Chapter Text
Benedict stepped back, frowning at the canvas in front of him. Something wasn’t quite right. A voice beside him brought him back to reality. “See you in the lounge later?”
“What? Oh, sorry, yes. See you later, Norton.” He gave his friend a nod, turning back to the canvas.
It was getting late, but the Royal Academy of Art was still buzzing with students, all liberated from class and looking for a fun evening. The young artists in residence worked hard and partied even harder. Usually he’d find his way to the lounge, or out to one of the local bars with his fellow students, but tonight Benedict shut himself up in the studio where he’d been nearly all day. Shaking his head, he decided to start from scratch. He just couldn’t get the idea in his head down on the canvas in front of him.
The candles were burning low when the door creaked open behind him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” said a gentle voice. “I didn’t think anyone would still be in here. I can go, if you’d like.”
He turned to see a young woman standing near the easels in the back of the classroom, a basket on her arm. The tension dropped from his shoulders as he set his paintbrush down and stood, crossing the room to greet her. She was dressed simply, like a lot of the staff here at the Academy. But she’d pinned her red hair up in a style that reminded him of Daphne’s. “No need,” he smiled. “Stay as long as you’d like. I know there are a few of you, uh, models who cannot be students.”
She smiled to herself. “You flatter me, sir. But no, I’m not a model. I merely clean up after the classes.” She held up her arm, showing him the basket she’d been carrying. “I’m just here to collect and clean the paint brushes.”
“Ah, so that’s how it’s done. I thought they just appeared the next morning, cleaned by magic,” he laughed. “Benedict Bridgerton.”
“Sophia Beckett,” she said as he kissed her hand. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Bridgerton, I should get started on my work for the evening.”
“Of course, Miss Beckett.” He paused. “‘Beckett’, as in ‘Professor Beckett’?”
She nodded. “My father.”
“Ah.” He finally let go of her hand, politely going to open the door before sitting back down in front of his canvas. He found himself glancing at her as she gathered up paint brushes abandoned by his fellow students, as she mopped up paint spills and reset the classroom for the next morning.
Eventually she made her way to the group of easels where he was working. Benedict tried his best to pay her no mind, but he had to pause when she set her basket on the stool next to his and hovered over his shoulder. “It’s the lighting,” she said after a moment.
“What?” He looked up at her in the flickering candlelight.
“You keep painting over this spot right here,” she pointed. “You can’t stand knowing something is off but not knowing what it is. It’s the lighting. Picture the sun up in this corner. If the light is coming from there, it means the shadow should be right,” she paused, reaching for his hand to guide the brush he’d been holding, “here.”
He held his breath, his heart in his throat as she slowly let go of his hand. “Thank you.” He looked back up at her, suddenly conscious of how close they were. In a dark and empty studio. Alone.
“My father taught me to paint,” she offered. “And I grew up here. It’s kind of difficult not to learn when you’re surrounded by such esteemed professors.”
Benedict nodded. “Perhaps you can show me some of your work sometime.”
“Perhaps. But for now there are paint brushes that need washing.”
“I’ll, uh, take care of mine when I’m done.”
“Thank you. Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton.”
“Goodnight, Miss Beckett.” He watched her go, at least until the ghost of her dress had disappeared beyond the door. Benedict sighed to himself, shook his head, and turned back to his painting. She was right, of course. It was the light and shadow that was wrong.
A few hours later, Benedict stood at the dormitory’s common room window. It was getting late. He knew he ought to go to bed. But he was watching a window across the courtyard. Professor Beckett lived on the first floor, and he could see Sophia’s shadow as she walked through their apartments, took a book from the bookshelf near the fireplace, and settled in on the sofa. “Something wrong, Bridgerton?” came Norton’s voice as he entered the room with a few others. “We missed you tonight.”
“Got too caught up in my work, I suppose,” he shrugged, turning to look at the others. “Tell me, what do you know of Professor Beckett?”
“Well, he’s the best classical painting instructor in Britain,” Norton said as he grabbed two glasses and the whiskey decanter that sat over the fireplace. “He was taught in France, with his brother. He adopted his child when the elder Beckett remarried and his new bride wanted nothing to do with the daughter.” He handed his friend a glass of whiskey, easily reading the look of confusion on his face. “The professors talk. Professor Winstead’s wife told Henrietta everything.” Henrietta, the woman he’d been courting, seemed to know everything about everyone.
Benedict looked back out of the window and downed half of his whiskey. Sophia had risen, but she paused, staring out of the window. A shadowy figure in one of the dormitories seemed to be looking right at her. She smiled to herself though she knew he wouldn’t be able to see it. She recognized that shadow.