening advice and soul-searching in an admittedly eerie place.
“If so, the great hall should make an excellent studio,” Ewan said.
“Agreed. I may have to thank Lady Kildrum for casting us out of Kilmeny Hall.” Sir Joshua winked at Ewan and then took a large bite of his cheese and toast.
For his part, Ewan had barely suppressed a grimace at Sir Joshua’s words . . . casting us out.
So Ewan’s arrival had been a source of contention. He greatly disliked the thought of being a burden, that his presence caused ill-will.
He reached for the loaf of bread and sawed off a yet another thick slice for himself. Sliding the bread onto the poker, he stretched it over the hot coals, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.
Ewan sighed inwardly. There was no help for it. He had to make what amends he could.
“My arrival seemed tae upset Lady Kildrum.” He laid the words gently. “I wouldnae want to be a source of contention, so I hope that Lord Kildrum wasnae too indisposed with my arrival.”
There. He had expressed his concern. Clear. Straight-forward.
“Pardon?” Sir Joshua paused mid-bite. “Lord Kildrum?”
“Aye.” Ewan lifted his toast out of the fire, making a show of inspecting it in order to keep his tone light and seemingly unaffected.
He finally dared a glance at Sir Joshua.
The older man was eating his toast, staring at Ewan with a positively bemused expression on his face.
“When you speak of Lord Kildrum, lad, are you referring to my elder brother?”
Ewan paused. “Nae, I thought to refer to Lady Kildrum’s husband.”
“I thought as much,” Sir Joshua chuckled. “Lady Kildrum does not have a husband. At least, not yet. She’s a countess suo jure. In her own right.”
“In her own right?” Ewan echoed.
“Yes, indeed. Our Lady Violet inherited the earldom from her mother, who had it from her mother. It is the oddest twist of fate, I tell you, with these Kildrum women.”
Sir Joshua’s words from earlier flooded back . . . Lady Kildrum’s grandmother enlarged the window in order to use the castle as a summer house.
If Lady Kildrum were married to Lord Kildrum, why would her grandmother have lived here, too? It would have been Lord Kildrum’s grandmother, no?
That was why the sentence had bothered him.
But . . . there was no Lord Kildrum.
All the pieces slotted together.
With no Lord Kildrum, Ewan and Sir Joshua had needed to quit Kilmeny Hall for reasons of propriety. No one had been offended.
More to the point . . . Lady Kildrum was not married.
The force of Ewan’s relief was . . . telling.
Attraction and infatuation roared in, a lion cut loose from its chains.
The memory of Lady Kildrum from that afternoon swamped his vision and this time he did not force it out.
Instead, . . . he lingered, mentally tracing over the image.
The way the glowing light had caught in the irises of her eyes, deepening their color and turning them into the teal-blue of Loch Carron on a sunny day in July. The fragile gentleness of her long fingers. The sinuous curve of her waist as she stood to bid him farewell.
Reality, unfortunately, was not far behind, eager to come crashing down on his fanciful thoughts.
Lady Kildrum was a countess, an earl in her own right. She was of the same rank as Andrew Langston, Lord Hadley. Ewan loved his friend dearly, and Andrew had never once made Ewan feel less-than due to the enormous difference in their stations in life . . .
But the gulf between himself and Andrew was
prodigious and deep. And though Andrew probably didn’t tally the differences, for Ewan, they were seemingly numberless.
Case in point—Ewan hadn’t immediately picked up on all the clues as to Lady Kildrum’s exact circumstance. Though Andrew and Rafe had acquainted Ewan with many of the rules of etiquette and decorum over the years, much still escaped his grasp. He merely knew enough to thoroughly understand how little he actually knew.
Ewan often felt like a monkey, dancing to an organ-grinder’s tune—a trained animal aping the manners of his betters, having the general form, but lacking innate grace.
In short, he may admire Lady Kildrum and find her beautiful and fascinating, but such attraction would only lead to heartache on his part. Moreover, his smallest inadvertent action might sully her reputation. Ewan could not bear it if his presence caused her harm.
And any of it could jeopardize his employment. Ewan had worked too hard and too long to do anything to endanger his career as a painter.
So to that end . . . no matter how alluring her appeal . . . he would be avoiding Lady Kildrum for the duration of his stay at Kilmeny.
That decided, Ewan pulled his dinner from the fire and slid his toast and cheese onto a plate, allowing it to cool for a moment. Sir Joshua was nearly done with his toast. Ewan reached for his tumbler of whisky, sipping appreciatively.
“Though on the topic of Lady Kildrum,” Sir Joshua said, “I told her earlier today that you would be painting her portrait.”
Ewan choked, coughing loudly for several seconds.
Sir Joshua finally had to resort to thumping his back.
“P-pardon?” Ewan gasped, wiping tears from his eyes.
Sir Joshua chuckled, as if something in Ewan’s reaction had greatly delighted him.
“Portraits, lad. I’m officially asking you to paint a portrait of my niece.”
Ewan blinked, trying to absorb this news. A portrait? Him?
Yet . . . hadn’t he already envisioned himself painting her?
That being said, three issues presented themselves in quick succession.
One, why was one of the most celebrated painters in all of Britain asking him to paint a portrait of his niece?
