“This portrait is meant to be a representation of you—of you in this moment of your life. So many portraitists get bogged down in the trappings of it—the velvet swags, the globe and the library, the swords and the symbols. They’re all meant to bolster that feeling of importance in the subject, to make them seem larger than life, grander than their audience. But when you look back on yours, years and years from now, I want you to be able to recognize yourself. I want you to look at it and say, ‘There’s that young man who liked to read at the lake and look up at the weeping redbuds. What fun we used to have together.’？”
Alexander studied me and, as the waves lapped upon the shore and the curtains of blossoms swayed around us, I wondered if I’d said too much, if he thought my speech insufferable and pretentious, the aspirations of a novice painter who had no business capturing the image of a future duke.
“That’s…I’ve never heard anyone so eloquently express such sentiments. I feel…I feel exactly the same way. There are so many here in Bloem who put on that show of importance—like you said—valuing the appearance of something over its content. They’re more concerned about how they’re perceived than who they truly are. The People of the Salt may be hung up on prosaic formalities but the People of the Petals are so wrapped in artifice we can’t look deeper than surface level on anything. That—that—is why I shall add the alyssum to my crest, Father be damned.”
“A worth beyond beauty,” I said, his words from last night echoing in my mind. “I’d guessed your differences were over more than just a little flower.”
He nodded. “We have so many differences, Father and I. So many warring opinions. I don’t think we, as a people, were always like this, craving the new, the flawless. We need to go back to the older ways, the simpler times.” His jaw hardened. “Father obviously thinks not.”
“What will others think?”
Alex shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not, but you do worship a goddess of love and beauty. I imagine Arina’s postulants would have quite a bit to say on the matter. I can’t even guess what our High Mariner would do if Camille suddenly declared a moratorium on going out to sea.”
His eyebrows drew together in a thick, dark line. “You misunderstand me. I don’t want to ban what Arina represents—that would be impossible. Beauty exists everywhere in the world. Love resides in all of us. That’s the point. I only…I only want to deepen that. Show that there can be—that there should be—substance in it all. Of course a bride on her wedding day is beautiful, but that radiance doesn’t diminish in old age, when she’s too tired to keep up with whatever ridiculous fashions the shops and salons put out. I know Arina smiles upon an old couple walking down the road together, hand in hand, firm in their commitment to one another. There is love in caring for the sick, the weak, the ugly. A wilting flower holds just as much splendor as one on the cusp of opening. People are so quick to idolize the fresh and the new. They fetishize it.” He rubbed at his forehead, his eyes bright with fervor. “Why should we celebrate one without the other?”
“We shouldn’t,” I said, my hand furious at work as I raced to put this moment on paper. I wanted to capture the exact tilt of his head, the passion and conviction coloring his face, the fire in his eyes.
This. This was what Alexander’s portrait would look like.
We stayed by the lake until long afternoon shadows crept across the grounds.
Dauphine sent trays laden with fresh bread and cold roasted meats, cheeses and fruit for an impromptu picnic. Later, a cart appeared with a full tea service and towers of little cakes that looked like tiny works of art.
I filled nearly half my book with bits and pieces of Alexander. There were dozens of studies on his hands, the curve of his smile, his eyes. The drawings became more detailed as I grew familiar with his shapes and lines. Some of the renderings seemed to come right off the page, perfect copies of him.
Sometimes we talked; sometimes we were silent. He’d tucked a book into the side of his wicker chair and after lunch, he read it aloud, making me laugh as he created funny voices for the characters, performing with dramatic flair. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect afternoon.
“I suppose we ought to go in, shouldn’t we?” he mused as a chorus of spring peepers began a twilight song. “We’ll need to dress for dinner—Arina help us all if someone should see me wearing the same clothes I’ve had on all afternoon.”
I pressed my lips together, trying to hide the threatening smile. It did sound rather preposterous when he put it that way.
He let out a long breath, watching the water. “This has been the most marvelous day. I hate to see it end.”
“It has been beautiful,” I agreed, scooping my charcoal pencils into their tin and brushing aside the curled shavings dusting my lap. My hands, black with smudges, hummed with a tired but satisfied ache. “And aren’t we lucky we get to do it again tomorrow?”
“It won’t be the same. The water will be different. So will you. The blossoms will be a day older. So will I…I don’t believe you’re cursed, for what it’s worth,” he admitted softly, finally shifting his gaze from the lake to me. “I just…I wanted you to know that. And I’m sorry that Grandmère brought up such a painful time in your life.”
“It’s all right—” I started, but he quickly cut me off.
“It’s not,” he insisted. “And I shall speak to her about it when she returns. You have my word on that.”
I smiled. I hadn’t known him for long, but I’d already noticed how earnestly Alexander craved for the right things to be done. His moral compass was fixed with unwavering focus. I’d never met someone so good, so kind.
His intense reassurance made my chest warm and I looked away before a blush could fully bloom over me.
“What’s that?” I asked, just now noticing a dark shape far out in the middle of the lake. The sinking sun played off its lines, making it sparkle. It was a statue of some sort. I squinted, trying to see it better. It almost looked like…
“Arina’s burning heart,” Alexander explained. “Part of the Laurents’ old shrine.”
“A statue? In the middle of a lake? How is it supported? The water looks so deep.”
“There’s a little island of sorts there. I’ll take you out to it one day.”
I liked the way he said that, with such a casual assumption that we’d have so many future one days together.
After a beat, he waved his hand, gesturing for Frederick and Johann to come over. Alexander winced as Frederick helped him from the ground and settled him back into the chair. “Thank you.”
“Shall I take those up to your room, Miss Thaumas?” Johann asked, scooping my pencils up from the quilt.
“Oh, thank you, please,” I said, also relinquishing my hold on the book.
Alex pushed himself along a path toward the manor, straining to get the momentum to go up the embankment.
“May I?” I offered.
“Oh, you needn’t—”
“I know,” I said, cutting him off. “But I can and I want to.” I took hold of the bars at the back of the chair. It moved easier than I expected but still required a focused effort to keep him on the boarded walkway.