Chapter 34
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Swish. Swish.
Jacqueline and Benjamin both turned at the sound. Windsor stood there, chin resting in his palm, inspecting their sketches with the discerning eye of a seasoned art critic.
His focus settled first on Benjamin’s work.
“A clash between the deities of the firmament and the sea, I take it? You’ve rendered the sea god’s polearm with impressive detail.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
Benjamin ducked his head, a flush of modesty coloring his cheeks. It was a rare treasure to receive a compliment from Windsor.
Unsure of how to handle the praise, the boy simply toyed with his fingers. Windsor continued in a level tone,
“However, despite the celestial war being waged, your ocean remains far too still. Beings of such divine magnitude would surely stir waves the size of houses.”
“I understand, Uncle.”
Benjamin looked up, his eyes shimmering with admiration. When it came to the mysteries of the deep, Windsor’s word was law—he was, after all, the Devil of the Black Fleet.
Windsor’s attention shifted to Jacqueline’s contribution. He lingered on it longer than he had on the boy’s, his brow knitting into a subtle frown.
“Setting aside the fact that the lightning-bearer is obviously the sky god—what are these flies swarming around him?”
Jacqueline’s expression soured instantly. Her brow furrowed in annoyance, and her voice took on a sharp, petulant edge.
“Flies? That is the god of harvest and plenty, birthed from his thigh!”
“I see.”
Windsor turned his gaze back to Benjamin.
“I had intended to hire a professional tutor to refine your technique, but it appears such measures are unnecessary.”
“Actually, Uncle… that five-legged dog you saw earlier? It was meant to be a horse.”
“Was it now?”
At the boy’s admission, Windsor shot a skeptical look toward Jacqueline. She gave a curt, sullen nod.
“It was.”
“Then perhaps you are the one in need of an instructor? If you would care to take the lessons intended for Benjamin…”
“No, thank you!”
Jacqueline snapped, her eyes narrowing as she glared at him. Windsor was baffled by her sudden shift in temperament.
Did she not find joy in drawing?
He had a vague recollection of her expressing an interest in the arts. His memory was rarely at fault.
He scrutinized her work once more. The supposed god of abundance, allegedly born of a divine thigh, still looked remarkably like a common housefly.
It seemed that passion did not always equate to talent. Despite her claims of interest, her execution was undeniably poor.
Logic suggested she would want to improve, so why the hostility?
Jacqueline, watching him with a sidelong scowl, lifted her chin defiantly.
“If it’s so simple, Lord Preston, why don’t you try your hand at it? There is a vast chasm between critique and creation. That is why practical application is so vital.”
Benjamin nodded along fervently. Until he had picked up the brush himself, he never would have dreamed his skills might eclipse Jacqueline’s.
He stole a quick, guilty glance at her, terrified she might have read his mind.
As Benjamin let out a quiet sigh of relief, Jacqueline shoved a brush into Windsor’s hand. Frowning slightly, Windsor looked down at the tool in his grip.
Jacqueline gave a haughty jerk of her chin, her voice dripping with smugness as she spurred him on.
“It isn’t as effortless as you make it sound. Since you are a mere novice, perhaps start with something humble—a leaf, perhaps? Or a cloud. That should be enough to teach you how difficult it is to manifest a thought onto the canvas.”
Benjamin watched with bated breath as Windsor walked toward the wall.
After a moment spent gauging the weight of the brush, he dipped it into the paint with practiced ease. The fine tip met the wall.
There was no hesitation in his hand. He moved with a relaxed grace, neither lost in the intense concentration of Jacqueline nor the deep absorption of Benjamin.
Yet, wherever the bristles touched, vibrant grapevines began to bloom. Green leaves appeared, dotted with translucent dew, and heavy clusters of grapes looked so ripe they might burst at a touch.
The vines snaked up the wall with such raw vitality they seemed ready to grow right through the ceiling.
“Wow!”
The exclamation escaped Benjamin before he could stop it. The boy bounced on his heels, momentarily forgetting the dignified composure expected of the future Marquess of Preston.
It seemed the Devil of the Black Fleet was a master of the brush as well. Benjamin felt a surge of genuine pride in his uncle’s brilliance.
One day, he hoped to be a man of such effortless perfection.
“That’s incredible, Uncle! They look real! Oh—since the god of abundance is also the god of wine, that’s why you chose grapes!”
“……Hmm.”
Jacqueline stared at the mural in stony silence. She desperately wanted to find a flaw, but the work was irreproachable.
His skill was easily on par with a professional. Finally, she spoke with a flat, clinical tone.
“Realism, I see. A competent enough display, I suppose. However, my own work leans toward Fauvism; the two movements cannot truly be compared on the same scale.”
“Is that so?”
“The realist tradition is perhaps a bit dated these days, but even so…”
Jacqueline looked away, her voice dropping to a murmur that betrayed a sliver of grudging respect.
