Free Rakes and Radishes by Susanna Ives Page B

painter—set up with his easels and paints on the bank a few feet away—stopped in mid-brush stroke to stare.
    Kesseley drew his mother to him. “Who is this man? Do I need to kill him?” he asked gently.
    “He is no one.” She laughed, a brittle sound, and pulled herself free. “Let’s keep walking.”
    Henrietta paused to let them go ahead. She needed space to think about Edward. She looked deep into the water, past her reflection, to the pale fish darting below. A raindrop splashed the water, then another, breaking everything up.
    That was Lady Sara in that daisy bonnet. It had to be. At this very moment, she would be near him, trying to find shelter from the coming rain, feeling the giddy excitement of having him close, their hands touching. Did he kiss Lady Sara too? Did he look at her like she was the most precious thing in the world and whisper sonnets in her ear? Henrietta wondered if Lady Sara even knew about her—the one left behind.
    How invisible she felt. As if in a dream where her house was on fire, but she was unable to move or scream, helpless as the flames grew. Except in this scenario she never woke, forced to watch some little bonnet spotted with daisies steal her life.
    “No, no, don’t leave me, Edward. Don’t leave me like this.”
    “Pardon?” the painter said a few feet away. It took a moment to realize she had spoken aloud. Oh Lud! She was as mad as Papa. Quickly she tried to cover her mistake.
    “I said, umm, no, don’t paint me. Don’t paint me like this. That’s what I said.”
    His bright eyes regarded her warily as one would a lunatic. “I’m not.”
    “Good.”
    She lifted her skirt and hurried past his easel, then stopped. For all his soulful artistic demeanor, he was the worst painter she had ever encountered. Blotches and swirls of paint, it could have been any body of water painted by a three-year-old.
    A mysterious smile played on his face and he scratched his graying bearded chin. “It’s about color. I am trying to capture the exact color of the water as I see it now. This moment.”
    “Oh.”
    “After all, all we have are moments. One after the other, ticking by, then all is gone but the memory of how blue the river was one afternoon in the park.”
    Henrietta paused. “That makes me sad. Time flying away and only blue left.”
    “Perhaps not what you have left. Perhaps all you ever had.”
    Her heart swelled with pain. This was all she would ever have? This heartache? The man gazed at her with ancient eyes, compassionate and deep. “I have to go,” she said, but remained still.
    He looked at her companions, now waiting in the distance. “They will miss you.”
    Henrietta nodded, not speaking, then turned and ran off to catch up with Kesseley and his mother. She took his arm, and they hurried toward the road as drops of rain started pelting down. She glanced over her shoulder as the path turned along a row of oaks. The odd painter stood, unaffected by the rain, watching them.

Chapter Seven

    At the edge of the park, Kesseley waved down a hackney. The rain came down like a heavy gray wall of water. Everyone crammed inside the carriage that smelled like old stockings. Kesseley wiped the steam off the window. Outside, the people trapped by the rain huddled under coat collars or journals, navigating the muddy streams of filth and trash flowing down the street gutters.
    How could people live year round in this wet, squalid city, breathing its rank air? He hated London.
    Henrietta’s arm brushed his elbow. A drop of rain fell from her black curl onto the edge of her ear, then trailed down her neck. Without thinking, he reached to flicked it away. She tilted her cheek against his fingers. She loved London. And if bringing her here made her happy, it was worth all the filth and chaos.
    The butler ran out with an umbrella to meet them. Kesseley took Henrietta’s arm and led her up the stairs. He could feel his mother’s stare hard on his back, her unspoken words