Chapter Text
“Dismantle that infernal illustration at once,” Baron Amos Carr said brusquely. Isabella Carr found herself unable to utter a single syllable, for she had discerned, ever since she embarked upon her artistic pursuits, that whenever her esteemed father ventured a declaration on any matter, no further discourse could possibly ensue with him. Such was the nature of her father’s authority and overarching presence. Sitting there in the solar, she could scarcely discern the golden rays of sunshine permeating the chamber, so beset by the oppressive shadow he exuded.
She did yearn for a modicum of autonomy in this discourse, for she had toiled upon her canvas too long to have her labor cast aside in such a callous and curt fashion. Thus, she replied:
“Pray, dear father, do you not perceive the singularity of my painting? Is it not the novelty within an art piece that bestows upon it distinction from other works?”
“What is upon your canvas is not singular nor distinct. It is filth; unsightly scribblings executed with an elegant medium that cloaks itself, deceiving your eyes under the semblance of artistry.”
“With all due respect, Father, do you imply that my artistic endeavors are without beauty? I can only hope you mean the subject of my work and not my skill itself.”
“You may assume as you wish of my words. If you are as knowledgeable as you should be after all I’ve done to raise you well, you should destroy this picture, and promise never to paint another like it again.”
He then rose from his seat opposing her, turning away to exit the room, however not before adding a last clipped statement.
“Frankly, Isabella, I am tired of your constant disobedience,” He said, adjusting his chair as he stood, the leg scraping against the floor causing him to wince slightly. “It would do you, and your parents, some good if you wouldn’t be so troublesome.”
With that, he left the room and Isabella, both seemingly in their former states, yet Isabella’s state of mind was changed by the altercation. She felt she did not deserve such rebuke for merely indulging in the pursuits that brought her joy. To her, her father seemed to act like she was a delinquent of sorts, when in reality, she just painted that which she envisioned in her head.
With a vigorous exhalation, an inexplicable sensation enveloped her, rendering the chamber oppressively stifling, compelling her to remain no longer in its confines. Grasping her canvas by its edges with her right hand, and clutching brushes and pigments in her left, she gracefully departed the room, making her way to her private quarters.
“Do not take what he says to heart, my dear. I always found my son-in-law too bitter to be a connoisseur of the arts,” Marie de la Bastide comforted, as she brought in some bread pudding and tea. “Upon my word, one simply mustn't restrict oneself to such rigid views on what art should and should not be.”
Isabella sighed, taking her cup and saucer in her hands, sipping the sweet tea within. Her favorite. “Oh, Grandmother… I cannot fathom what is wrong with my art. My paintings look perfectly fine to me, yet Father declares my artistic prowess sufficient to scrawl in hasty lines upon the canvas.”
“Now, now. You shall not vex yourself with such comments, how else will you survive as an artist?” Marie chuckled, offering her a cup of pudding.
“Pay no mind to him, my dearest. Consider this a most enlightening experience, a lesson in the art of receiving criticism, and an opportunity to confront such challenges boldly.”
Marie moved closer to Isabella on the bed, placing a comforting arm around her shoulders. “You have a talent, my dear. One which our family may boast of possessing in all its descendants and ancestors, but you are far more unique than all of them.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the edges, accentuating her crow’s feet. Her pupils seemed to twinkle in the sunlight, and Isabella felt her heart swell with gratitude at her efforts in comforting her.
“Thank you, Grandmother. I feel much more at ease now.” she replied, embracing her tightly.
"Pray, become a grand artist before I depart this world," Lady Marie breathed softly into her tresses. Isabella withdrew at once, her countenance etched with concern. “Heaven and Earth, Grandmother, do not speak this way. It brings me great distress.”
Marie laughed softly, placing her palm against Isabella’s cheek. “It is best to reconcile yourself to it with all due haste, my dear. We cannot evade this matter indefinitely, can we now?”
“Still, I should prefer not to dwell upon it at present. I cannot bear to be separated from you for even a day, Grandmother, you know this.” Isabella sighed exasperatedly, shifting on the bed to lay in her grandmother’s lap. Lady Marie ran her fingers through her hair, smiling and shaking her head.
“If you insist, so be it. But do not forget what I mentioned earlier, for I should like to see it in fruition.” She declared, gently massaging Isabella’s scalp. Isabella looked up at her, smiling slightly, and nodded, a small giggle escaping her lips.
“You shall, my dear Grandmother, now that you have asked it of me. You will see my name amongst the greats, my portrait beside those of Sir Thomas Lawrence, John Hoppner, and John Constable.”
