Free PoetsandPromises by Lucy Muir Page B

the woman looked up and flashed a brilliant smile. Dark, curly hair
peeped beneath a fashionable bonnet but her gown was hidden beneath a painter’s
smock stained in a rainbow of colors.
    With no hesitation Shelley went to inspect the canvas on the
easel. “Come see this, Mary,” he commanded his wife. “This is excellent indeed.
You have talent, Miss—?”
    “Thibeau. Evonne Thibeau,” the woman answered, speaking in
lightly accented English. “And you are?” she asked demurely, her blue eyes
alight with interest and a hint of mischief.
    “Shelley. This is my wife, Mary,” he continued, pulling Mrs.
Shelley to his side. And Lord Sherbourne, Mr. Earlywine and Miss Ashwood,” he
finished his brief introductions.
    Evonne looked assessingly at the group as they crowded
around and Elisabeth noticed that her eyes stayed longest on Lord Sherbourne
and Mr. Earlywine.
    “I have seen artists sketch outdoors but I have never seen
one bring paints and an easel and actually paint outdoors,” James commented.
    Miss Thibeau flashed another brilliant smile and turned her
full attention on Earlywine. “This must be the only way to capture the moment,
yes? In Italy, where I lived some years, this is the custom, to paint outdoors, en plein aire . You English, you are slow to try the new, yes?”
    “It is certainly effective,” Earlywine acknowledged, joining
the Shelleys, who were still examining the canvas. “The flowers appear so
realistic that one feels one could pluck them from the canvas. You are gifted,
Miss Thibeau. I am surprised I am not familiar with your name.”
    Miss Thibeau gave a Gallic shrug. “My painting, they are not
the style to be in fashion. All is so dark, the paintings here. Except perhaps
your Lady Gordon, she is the closest to my style, but soft. Me, I like the
colors true. The tulip she is bold red and yellow so that is what I paint. But
they do not sell,” she said with another shrug.
    “So I paint the likenesses to pay the bills,” she added with
disarming frankness. “Should any of you desire your likeness taken, you must
come to Evonne Thibeau.”
    Lord Sherbourne had also been inspecting the painting on the
easel. “That is an unusual spelling of your name,” he commented. “One usually
finds it beginning with a Y.”
    “One must stand out to remain in the mind, yes?” Miss
Thibeau elucidated. “One must have the difference. I spell Evonne with E, not
Y, I am remembered, yes?”
    “Would you care to share our picnic, Miss Thibeau?” Mrs.
Shelley asked. “We should be delighted to have you speak more of your art.”
    “ Merci , but I must take care of the paints. They must
not dry out, and I have been long here already. Perhaps another time, should we
meet.”
    Elisabeth, after duly admiring the painting, had been
watching the effect the charming artist appeared to be having on Lord
Sherbourne and Mr. Earlywine with some consternation, for they were both
clearly intrigued by the Frenchwoman. Only Shelley, whose attention was on the
painting rather than the artist, appeared immune to Miss Thibeau’s abundant
charms. Suddenly Elisabeth felt very much the brown wren next to the ethereal
Mrs. Shelley and vivid Miss Thibeau. Her confidence deserted her and as the
group left Miss Thibeau and wandered back to the trees Elisabeth grew very
quiet. She felt a heaviness of spirit and her newfound happiness in her
arranged betrothal vanished as she realized she felt jealous of the artist’s
effect on Sherbourne and Earlywine. Disturbed, Elisabeth glanced back a last
time at the artist, and when she turned away her eyes met Shelley’s. The poet
held her gaze, a wordless communication passing between them, and Elisabeth
almost felt as though he had touched her with a commiserating yet reassuring
gesture. She sensed that Shelley, at least, found her fully as attractive as he
did the artist.
    Not long afterward the party broke up and as the men took
their leave of one another Mary Shelley spoke