never made her work for this long! But it couldn’t be helped;
if that was what Elizabeth wanted, then there was probably a reason for it.
“I want you to have a firm grasp on this technique
today,” Elizabeth said, as she got up and offered Marina her hand to aid
her to her feet. Marina took the offered help; her knees felt so shaky she wasn’t
certain she could have stood up without it. “If we left things at the
point where they are now, by tomorrow it would all have to be done over again.
We have to make a pathway in your mind and spirit that rest or sleep can’t
erase.
Then
you can take a longer respite.”
Marina sighed, and followed her out; her stomach gave a
discreet growl, reminding her not only that she had used a great deal of
physical
energy, but that she would feel better about resuming once she wasn’t so
ravenous.
Aunt Margherita seemed to have anticipated how hungry she
would be, for the main course of luncheon was a hearty stew that must have been
cooking since breakfast or before. With fresh bread slathered with butter and
Margherita’s damson preserves, and cup after cup of strong tea, Marina
felt better by the moment. Sarah, Margherita and Elizabeth chattered away like
a trio of old gossips on wash-day, while Marina ate until she couldn’t
eat any more, feeling completely
hollow
after all her exertion.
Finally, when she’d finished the last bit of the
treacle tart Sarah had given her for dessert, Elizabeth turned away from her
conversation with the others. “Have you any lessons or other work you
need to do this afternoon?” she asked, but somehow managed not to make it
sound as if she was asking a child the question.
“Work, actually. German,” she replied, with a
lifting of her spirits.
“Die Leiden des jungen Werther,
I’m
translating it for Uncle Sebastian; he thinks he might want to paint something
from it.”
“Oh good heavens,
Sturm und Drang,
is it?”
she laughed. “Obsessed poets and suicide! Oh well, I suppose Sebastian
knows what is likely to sell!”
“Sebastian knows very well, thank you,” her
uncle called from the doorway. “Beautiful young dead men sell very well
to wealthy ladies with less-than-ideal marriages of convenience. It gives them
something to sigh and weep over, and since the young men are safely dead, their
husbands can’t feel jealous over even a painted rival.”
Marina didn’t miss the cynical lift of his brow, and
suspected he had a particular client in mind.
Evidently, Elizabeth Hastings hadn’t missed that cue
either. “Well,” she said dryly, “If the real world does not
move them, they might as well be parted from some of that wealth in exchange
for a fantasy, so that others can make better use of their money than they can.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Sebastian said, and with
the chameleon-like change of mood that Marina knew so well, beamed upon Sarah
as he accepted a bowl of stew from her hands. “Sarah, you are just as
divine as Miss Bernhardt! In a different sphere, of course—”
“Tch! The things you say! I doubt Divine Sarah’d
thank ye for that!” their own Sarah replied with a twinkle, and turned
back to her stove.
“I’ll come fetch you from your room in an hour
or so,” Elizabeth said to Marina, who took that as her cue to escape for
some badly needed rest.
Translating
Werther
was not what she would have
called “work,” even though Uncle Sebastian said it was. She had
taught herself German from books; she couldn’t speak it, but she read it
fluently enough. German seemed useful, given all of the medieval poems and
epics that the Germans had produced that could give Uncle Sebastian subjects
for his paintings, and so she had undertaken it when she was twelve.
Mind,
she thought, as she wrote yet another
paragraph of Werther’s internal agony,
I can’t do much with
figures. And as for science—all I know is what the old alchemists did!
She supposed her education had been rather one-sided.
She was amused,
if that was what Elizabeth wanted, then there was probably a reason for it.
“I want you to have a firm grasp on this technique
today,” Elizabeth said, as she got up and offered Marina her hand to aid
her to her feet. Marina took the offered help; her knees felt so shaky she wasn’t
certain she could have stood up without it. “If we left things at the
point where they are now, by tomorrow it would all have to be done over again.
We have to make a pathway in your mind and spirit that rest or sleep can’t
erase.
Then
you can take a longer respite.”
Marina sighed, and followed her out; her stomach gave a
discreet growl, reminding her not only that she had used a great deal of
physical
energy, but that she would feel better about resuming once she wasn’t so
ravenous.
Aunt Margherita seemed to have anticipated how hungry she
would be, for the main course of luncheon was a hearty stew that must have been
cooking since breakfast or before. With fresh bread slathered with butter and
Margherita’s damson preserves, and cup after cup of strong tea, Marina
felt better by the moment. Sarah, Margherita and Elizabeth chattered away like
a trio of old gossips on wash-day, while Marina ate until she couldn’t
eat any more, feeling completely
hollow
after all her exertion.
Finally, when she’d finished the last bit of the
treacle tart Sarah had given her for dessert, Elizabeth turned away from her
conversation with the others. “Have you any lessons or other work you
need to do this afternoon?” she asked, but somehow managed not to make it
sound as if she was asking a child the question.
“Work, actually. German,” she replied, with a
lifting of her spirits.
“Die Leiden des jungen Werther,
I’m
translating it for Uncle Sebastian; he thinks he might want to paint something
from it.”
“Oh good heavens,
Sturm und Drang,
is it?”
she laughed. “Obsessed poets and suicide! Oh well, I suppose Sebastian
knows what is likely to sell!”
“Sebastian knows very well, thank you,” her
uncle called from the doorway. “Beautiful young dead men sell very well
to wealthy ladies with less-than-ideal marriages of convenience. It gives them
something to sigh and weep over, and since the young men are safely dead, their
husbands can’t feel jealous over even a painted rival.”
Marina didn’t miss the cynical lift of his brow, and
suspected he had a particular client in mind.
Evidently, Elizabeth Hastings hadn’t missed that cue
either. “Well,” she said dryly, “If the real world does not
move them, they might as well be parted from some of that wealth in exchange
for a fantasy, so that others can make better use of their money than they can.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Sebastian said, and with
the chameleon-like change of mood that Marina knew so well, beamed upon Sarah
as he accepted a bowl of stew from her hands. “Sarah, you are just as
divine as Miss Bernhardt! In a different sphere, of course—”
“Tch! The things you say! I doubt Divine Sarah’d
thank ye for that!” their own Sarah replied with a twinkle, and turned
back to her stove.
“I’ll come fetch you from your room in an hour
or so,” Elizabeth said to Marina, who took that as her cue to escape for
some badly needed rest.
Translating
Werther
was not what she would have
called “work,” even though Uncle Sebastian said it was. She had
taught herself German from books; she couldn’t speak it, but she read it
fluently enough. German seemed useful, given all of the medieval poems and
epics that the Germans had produced that could give Uncle Sebastian subjects
for his paintings, and so she had undertaken it when she was twelve.
Mind,
she thought, as she wrote yet another
paragraph of Werther’s internal agony,
I can’t do much with
figures. And as for science—all I know is what the old alchemists did!
She supposed her education had been rather one-sided.
She was amused,
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