“Indeed I shall,” Lady Marie encouraged, leaning down to plant a loving kiss onto her forehead. “Now, might I suggest you eat the pudding I have prepared?” Isabella gave a nod, sitting upright as her grandmother presented her a spoonful of the sweet confection. The flavours did melt upon her tongue, and she hummed with gentle satisfaction.
“Good heavens, Grandmother, this does surpass all your previous culinary endeavours!” Isabella’s eyes sparkled with contentment, as she opened her mouth to receive another spoonful of the delicious sweet. Lady Marie tittered, feeding her once more with favour and fond regard written plain upon her face.
Just then, as though drawn to the enjoyment and pleasantness currently within that room, and wanting to tear it asunder, the Baroness Cynthia Carr barged into the room, her expression one of disdain and contempt as she surveyed the room and its occupants. Isabella recognized her mother at once, sitting bolt upright, suddenly sensible of her locks' dishevelled appearance.
"Isabella," said Cynthia, her voice slicing through the air with the keenness of a rapier, "I was not aware that idleness had become your pursuit of choice. And in such assembly, at so late an hour, and in so… unkempt a state." Her gaze did linger, with marked emphasis, upon Isabella's disheveled ringlets, a sharp arch framing her brow.
"Pray tell, was this discomposure wrought by the hand of my own mother?" She inquired curtly, her hands clasped demurely before her. Her gaze travelled to Lady Marie’s visage, whose lips were now pressed together, an expression of quiet contradiction etched upon her face.
“...Forgive me, Mother. Grandmother was merely caressing my tresses and offering me some bread pudding. It is quite well-made, should you care to partake.” Isabella leaned over the table, taking a plate of the confection in her hands, and offered it to her mother, standing up respectfully.
Cynthia regarded the plate with utter distaste; the bread pudding's appearance, you see, being far less comely than its flavor. Acknowledging this not, she did turn her countenance away, casting at Isabella a most ireful glare.
“Such indulgences do no good to those who partake in them,” She snapped. “Continue on like this, young miss, and I daresay, I shall soon behold you in a most portly state.” She let her gaze fall to Isabella’s waistline, sneering at her.
The young girl’s head hung low, her heart aching within the confines of her chest. How could one’s own mother reprimand one with such fervour? Noticing this act of hers, Lady Marie stood up at once, holding Isabella’s shoulders.
“Cynthia de la Bastide, have you no respect for your own daughter, let alone your mother?” She cried, the guttural quality of her French accent now more prominent due to the fervent emotions that coloured her voice. “This is most certainly not how I raised you, and though you take after your father, I knew him to value respect above all other qualities. My husband was not a hypocrite to refrain from imparting to his progeny the virtue he held so close to his heart.”
Cynthia was rendered quite speechless; Lady Marie was, after all, her mother, who had taken care of her for well over twenty years of her life. She was endowed with the divine qualities of silent observation and commendable listening ability; thus, it was hardly a matter of astonishment that when she assumed a grave demeanor—though, mercifully, this was a rarity—her utterances could pierce even the most concealed susceptibilities of her adversary.
She continued on, “Despite you being younger than me, I can only observe the narrow-minded and regressive qualities seen in my parents, and those that came before them. It astonishes me that you use words most unkind and severe, even with the thorough education that your father and I provided you. I now wonder if the hundreds of guineas we put into your governess have been spent in vain.”
The opposing woman seemed to take on a more nervous demeanor now, as she scoffed indignantly, adjusting stray strands of hair with a flourish of her fingers against the sides of her head. A slight flush coloured her cheeks; she wasn’t used to being reprimanded as such, having been given full reign of this house for the past twenty-four years, with little interference from her mother regarding her actions or words.
Isabella couldn't help but revel in the spectacle unfolding before her eyes. Had she not been so utterly terrified of her mother, she would have done what her grandmother was doing at present. It brought her a sense of satisfaction to see her pompous, self-indulgent mother be silenced for once.
”Well… I am her mother. I have the final say on what she shall and shall not do, and at present she will no longer continue in such a languorous state.” Cynthia pulled Isabella to her side by her arm, upturning her nose in Marie’s direction.
”You, daughter, will now find some useful employment. I suggest you find where your governess has gone off to, and take lessons from her,” She said, turning to Isabella, her voice now low and breathy. The younger girl winced as her mother's nails, uncommonly sharp, dug most uncomfortably into the skin of her wrist, practically penetrating the long sleeves of the muslin day dress she was wearing.
A push out of the doorway and a loud thud of the door closing loudly in her face rendered Isabella alone in the hallway.