“You must have inherited your mother’s gift for art.”
Windsor blinked once and stepped back. Amidst the chaotic, childish scribbles, his realistic vines stood out in stark, elegant contrast.
He glanced at Benjamin’s drawing and replied offhandedly,
“Perhaps it was your father’s gift instead.”
“……Gift.”
Jacqueline echoed the word, her lips set in a pout.
Talent was a cruel thing—bestowed as a windfall upon those who didn’t seek it, while remaining out of reach for those who truly cared.
Clack.
Windsor set the brush aside. Looking down, he noticed a smear of green paint across his knuckles.
He reached into his pockets for a handkerchief, but found them empty. Once again, a triviality of daily life had been misplaced.
He was forever losing gloves, canes, or spectacles; he had never considered such lapses worth his concern.
Just as he prepared to walk away, a handkerchief was thrust into his line of sight. He looked up to find Jacqueline looking thoroughly annoyed.
“Looking for this? You’ve gone and lost yours again, I assume.”
Benjamin’s eyes went wide. The notion that his infallible uncle could be so forgetful was a shock to his system.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Windsor took the offered silk. He didn’t quite grasp why Jacqueline looked so sharp-edged, but he accepted the silent reprimand.
He wiped his skin clean. The pale pink fabric carried the delicate scent of roses, now marred by streaks of green pigment.
He tucked the ruined cloth into his pocket. Jacqueline had already turned away, returning to her work with renewed intensity.
—Did you really think I’d do something like that with no thought at all, just for my own amusement?
He remembered her saying those words on the day she first defaced the wallpaper.
Benjamin stood by awkwardly while Jacqueline remained lost in her art.
To any witness, it was clear Jacqueline was the one truly enjoying herself, while Benjamin was merely a willing participant in her whims. Windsor caught the boy’s eye and gave a small nod.
“Your afternoon studies cover basic arithmetic, do they not?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
With that, Windsor turned to leave. After a few paces, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
Benjamin was still watching him intently.
“It was commendable of you to guard the secret and protect a lady’s reputation, despite being blamed for a drawing that wasn’t yours.”
“Thank you, Uncle!”
The boy’s excitement was palpable. His bright eyes and flushed face told the story of his immense relief and joy.
Only after Windsor’s footsteps faded did Jacqueline finally put down her brush, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.
Blamed… a lady’s reputation…
“What exactly is wrong with my art? Is he suggesting it’s an affront to a lady’s honor?”
She grumbled the complaints she hadn’t dared utter to Windsor’s face. She then turned to the boy with a firm expression.
“Benjamin, let me be clear—Lord Preston’s style and mine simply occupy different spheres. It is a matter of artistic philosophy, nothing more.”
“Yes, Miss Somerset.”
“Our time is running short. Let’s finish this.”
“Yes, Miss Somerset.”
Walking down the hall, Windsor—blessed with unnaturally keen hearing—let out a soft, private chuckle. He curled his fingers into a fist; the faint aroma of roses seemed to cling to him.
Summer was settling over Preston Manor.
Benjamin kept a nervous eye on the clock. He watched as the hands aligned perfectly at the top of the hour.
“Miss Somerset.”
“Yes, Benjamin?”
Jacqueline was reclined on the parlor sofa, flipping through an illustrated gazette.
“It is two o’clock, the time we agreed upon, but I don’t hear a carriage. Do you think she forgot our engagement?”
Jacqueline gave a soft, knowing laugh. Benjamin, still ill at ease, checked the clock again.
The minute hand had moved—it was now 2:01.
“Benjamin.”
She called to him gently. The boy finally tore his gaze away from the timekeeper and looked at her.
He tilted his head, unable to fathom what she found so amusing.
In moments like these, the boy was a mirror image of the stoic Windsor.
They say children reflect their guardians, and it seemed the boy was destined to be just as reserved as the Marquess. Jacqueline found the prospect a little saddening.
She leaned in and whispered to him.
“It is customary for the nobility to be fashionably late. One might arrive ten minutes late, or perhaps an hour or two. They fear that arriving precisely on time makes them look as though their social calendar is empty.”
“That seems terribly inefficient.”
“Ahaha!”
Jacqueline burst into laughter. She had heard those exact words from Windsor before; clearly, the boy had absorbed his uncle’s sensibilities.
“Why? What is so funny, Miss Somerset?”
Benjamin pressed for an answer, his head still tilted. Jacqueline wiped a stray tear from her eye and stood up.
“It’s nothing, Benjamin. But it sounds as though the carriage has arrived. It seems Olivia is a rather efficient friend after all.”
“……I see.”
Benjamin straightened his tie and smoothed his hair with a serious expression. He was clearly on edge; this was his first proper social visit with a peer.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor. Benjamin pulled his shoulders back and raised his chin. There was a sharp knock, and the door swung open.
“Miss Olivia Riley has arrived.”
