Chapter 6
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Jacqueline beamed at Benjamin, her expression radiating a sense of immense self-satisfaction.
The young boy, however, looked increasingly perplexed. He furrowed his brow in deep concentration before offering a tentative assessment.
“Is it meant to be a snowman? Or… perhaps a sunflower with human traits? I know the Fauvists often projected personality onto inanimate objects.”
Jacqueline turned back to her canvas to inspect her handiwork. She maintained a look of unabashed cheer as she corrected him.
“Actually, this is Colin, my most beloved teddy bear. My father gave him to me for my fifteenth birthday. And no, Benjamin, you didn’t mishear me—it was fifteen, not five. That was the year I left for boarding school. Since then, Colin has been my constant companion, like a member of the family. I hope to introduce you to him one day.”
“…I see.”
“Wonderful. Now, why don’t you try your hand at a drawing?”
Benjamin remained perfectly still, rooted to the floor. He looked as panicked as someone standing on the precipice of their very first act of defiance.
Jacqueline recognized that look instantly; she had felt that exact mix of terror and anticipation just before she scaled the wall of her boarding school.
She also remembered the intoxicating rush of liberation that followed.
It had felt as though she had stepped into a vibrant new reality, shedding a suit of heavy armor that had been slowly crushing the life out of her.
Naturally, the world hadn’t transformed forever in that single moment. By dusk, she had been forced to return, facing a harsh reprimand from the housemistress.
The headmaster had even dispatched a formal letter of complaint to her home, and her rigid routine had resumed its usual pace shortly thereafter.
And yet, that single memory became a sanctuary for Jacqueline—a wellspring of internal strength that helped her navigate the monotony and resist the weight of stifling expectations.
She knew that if she truly desired it, she could climb that wall again. She simply chose not to today. There was a profound difference between being unable to do something and choosing not to do it.
If Lord Preston had ever spoken to Headmaster Vincent, he never would have given me this job, she thought.
A small, mischievous smirk tugged at her lips. While she was generally seen as a model of propriety, she was prone to the occasional bout of unpredictable trouble.
Even so, she had always been well-liked by her peers and instructors alike.
By the age of sixteen, Jacqueline had reached a vital realization: while rules and discipline were necessary, they should never become shackles.
Sometimes, it was acceptable to break away. The world wouldn’t end. In fact, she found that a much vaster, deeper world was waiting just beyond the boundaries she had known.
“It’s perfectly fine, Benjamin. We are simply exploring the ‘gentlemen of art’ currently taking the kingdom by storm. This is merely a practical extension of our lesson. Tell me, what is your favorite color?”
Benjamin remained silent, still paralyzed by the internal weight of the rules governing his life.
Jacqueline arched an eyebrow playfully and began to apply yellow paint to the wall, keeping her movements casual so he wouldn’t feel cornered by the suggestion.
Perhaps she was pushing him too soon.
The epiphany she had reached at sixteen might be a heavy burden for a six-year-old to carry. Still, she harbored a quiet hope that the boy would understand that life was more than just a series of restrictions.
Slowly, Benjamin edged closer to her side. After several beats of hesitation, his hand finally reached out and grasped a paintbrush.
With painstaking precision, he dipped the bristles into the black paint. Jacqueline kept her focus strictly on her own work, resisting the urge to look at him, though a tiny, knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth.
There were times when a feigned indifference was the best approach—much like the way Windsor had shown no interest in a “penniless young lady.”
He hesitated.
The fine squirrel-hair brush hovered inches from the ivory wallpaper for a long, tense moment. Benjamin was locked in a final struggle against his own upbringing.
It was a labor as intense as a chick trying to crack through its shell from the inside.
A solitary bead of black paint dripped from the brush and hit the floor. Jacqueline didn’t push him; she simply waited in the silence.
Breaking the shell was a task only the child could complete for himself.
Finally, a sense of resolve steadied the boy’s hand. A single, bold black dot appeared on the wall.
The once-timid strokes grew more confident, and before long, a recognizable form began to take shape.
“Oh, my!”
Jacqueline finally allowed herself to look, her eyes widening in genuine surprise. Her voice was thick with admiration.
“It’s a ship!”
“…Yes.”
At his confirmation, Jacqueline’s smile brightened into a delighted laugh, as if she had just been handed a wonderful, unexpected gift.
Benjamin ducked his head shyly. Jacqueline rested her chin in her hand, adopting the posture of a serious art critic as she studied his work.
“And where is this vessel bound?” she asked. “Judging by the lines, this isn’t a simple merchant ship—it’s a man-of-war, isn’t it?”
Benjamin’s eyes snapped up to hers, wide with shock. For the first time, a spark of genuine, warm connection flickered in his expression.
Jacqueline swapped her brush for one coated in light green and returned to her own project—a simple sketch of her own quiet longing:
A small, humble cottage nestled in a wide-open meadow.
After a long silence, Benjamin spoke up in a soft, hushed tone.
