A Connoisseur of Beauty (9 page)

“I suppose I have been experimenting a bit and painting what I love – but James has been nagging me because he thinks I don't pay enough attention to building up a profile as an artist. I certainly don't have your business acumen.”

“But you have integrity, Amy, you do what you believe in and what you love,” said Hunter, his cool grey eyes showing sudden warmth as he looked at her.

“Artistic integrity is important, but everyone has bills to pay. I guess it's a case of each person finding the right balance for themselves.”

“You mean you don't want to starve in a garret?” said Hunter with a smile.

“Not if I can help it,” replied Amy.

“Well, I'd like to come back to your studio and take a look around if I may? You made it sound much nicer than a garret!”

“Of course, but James will probably want to show you all his work too. He's all right, though – just a bit enthusiastic,”

“I reserve the right to be jealous of him – he gets to see more of you than I do.”

“You're not missing much,” Amy reassured him. “We mostly ignore each other when we are working, and the only
things we share are tubes of paint when one of us runs out of a particular colour.”

They chatted a little more on the subject of painti
ng before tidying up the plates and shoving them back in Hunter's bag. Then they walked along, commenting on the people and the sights they saw, as relaxed as they had ever been in each other's company. Back at the studio Amy was relieved to find that James was out. She showed Hunter the painting on her easel of the roses, but there was no stopping him going through all her canvases.

“I like the atmosphere in here,” he commented. “It's a mixture of mess and creativity – creation emerging out of chaos...”

“The atmosphere is mostly turpentine fumes,” retorted Amy. “And more than two-thirds of the mess belongs to James.”

“Well, it makes me want to try my hand at painting – do you know, I've never so much as picked up a paint brush. I'm too frightened of finding out that I’m no good myself, even though I can appreciate the works of others.”

“You can do no harm by trying,” said Amy. “I can give you a blank canvas and a brush.”

“I'm not brave enough today: but one d
ay...what's in this lot here?” He had reached the pile where Amy had hidden his portrait. Before she had a chance to stop him, he had flicked through and pulled it out. “You put this one in with the paint still wet – let's take a look.” He placed the painting on an empty easel and stared at it silently for a space of time that seemed to Amy to go on forever. She felt awkward and anxious, yet still wanted to hear what he thought of the portrait. Finally he spoke. “You've not painted the successful business man; you've painted the man who knows that he really wants something else. How is it that you could see that side of me when I could hardly see it in myself? You've taken what is inside and put it on the outside. Do you know that I've never allowed anyone to paint a portrait of me because I thought that I would hate what I saw. But this I like – although I'm not sure I want anyone else to see it. It almost reveals too much of me. Can I buy it?”

“No,” said Amy so quickly that it sounded almost rude.

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Why not,” he said. “I'd pay you a lot – enough to keep you out of that garret.”

“No,” said Amy, more quietly. “I haven't finished it yet.”

“I like it as it is. I’ll give you a million pounds!”

“No,” repeated Amy, not knowing if he was serious, but glad James wasn't there to hear her refuse such an offer.

“I'm quite serious, you know.” Hunter was suddenly looking at Amy with a frightening intensity.

“I just don't want to sell it,” said Amy, a little quaver in her voice.

“It's funny,” said Hunter, turning back to the picture, “but this has told me the one thing I've been wanting to know. When you refused to come over to America to paint that portrait of my grandmother I took it to mean that you didn't really care about me. I thought if you did you would come, whatever obstacles seemed to stand in the way. But my grandmother told me that I was wrong. She said that in the circumstances – or the circumstances as they would have appeared to you at the time – your refusal showed proper sensibilities. I wondered how I would ever be able to tell what you really felt about me – but only someone who sees me and loves me for what I am could have painted this portrait.”

“I know how I feel
about you,” said Amy quietly, “but how can I know what you feel about me?”

“I could spend the rest of my life showing you,” said Hunter, suddenly taking he
r by the shoulders with such a firm, determined grip that it almost hurt. “I know words are never enough, but you must have seen that I was in love from you from the moment we first met.”

“Or were you in love with the beautiful portrait of Elizabeth
Montford before you even set eyes on me?” asked Amy. She still had the lurking doubt that Hunter was in love with an image, not a real person.

“Elizabeth
Montford didn’t look inside me and paint a picture that showed my soul,” said Hunter. “I love you for your insight and your integrity as much as your beauty. But I need you to believe in my love. I know everything went wrong the evening of the May Ball. I want to have another ball at Wolfston, but this time we will understand each other. Will you come?”

“Of course,” replied Amy.

“But this time don't wear the grey dress – which was breathtaking, by the way. This time dress as only Amy would.”

“And how is that?” asked Amy.

“In bright periwinkle blue – a colour that makes me think of honesty and eternity.”

Apparently nobody else objected to another ball being held at Wolfston Hall so soon after the first. Even Cole and Loretta flew over from America, and Amy managed to secure an invite for James and Lucy. This time she had been asked to stay at Wolfston Hall. She was given a bedroom that looked out over the rose gardens and the now manicured lawns, up through the wilderness to the trees beyond. She noticed that very little had been changed in the room which had elegant Queen Anne furniture and a four poster bed which was rather older and very solid. Only the bedding and the blue velvet hangings had been replaced – which was just as well, as Amy recalled how mildewed and moth-eaten the originals had become. When she arrived she found a jug of cream-coloured roses on her bedside table. Amongst them was a single rose of a delicate mauve-blue colour. Amy knew immediately that Hunter had put them there to remind her of the roses on Elizabeth Montford's lap and that first bouquet he had sent her. But not for her the red rose to symbolise infidelity, but the colour she knew represented good faith and friendship to Hunter. Being back in the house where she had run wild as a child but which had been the source of much sadness and regret to her father, Amy was able to feel new sensations of peace and even the hopeful beginnings of happiness. She put on her dress, which was a light silk of variegated shades from blue to mauve. It clung enticingly to her curves. She wore a few tiny silk flowers in her rich, dark hair, which was loosely pushed up and secured with a silver clip. She could already hear the sounds of talking, music and laughter below as she descended the wide sweep of the stairs. This time Hunter appeared to be waiting for her arrival and immediately came over and kissed her on the lips.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he exclaimed, and Amy could see by the look in his eyes that he meant it. Throughout the evening he stayed by her side, introducing her to friends, associates and family alike. When they spoke with Cole and Loretta she was able to see the older brother's rapport with Hunter and it made her smile to remember all the stories that Marilyn had told her about them. Loretta was still beautiful – secretly Amy thought she was probably the most beautiful woman in the room, but was happy to accept Hunter's compliment to her. After all, beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and Hunter was famous as a connoisseur of beauty, so she wasn't going to argue with him. When she shared a dance with Hunter at midnight this time, she felt his body, strong and hard against hers, his hands gentle but possessive about her and she knew that they were finally as one.

“I love you, Amy,” he whispered through her soft hair, and she thrilled at his words. She didn't give a spoken reply, but as his lips sought hers for a kiss he knew from her response that his feelings were reciprocated.

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