Page 25 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘You know something of the artists’ world, Lady Dove. You mentioned yesterday that you draw. Do you paint as well?’ he ventured, impressing her further.

‘I draw, mainly. Pencils and charcoal. I paint a little. Nothing like this.’ She was suddenly reticent, shy about her talent.

‘I would like to see your work some time,’ he offered, perhaps to be polite. Then his eyes sparked. ‘I know, we should have an artists’ picnic. You can bring your sketching and I can bring my notebook. We could lie beneath the sky and indulge our creativity.’ Dove smiled at the image his words created. It sounded lovely and impossible. Such a suggestion was far too private. She said nothing, wanting to savour the idea of such an outing instead of ruining it with practicalities like chaperons. Her mother was here somewhere, trailing behind them. It seemed they’d left her at the last picture.

‘Does your whole family enjoy art, then?’ Illarion asked.

‘Yes. My mother used to paint. I don’t think anyone can live in Cornwall and not love art. The countryside is full of artistic potential. There’s a wildness to it, a natural beauty that begs to be captured: cliffs, rivers, the sea. And there are gardens. We can grow the most amazing plants in Cornwall.’ She paused. She was getting too excited about home. ‘I’m sorry, I was rambling.’

‘Not at all.’ Illarion’s eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I would like to see Cornwall. I think it is a place that inspires and a man, especially a poet, is always looking for sources of inspiration.’

‘I think art is an important piece of expression,’ Dove offered, ‘even if one does it badly. It means something to the artist.’ She paused, thinking of the children she’d left behind in Cornwall. The gallery, seeing all the paintings, had made her nostalgic. ‘I have a small art school at home where I teach the children in the village.’ It was not something she’d talked about since coming to London, but it seemed right to share it in this moment.

Illarion’s face filled with a smile. ‘That sounds wonderful, a place where children can learn to express themselves at an early age. Not only expression, but inspiration. You’re helping them to see the inspiration around them in their daily lives, helping them to appreciate nature through that expression. Perhaps you are teaching the next Constable.’

She blushed at that. ‘It isn’t much. I only pass on what I know, what I’ve learned from my tutors.’ But she was touched that he understood the goals behind her pet project. Her school was so much more than just the physical act of painting or drawing.

He didn’t let her argue against his praise. ‘It’s more than they’d have otherwise. Never underestimate the power of a gift, no matter how small.’

They’d reached the end of the gallery; he guided her outside to one of the verandas overlooking the river and gestured towards a table set with white linen, a vase of white roses in full bloom and chairs for three, a reminder that they were not entirely alone. Her mother would be joining them. ‘I took the liberty of arranging for refreshment.’ He held out her chair and gave her a melting smile. Today, he was redefining the term ‘Prince Charming’.

She gave a nod towards the white roses with a teasing goad. ‘No lilies today?’ She liked this Prince Charming, but she missed the sharp-edged man who pricked her temper and her conscience.

‘White roses suit you. You, too, have layers, I am discovering.’ He evaded a direct answer, plucking a rose from the vase and presented it to her with a flourish that was half-mocking gallantry and half-seriousness. ‘A token of transient beauty, like Constable’s weather.’ Their eyes held, something subtle passed between them before he looked beyond her shoulder and straightened. She knew without turning that he’d spotted her mother coming towards them. In that instant, Dove resented her mother’s arrival. It would break the spell. There would be no more private riddles about lilies and roses, no more discussion of her art school. He held her gaze for a last, lingering moment as if he, too, felt the loss. ‘To transience, my dear,’ he murmured, rising from his chair to help her mother and direct the arrival of the tiered tray of cakes and sandwiches and the tea. ‘Lady Redruth, come and sit. We have the most splendid view of the Thames and the best of weather in which to enjoy it.’

---