Vinci is all set. One masterpiece coming up.’
Lily sat up a little straighter. ‘I feel foolish,’ she said, ‘and very self-conscious. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do a sketch of the pond, or the trees by the bandstand.’
‘Hush,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ve got the subject I want, right here. Now – just relax. I’ll try not to be too long.’
‘My hair,’ Lily said in mild protest. ‘I’m not prepared for this.’
‘You look splendid,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have you look any other way.’ Then, a little sternly, ‘Now – please – keep still.’
She remained then unmoving, sitting on his jacket on the grass, while all around them the life of the park went on – illustrated by the shouts of children playing, the voices of adults calling to their dogs, the music of the band. The minutes meandered by. In her own silence Lily sat looking past his shoulder towards the pond. When he raised his head to look at her it was not to make eye contact but to measure, to observe, to absorb the picture before him, to transfer the perception to his pencil. He sighed a little, and groaned now and again, but then sometimes nodded in qualified approval. And so, under his moving fingers the drawing took shape.
Several melodies had come and gone from the band before he gave a deeper sigh, leant back a little, studying the sketch through half-closed eyes, and gave a final nod, saying with the gesture that it was finished.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘for better or worse, that’ll have to do for now.’
Lily relaxed, her body bending out of the unaccustomed rigidity. ‘Am I allowed to look?’
‘I suppose you must.’
He held out the sketchbook and she took it from him. To her the drawing looked quite exquisite. He seemed to have caught it all, even those things that she would rather he had not. There was her slightly pointed chin, her deep-set eyes, there the loosening ringlets of her dark hair, the locks relaxing again into their natural straightness.
‘I haven’t done you justice,’ he said, watching her as she gazed at the drawing. ‘You’re so much better-looking than that.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. You’ve made me look – beautiful.’
‘You
are
.’ He leant forward a little. ‘I never met anyone so beautiful before.’
She did not raise her eyes; she did not dare. As she continued to study the drawing, he said, ‘I’ve met a lot of young ladies here and there, and there’s a few times I’ve been attracted to them, and –’ He broke off, then added, ‘Look at me, please.’ His voice was gentle. ‘Please.’
She looked up, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
‘Yes, a few times,’ he said. ‘Oh – the pretty girls around Corster and Bath, and around Cambridge, and in Paris. But there’s none like you, Lily – and I don’t only mean the way you look. Though, Lord knows, that’s special enough.’
Held in his dark glance, she wanted to say
Oh, I know what you mean
! For she did. It was becoming clear to her; now she was realising it, facing it. Over the past few years she had got a glad eye from several youths in Compton Wells and Whitton or on her trips into Corster. In Whitton the postman’s assistant had winked at her, as had the butcher boy, and the baker’s boy – and there were times when she had acknowledged that they were handsome, these young men, and vital, and charming. But it had gone no further. She had taken their winks and their sweet or saucy comments, and for moments perhaps they had brought a little thrill, but then she had let them go. But not now. Not with this young man. This Joel.
There’s none like you, Lily
, he had said, and his words repeated over and over in her brain. And whereas in the past she would have answered a wink, an approach, with deliberate silence or a witty retort, now she could only sit with her heart beating against her ribs, feeling herself held in the spell of his gaze, and the echo of his words.
The band was playing
Lily sat up a little straighter. ‘I feel foolish,’ she said, ‘and very self-conscious. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do a sketch of the pond, or the trees by the bandstand.’
‘Hush,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ve got the subject I want, right here. Now – just relax. I’ll try not to be too long.’
‘My hair,’ Lily said in mild protest. ‘I’m not prepared for this.’
‘You look splendid,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have you look any other way.’ Then, a little sternly, ‘Now – please – keep still.’
She remained then unmoving, sitting on his jacket on the grass, while all around them the life of the park went on – illustrated by the shouts of children playing, the voices of adults calling to their dogs, the music of the band. The minutes meandered by. In her own silence Lily sat looking past his shoulder towards the pond. When he raised his head to look at her it was not to make eye contact but to measure, to observe, to absorb the picture before him, to transfer the perception to his pencil. He sighed a little, and groaned now and again, but then sometimes nodded in qualified approval. And so, under his moving fingers the drawing took shape.
Several melodies had come and gone from the band before he gave a deeper sigh, leant back a little, studying the sketch through half-closed eyes, and gave a final nod, saying with the gesture that it was finished.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘for better or worse, that’ll have to do for now.’
Lily relaxed, her body bending out of the unaccustomed rigidity. ‘Am I allowed to look?’
‘I suppose you must.’
He held out the sketchbook and she took it from him. To her the drawing looked quite exquisite. He seemed to have caught it all, even those things that she would rather he had not. There was her slightly pointed chin, her deep-set eyes, there the loosening ringlets of her dark hair, the locks relaxing again into their natural straightness.
‘I haven’t done you justice,’ he said, watching her as she gazed at the drawing. ‘You’re so much better-looking than that.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. You’ve made me look – beautiful.’
‘You
are
.’ He leant forward a little. ‘I never met anyone so beautiful before.’
She did not raise her eyes; she did not dare. As she continued to study the drawing, he said, ‘I’ve met a lot of young ladies here and there, and there’s a few times I’ve been attracted to them, and –’ He broke off, then added, ‘Look at me, please.’ His voice was gentle. ‘Please.’
She looked up, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
‘Yes, a few times,’ he said. ‘Oh – the pretty girls around Corster and Bath, and around Cambridge, and in Paris. But there’s none like you, Lily – and I don’t only mean the way you look. Though, Lord knows, that’s special enough.’
Held in his dark glance, she wanted to say
Oh, I know what you mean
! For she did. It was becoming clear to her; now she was realising it, facing it. Over the past few years she had got a glad eye from several youths in Compton Wells and Whitton or on her trips into Corster. In Whitton the postman’s assistant had winked at her, as had the butcher boy, and the baker’s boy – and there were times when she had acknowledged that they were handsome, these young men, and vital, and charming. But it had gone no further. She had taken their winks and their sweet or saucy comments, and for moments perhaps they had brought a little thrill, but then she had let them go. But not now. Not with this young man. This Joel.
There’s none like you, Lily
, he had said, and his words repeated over and over in her brain. And whereas in the past she would have answered a wink, an approach, with deliberate silence or a witty retort, now she could only sit with her heart beating against her ribs, feeling herself held in the spell of his gaze, and the echo of his words.
The band was playing
Similar Books
