A Connoisseur of Beauty by Daphne Coleridge Page B

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.