Free Portrait Of A Lover by Julianne MacLean Page A

floppy trout landed with a splat on her boots in the boat.
    And though they spoke of nearly every subject under the sun that summer, they never mentioned the argument they’d had that first day, nor did they speak of the future. If Mr. Edwards talked about his work, it was only to relay an amusing story about a coworker or customer, never to draw attention to the differences in their social positions. Perhaps they simply wished to enjoy themselves and forget how their lives differed. Or perhaps they preferred to imagine that those lazy summer afternoons would never end.
    Annabelle wished they wouldn’t. She wished it most ardently when she and Mr. Edwards stretched out on the picnic blanket after their lunches, their heads together as they stared up at the sky, watching the puffy clouds drift by at a snail’s pace. They would pick out shapes of things and watch the blackbirds soar freely against the blue.
    And that was always the time he would kiss her, his lips moist and soft as they met hers, tasting like red wine. All he had to do was lean toward her and her entire body would purr with the passion-filled delight of his presence and the overpowering desire for more.
    But despite her feverish longings, Mr. Edwards consistently refused to do anything more than just kiss, and never for more than a few minutes. Each time, he explained that he wanted her to have choices, in case she later changed her mind about him.
    “I won’t,” she always said.
    “You might,” he always replied.
    So their physical intimacies made little progress. And it was not until the summer’s end that she fully understood why.
    IT WAS THE LAST SUNDAY in August.
    Magnus leaned a shoulder against the old English oak on the hill, which overlooked Century House, Annabelle’s opulent home—an aristocratic mansion of unparalleled grandeur, set amidst terraced formal gardens and magnificent fountains.
    He stood for a long time just looking at it, while his emotions were tearing him apart inside—for the summer was at an end. The sunlight and shadows had changed, the air had turned crisp, and today…
    Today was the day Annabelle would finish the painting.
    He glanced down and kicked his booted toe against a large exposed tree root. He thought about what he had been doing all summer—spending romantic afternoons with Annabelle, charming her into falling in love with him, never telling her who he really was.
    He had suffered for it each and every minute, constantly vowing he would tell her the following week. But then she would arrive at the dock with her easel, all smiles and playful teasing, and he had never been able to say the words. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of her reacting to him with revulsion.
    Just one more day, he’d tell himself. If he could just make her love him a little more, it wouldn’t matter when he told her. She would forgive him for keeping the truth from her, and love him regardless. He’d wanted only to wait until they were stronger.
    But now, on this day, he found himself facing the reality of what their future would be, even if she did forgive him. He thought of the bed he’d gotten out of that morning—the coarse, wool blanket and the mattress full of holes. He’d gotten dressed, then shoveled the coal into the stove himself, but not until after he tramped down the road at dawn to purchase a jug of milk from the worn-out dairymaid.
    He thought of the breakfast he’d eaten—the same breakfast he ate every day of his life: bland porridge in a chipped bowl.
    And his mother was run-down and depressed again, drinking too much as usual. The previous night, he had returned home to find her in a drunken swoon with her head on the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of her.
    He quietly slid the bottle out of her loose grip and poured it out in the muddy yard, knowing he’d never hear the end of it when she woke, but he followed through nonetheless.
    Magnus lifted his weary gaze and looked