Belle waited until after dinner, after the three children had gone to bed. After Eddie had finished his first glass of cognac in front of the fire and poured himself a second.
She studied him while he read the paper and sipped his drink. A handsome man, the picture of sartorial elegance, though that moustache made him look older than he was. Forehead high and straight. Sandy hair cut short these days. She preferred it when it was longer, long enough to move in a breeze. And those steel blue eyes. Eddie couldn’t help it, of course, it was just . . . every year there was more of his father about him. She rubbed the goosebumps from her arms.
He glanced up from his reading and caught her watching him. His eyes crinkled with warmth, and the resemblance to Henry vanished. Eddie patted the Chesterfield couch beside him. She joined him, the cold leather chilling her legs through her dress.
‘Can we talk, Eddie. Anne is two years old now, and I’ve made a decision. I’m going to help Mama teach children at the mine school.’
Edward put down his drink and took his time rolling a cigarette. Belle shifted in her seat. She hated the suspense, the feeling that she was waiting for permission.
‘Will you delay a while longer?’ he said at last. ‘Our sweet baby girl is still so young. Surely your place is here, with us. With your own children.’
Belle pressed her lips together.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he said.
Her eyes flashed. ‘Tell me then, Eddie, how should I be?’ She sprang to her feet, prepared for an argument. ‘It’s different for you. You actually do things. I can’t drop a handkerchief without some servant rushing to pick it up for me. Robbie and Clara are busy all day with tutors and governesses. You don’t approve of me going with Papa into the mountains any more. Grace is married and moved to Hobart . . .’
He stood up and took her hands in his. ‘Belle, sweetheart, I understand, I do. The girl I fell in love with wasn’t one to sit around.’ His smile, one of infinite affection, disarmed her. ‘I propose a compromise.’ She watched him, wary yet curious. ‘Remember how you loved to draw when we first met? I shall build a studio in the garden, and engage an art teacher – the best I can find. Would that amuse you until Anne is a little older?’
Belle was after a lot more than amusement. She was after fulfilment. But Eddie was right about one thing: she had loved to draw, and the idea of studying art intrigued her. A favourite childhood memory was sitting with Luke and her father, painting animals and birds. Later, when she moved to Binburra, it was landscapes that had captivated her. The mountains and forest casting their spell, colours transforming, making her see with different eyes.
Leaves weren’t green any more. They were apple and olive and mistletoe. Sage-green, sea-green and the green of sprouting wheat. Willow-green, pine-green and the green of alpine moss. Shadows were no longer grey or black. They were cobalt and indigo and midnight blue. Charcoal, iron-grey, driftwood-brown and every shade in between.
‘Well?’ His hand brushed her hair. ‘What do you say?’
She was touched he’d remembered her old passion for painting. It helped close the space between them. ‘I would love my own studio.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘But I do intend to teach, sooner or later.’
He put his arm round her waist. ‘Who knows? There may soon be a new baby to keep you busy.’
A twinge of guilt made her shift away. Belle didn’t want a new baby to keep her busy. She’d learned Whisky’s simple trick. To avoid pregnancy, avoid sex. On the occasions when Eddie persuaded her, she used a thin sponge soaked in quinine as a contraceptive.
The art teacher duly arrived, having been lured away from a Sydney girls’ school by Edward’s deep pockets and the promise of a talented student. Miss Emily Durant was a woman of indeterminate age, neither old nor young, who boasted French heritage. She moved into the ivy-covered guesthouse nestled in a corner of the garden.
Everything about Emily fascinated Belle. Her self-assurance and flaming red hair. The fact she’d travelled the world on her own. ‘Men have no right to rule our lives,’ she said when Belle asked why she’d never married. Her wonderful collection of books and magazines, especially those featuring modern art. When Emily showed her a colour plate of Arthur Streeton’s Still glides the stream, and shall for ever glide, Belle had burst into tears. She wanted her own brush to embrace the sun, sky, water and hills that way. She wanted to celebrate Tasmania’s diverse landscape with a rainbow palette.
Emily, however, had other ideas. She made Belle sketch vases and coffeepots in black and white, saying, ‘Still-life drawing is the best school, the very best exercise for artists.’ When Belle complained, Emily wagged a finger. ‘This is how to learn light and perspective. It gives you the tools to paint everything else.’
