Mr. Blackstone had accused her of finding tragedy enchanting. But perhaps every woman had known a moment when she felt as though she were drowning, and the only comfort was that there could be some beauty, some dignity, in that, too.
How had Millais captured such sentiments? He was a man, and older now, but his brush clearly transcended such limitations, had dipped right into the essential experiences shared by humanity. Oh, to bridge that obscure gap that forever separated an artist’s intentions from such flawless execution … Her neck tingled, pulling her from entrancement.
Mr. Blackstone. Standing quietly on the threshold of the side entrance.
She wasn’t half as shocked as she should have been. Her heart still began a wild drumroll against her ribs. His face revealed no clear emotion when their eyes met; he must have expected her. She turned her attention back to the Ophelia. Blackstone’s approaching footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the room, and her mouth was dry as dust. By the time he stood by her side, her mind was a blank.
“Is it what you expected it to be?” he asked.
She gave a small shake. “She is better.”
His voice always sounded as though he rarely used it. It would go well with work-hardened hands, which some would find appealing. The awareness that she must not converse with him, alone, in a room where their voices echoed, pressed acutely on her mind.
“Must be interesting,” Blackstone said, “to see something other than just flecks of paint.”
She glanced at him. “Is that truly all you see?”
“That, and what it could be worth twenty years from now.”
He wore black, save the muted gray of his waistcoat. He had again brushed back his hair, perhaps in anticipation of respectable visitors, and again his dark locks curled at his nape. Like the whorls on a mallard’s tail. The touch of vulnerability emboldened her, as did the possibility that he should care enough to try to provoke her.
“I believe that flecks of paint, when arranged by an artist like Millais, are proof that your thesis is wrong,” she said.
Now he faced her, and her breath hitched. “My thesis?” he said.
“Yes,” she managed. “That people are primarily guided by convenience, vanity, or greed.”
He inclined his head. “You remembered.”
She remembered their kiss, too; it was a memory she carried in her body and it surged hotly through her veins and other, nameless places when she looked into his eyes. It couldn’t be attraction. The most severe judgment was reserved for society women who blushed over lower-born men—they were considered deranged and, if caught, were sometimes sent to special clinics.
She cleared her throat. “People travel dozens of miles to look at the Pre-Raphaelites for the sole reason that they are beautiful,” she said. “Where is the vanity and greed when enjoying a painting?”
“Touché, Miss Greenfield.”
A series of tiny sidesteps had melted the space between them. Definitely deranged, because she discreetly tried to smell him rather than flee.
“It’ll be over soon enough,” he said, “realistic painting, that is. Even blurry styles such as this. Impressionism was the beginning of the end.”
She frowned. “How so?”
“Because one can capture realistic images more effectively these days. You won’t have artists trying to replicate what a machine can do better and faster for much longer.”
“What can you mean?”
He cut her look that implied she should know. “Photography.”
She recoiled. “I disagree.”
“Why?”
“No camera can capture emotion in the same manner as a brush.”
He shrugged. “If done right, who knows, eh?”
The interchangeably stolid, lifeless expressions of portrait photographs chased past her mind’s eye. Of course he would think it would do—he was a self-made man who had ascended to his position based not on bravery in battle, or on the organic yields of an estate, but on iron tracks and factory smoke.
“A camera has no soul,” she said, a bit too loudly. “It’s a piece of technology.”
“So is a brush,” he said, “just a much more primitive one.” The supercilious look in his gray eyes said: Parry that! He had angled his body toward hers and stood too close, and her breathing had turned shallow. None of this was amusing to her.
“I gather you place your trust in machines,” she said. “I, however, trust in humans.”
His mouth softened. “I don’t trust in anything, Miss Greenfield,” he murmured. “But if I did, I’d put my faith in the future, not the past.”