Joan Smith: Gather Ye Rosebuds

She was right to be concerned. I am not one of those ladies who leap at the altar as though it were a throne. I have not yet met the man whom I prefer to a paintbrush. My earliest memories are of holding a pen in my fingers, trying to put on paper what I saw. Dogs, cats, birds, horses, and later, the human face and form. Landscape has little appeal for me. My interest became an obsession shortly after my uncle's arrival from India. Uncle Barry thought my talent was a little out of the ordinary, and encouraged me. He took Mama and myself to Brighton on a holiday, and there I met Count Borsini at an art exhibit. I made bold enough to compliment him on his paintings; mentioned my own difficulty in setting an eye, and before we left Brighton two weeks later, he had been kind enough to call on us and critique my work for me.

It was a delightful surprise to meet him in Aldershot that autumn. He usually spent the winter in London, but he was tired of following his patrons about. As his interest was changing from portraits to landscapes, of which Kent has a plentiful supply, he set up a permanent home-cum-studio at Aldershot. He inquired how my work was progressing; I complained a little at my lack of progress, and before we parted, he had agreed to give me a series of lessons. When he is not too busy (and he is not usually that busy), he comes to Hernefield once a week, on Tuesday at two o'clock, instructs me for two hours, has tea, and returns to town.

Barry was usually our chaperon when he was alive. Now that he is gone, the duty has fallen to Mama or Brodagan, or my friend Mrs. Chawton. As it is the human form I paint, the chaperon serves double duty as model. On fine days, the lessons take place outdoors. Come autumn, they will move into my studio. The matter of chaperonage has been much discussed. The current plan is to enlarge the class to include a more mature lady to save Mama and Brodagan the stairs. Mrs. Chawton, the doctor's wife, is the only one who has showed the least interest thus far, and I fear her interest is more in Borsini than art.

Did I mention he is a monstrously handsome bachelor? He is Italian, of course, with the darkly romantic Latin looks that young English ladies like, and English gentlemen envy. The count is the younger son, with no expectation of inheriting his papa's palazzo in Venice. At least I think it is in Venice, although he once mentioned his papa had sent him wine from his vineyards in Tuscany. Perhaps the Borsinis have more than one estate.

Brodagan used to call him a “twister,” and say he was too “cute” for me, which was her way of saying he was angling for my poor five-thousand dowry. I was quick to remind her he had painted the Prince of Wales, and was not likely to need my pittance. But I think her dislike really softened to adoration when he began honoring her with a burlesque flirtation.

I tidied up the blue room while waiting for Brodagan and Steptoe to clear away my studio. I had dropped a bottle of linseed oil on the carpet of the blue room, which meant some furniture re-arrangement to conceal it. I made a mental note to have Steptoe remove the carpet from Uncle Barry's room. It is impossible to paint in a carpeted room. I would splurge and have linoleum laid down.

I meant to leave the windows uncurtained, have the walls painted a severe white (which Borsini said reflected the light well), and make the room as professional-looking as ten pounds could contrive. A second easel was definitely on my shopping list. Mrs. Chawton could use it during the lessons, and in the interim, I could have two paintings going at once. When Uncle Barry and I visited Borsini's studio at Aldershot, he had not less than four easels occupied.

At five and twenty, I have ceased thinking of marriage and decided to devote my life to my first love-art. Borsini feels the only reason the world has so few successful lady artists is marriage. Art is a full-time career. How can one devote all her attention to it when she must be worrying about children, meals, and entertaining her husband's colleagues? Borsini has noticed a great improvement in my work. My palette, he said, was too light. His own sparkles with the jewel tones of ruby, emerald, sapphire, and topaz, but somehow I cannot find these rich hues in the human face.

With time to spare, I began a sketch. The quantity of self-portraits in my collection does not denote self-love, but a shortage of models. When I am alone, I often sit in front of the mirror and sketch myself, as Rembrandt did. The hand must be trained to do what the artist wants, and like any other craft, practice makes perfect. I pulled the chair close to the mirror, propped my sketchpad on my knee, and studied the familiar face in the mirror.

I doubt there are many ladies who are as familiar with the lineaments of their face as I. Borsini is kind enough to tell me I have a classical face, which is not quite accurate. He has that easy Latin way with a compliment. My face is the proper Grecian shape, however, and my green eyes well spaced. I have lately taken to arranging my black hair in a Grecian knot, more for convenience than to ape the Greeks. It is really the nose that falls considerably short of the classical ideal-or perhaps I should say, falls long. Venus had not such a long nose, nor such wide lips.

My mentor tells me it is the straying from the ideal that confers that peculiar uniqueness of true perfection. I know well enough that “perfection” does not encompass such a far straying from the ideal as my own features. I have been called pretty, never beautiful-except by Borsini.

Time has a way of flying by when I am at work. I was vaguely aware of boxes being carried down from the octagonal tower, along the hall, and up the other staircase to the attic. When Brodagan's towered head appeared at the door, she said, “It's teatime, melady. Your studio is cleared away, if ye'd care to cast a glance at it. I'll not drag my poor old legs up them stairs again. Seven trips, it took. I don't know how in the world I did it. You have the youth still. You can take a run up."

"Thank you, Brodagan,” I said, and set aside my sketch to dart up the narrow staircase. Brodagan is not much interested in her salary, but she is greedy for praise.

Steptoe was still there, just opening the dresser drawers. Our butler is our only English servant. Mama brought servants with her from the old country when she married, and has replaced them with other Irish servants as they retired or passed away. Steptoe has a polite contempt for all of them except Brodagan, whom he fears. He is of middle years and medium stature, with brown hair just turning gray. I can scarcely write his name without adding Brodagan's favorite adjective for him, “uppity.” Steptoe was used to work for the local nobility, Lady Weylin.

"Shall I clear away your late uncle's linens, madam?” he asked. Steptoe always called both Mama and myself “madam."

"Yes, put all his clothing in boxes. I shall have it taken to the poorhouse.” Even Mama would not insist on keeping old clothing.

He began lifting shirts from the top drawer while I strolled around the room, seeing it in my mind's eye with the bed gone, the curtains down, the floor covered in linoleum, and the walls painted a bright, reflecting white. When I turned back to Steptoe, he was holding a small leather bag, dangling from his fingers by a cord.

"What is that, Steptoe?” I asked.

He handed it to me. “It rattles, madam,” he said.

I loosened the string and shook the contents out into my palm. The sunbeam slanting through the windows caught the object in my palm and reflected a myriad of iridescent rainbows. A muted gasp hung on the air as I gazed in disbelief at the object. I searched for the clasp and held it to catch the sun's full beams. It was a beautiful diamond necklace.