One morning, Belle was sitting in her teacher’s little parlour. Emily had taken down the curtains and converted it to a makeshift studio. Autumn light streamed in, casting the room in shades of soft gold. Belle wished she could swap homes. The cottage was a far more cheerful place than the main house. Belle studied her half-completed sketch of a fruit bowl and frowned. Drawing bananas wasn’t her idea of art.
Emily looked up from her own work. ‘Let me try to convince you once more about the importance of practising object drawing.’ Emily took a book from the shelf, bookmarked a few pages and handed it over.
Belle studied the three prints by William Harnett: Secretary’s Table, A Study Table, The Banker’s Table. Tabletops crammed with eclectic collections of objects. And suddenly she understood what Emily meant. Harnett was less painter than illusionist, the coins and quills and books so real she wanted to pluck them from the page.
Emily smiled as comprehension dawned on Belle’s face. ‘Streeton, Tom Roberts, McCubbin – all these modern impressionists you admire so much? To master the art of impressionism, first you must master realism.’
Belle tackled her sketch with renewed enthusiasm.
Everything was so much better, so much happier now. Belle had become consumed with her art. Emily wasn’t only an inspiring teacher, but also an excellent companion. Eddie was touchingly happy to have pleased her. He threw himself into planning her studio, his designs growing grander by the day. Belle wasn’t impatient. She was free to escape to the sunny cottage whenever she wanted.
Even her relationship with Robbie was improving. Her baffling little boy was seven years old now. Simple children’s games like skittles and hopscotch confused him, yet he could name the elements of the periodic table and recite generations of ram pedigrees. He also had a fascination with art. At last, Belle had a way to connect with her son.
Mornings saw Robbie trotting down to the cottage, as often as going to work with his father. Emily would set him up with paper and pencils, or sometimes an easel and palette of paints. He had a talent for detailed depictions of buildings.
‘You’re stealing my boy away from me, Miss Durant,’ Edward said over dinner one evening. ‘I might get jealous.’
Eddie’s eyes smiled, but there was a toughness behind his joking tone. When his mouth took on that hard twist, Belle was glad he was on her side.
Emily’s teaching moved on apace, and she seemed pleased with her student’s aptitude and commitment. She introduced the new topic of portraits by referring Belle to a beautiful set of da Vinci reproduction notebooks.
‘Although renowned for his portrait painting, I admire some of these informal sketches more than his popular pieces.’
‘These are in my father’s library,’ said Belle as she turned the pages. ‘When we were children, he’d have us copy the animal sketches. My favourites were the horses.’
‘Leonardo had a great love of horses,’ said Emily. ‘Even his rough sketches possess an almost magical, lifelike quality.’ She glanced up from the book. ‘You said we. Aren’t you an only child?’
‘I meant Luke and me.’ Emily’s eyebrows asked the question. ‘He was my . . . my best friend.’ Belle knew how odd that sounded. Little girls didn’t have boys as best friends. ‘He died.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Emily tilted her head, pushing her glasses up her nose. For a moment it looked like she might pursue the subject. ‘Da Vinci believed artists must not only know the rules of perspective, but also the laws of nature. He dissected corpses to understand the structure of the body. He made thousands of notes and drawings.’ Emily turned to a marked page with a gloriously detailed sketch of a girl in profile. ‘Da Vinci grouped facial features into three major types: those that lie flat along a baseline, those that rise, and those that fall from the baseline. He urged his students to study these variations until they could confidently paint a portrait from life, or even from memory.’
‘From memory?’ Belle had never heard of such a thing.
‘I confess it’s beyond me,’ said Emily. ‘But I know of those who can. It requires great skill, and depends on how well the artist can recall a particular face.’
An image exploded inside Belle’s mind, an image recorded years ago in exquisite, heartbreaking detail. One she’d struggled to forget. Luke’s face, bronzed by wind and sun. Lips, warm and sweet. Dark eyes, kind eyes, filled with a wild sensuality that stirred her blood. A portrait of intelligence and strength. How many times had she longed for a photograph of that dear face? Belle’s cheeks flamed, her mind alive with possibilities.
Emily gave her a curious look. ‘You seem quite taken by the concept. However, let’s leave advanced portraiture until later, shall we?’
Belle pushed back her chair, and started gathering up her art materials.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Emily. ‘We’ve barely begun.’
‘I’m checking on the new studio.’ Belle could hardly contain her excitement. ‘Eddie said it might be finished today.’
‘Excellent,’ said Emily. ‘We shall we move our lessons there, and I can reclaim my parlour.’
‘Sorry.’ Belle headed for the door. ‘The studio is mine.’