Free That Summer: A Novel by Lauren Willig Page B

from the life she now led. The study door had been courteously but firmly closed to her. “I must confess. I was unaware of that. There are several lovely Reynolds, however.”
    “Sir Joshua Reynolds!” Rossetti was deeply indignant. “Sir Sloshua, more like! His meaningless rules have stifled generations of English painters. There is no life in his paintings, no color. Do you know that he has decreed that all landscapes must be painted in shades of brown ?”
    Imogen felt her lips relax into a smile. “I fear that does seem to be the color of our countryside at present.”
    “Yes, but think of May!” said Rossetti passionately. “Think of the sun gilding the fresh, green grass and the roses unfurling their first velvet petals. There is a world of color and light just waiting to be captured on canvas.”
    Despite herself, Imogen was moved by his words. “I am sure that if anyone can, you shall, Mr. Rossetti,” she said.
    “Not if the Academy has its way,” said Mr. Rossetti darkly.
    “The Academy does its best.” It was Thorne, who, with Arthur, had come to join them. Imogen didn’t miss the warning look Thorne sent his friend. “I wouldn’t say ill of them.”
    His voice was deep and rich, with the hint of a regional accent he made no attempt to hide, the vowels flattened, the consonants soft. He was older than his peers, closer, Imogen imagined, to her own age than Rossetti, who looked to be scarcely older than Evie. The sun had burned Thorne’s skin brown and etched lines on his lean face.
    Imogen found herself intrigued by what it was he wasn’t saying. “What would you say of the Academy, then, Mr. Thorne?”
    “Oh, Thorne is one for painting, not for talking,” said Rossetti merrily. “He believes in saving his breath to wield his brush. He leaves the grand manifestos to the rest of us.”
    “Have you a grand manifesto then?” asked Evie breathlessly. The question was for Rossetti, but her eyes were on Fotheringay-Vaughn.
    “This lot do,” said Fotheringay-Vaughn indolently. He fixed his gaze on Evie. “My only creed is to paint beauty where I find it.”
    That, decided Imogen, was quite enough. Leaning down to put her mouth to the girl’s ear, she murmured, “Evie, dearest, would you go and see what’s keeping your aunt Jane?” She deliberately made her voice droll. “I should hate to think she’s been kidnapped by Cook.”
    “Yes, Mama.” Evie always made a point of calling her mama.
    For a moment, Imogen fought against a wave of bleak despair. What was she to do when Evie was gone? Well, she would face it when she faced it. She just needed to see Evie happily settled, with someone who appreciated her for her many excellences of spirit, not for the money Arthur had settled in the Funds.
    “If you will excuse me?” Evie’s words were painfully dignified, stilted even, but her voice betrayed her youth. She still curtsied like a schoolgirl, awkwardly, her eyes darting up for approval. “I must see to supper.”
    The gentlemen made the appropriate polite noises. Rossetti picked up immediately where he had left off, saying something about throwing off the shackles of artistic constraint. Imogen wasn’t quite listening. Neither was Fotheringay-Vaughn. His eyes followed Evie as she left the room.
    The other man, Thorne, was watching Imogen.
    She caught him watching her, watching her watching Fotheringay-Vaughn, and there was recognition in Thorne’s eyes, as though he knew exactly what she was about—as though he knew and was watching her as one might a caged beast in a menagerie! His eyes ought to have been black, with that coloring, but instead, they were a pale brown, the color of amber, or of aged sherry, light and bright and far too observant.
    Imogen bit back the angry words that rose immediately to her throat. Instead, she adopted her most painfully proper expression, pushing the anger, the indignation, down, down, down, and away, down beneath her stays, compressed into a tiny