“It is the greatest warship of the Black Fleet. They protect our waters, escorting merchant vessels and hunting down pirates. The ‘Black Fleet’ is what people call the Royal Navy.”
A quiet sense of pride radiated from the boy.
Jacqueline remembered a news story she’d read about Windsor’s flagship performing a daring rescue of a merchant ship from a pirate boarding party.
The accounts from the rescued sailors had turned his name into something of a local legend—though the papers also never failed to mention his status as the Marquess of Preston’s illegitimate son.
It was because of those battles that the pirates had dubbed Windsor “the Demon of the Black Fleet”—a name earned because the demon offered no quarter and knew no mercy.
Does Benjamin idolize his uncle? she wondered.
Keeping her tone light, she remarked, “What a truly magnificent ship. If only a vessel like that had been nearby when my father’s merchant ship ran into trouble… perhaps everyone would have made it home.”
Benjamin’s eyes went wide, his light-brown irises trembling slightly. Jacqueline realized too late that her casual comment had struck a chord.
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “That is all in the past now.”
It’s fine.
The words were meant to comfort the boy, but they were also a mantra she used to steady herself.
Jacqueline had practiced being “fine” for a long time—when the news of the shipwreck arrived, and even when the creditors had pounded on their door.
With a mother prone to nervous collapses and the prying eyes of the press always watching, she had no choice but to be fine. High society was a predatory place where personal tragedy was merely fodder for the next afternoon tea.
She couldn’t afford a breakdown. She had to stay composed and maintain the facade of normalcy, and she thought she had become quite skilled at it.
But looking at the small boy now, she saw a reflection of herself. Perhaps Benjamin survived by telling himself he was fine, too—because the pain of losing both parents was a weight that never truly lifted.
“My dream is to own a little house with my name on the deed—a place where my mother and I can live in peace. It sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”
She added a few blue blossoms to the cottage garden and finally laid her brush down, meeting the boy’s gaze with a confident smile.
As he listened, Benjamin looked confused again. His eyes darted nervously before settling on the floor.
After a moment of uncertainty, he gave a slow nod.
“…Yes.”
It was likely the first lie the boy had ever told, but it came out easily, unburdened by guilt.
Jacqueline laughed softly and began painting clouds above her roof. Seeing the soft, purple shapes, Benjamin found his voice.
“Those clouds look very grand.”
“Clouds? Oh, these? No, Benjamin, these are apple trees. It’s springtime, so the fruit hasn’t grown yet—but can’t you see the resemblance?”
Benjamin tilted his head, then dipped a fresh brush into green paint, losing himself in his own work.
With practiced movements, he began to illustrate trains and carriages lining a busy street. To any witness, his technical skill was clearly far beyond Jacqueline’s.
“In Fauvism,” Jacqueline’s gentle voice drifted over him, “the goal is to express the artist’s unique spirit. You must look past the literal shape of a train or a carriage and breathe your own imagination into them—like a train with wings, or a carriage pulled by a dragon.”
She continued, “If you keep practicing, Benjamin, you’ll be able to paint masterpieces just like mine. Though, for a boy your age, you really are quite talented already. You shouldn’t feel discouraged at all. It’s just that I happen to be exceptionally gifted. I’ve possessed a very vivid imagination since I was a small girl.”
Benjamin had a thousand things he wanted to say in response, but he kept his mouth shut, remembering the Preston family creed: Silence is golden.
Instead, he let his brush do the talking.
The Preston family carriage cut an imposing figure as it sat in the center of the broad avenue.
Roman Miller, Windsor’s aide-de-camp, stood with his hand on the door, his back as straight as a spear. His demeanor was that of a career soldier rather than a mere secretary.
It was a fitting look, considering he had served in the navy before joining Windsor’s staff.
When Windsor emerged from the building and climbed inside, Roman followed, taking the seat opposite him and latching the door. The carriage lurched into motion.
The rigid, military posture Roman had displayed outside instantly vanished. He let out a long, weary whistle. “Phew.”
His stern features relaxed into a look of open curiosity.
“Wasn’t that the Greenwood family automobile following us? Why would Lord Walter Greenwood be looking for you? I thought the two of you never crossed paths.”
The questions tumbled out one after another, but Windsor remained stoically silent. Roman scowled as he watched the automobile overtake their carriage and disappear into the distance.
“Everyone with deep pockets is switching to automobiles these days. Why do you insist on sticking with this ancient carriage? It’s not as if you can’t afford an upgrade.”
“Automobiles are still prone to failure,” Windsor replied. “Did you miss the report from a few days ago? A car stalled on the tracks and was crushed by a train.”
“Wasn’t that because the driver was drunk and tried to beat the signal? Besides, carriages have accidents just as often as cars do.”
“Carriage accidents are predictable,” Windsor said flatly. “I have no desire to place my life in the hands of an unreliable machine.”
Roman leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head as he sank into the cushions.
“I didn’t realize you were so concerned with safety. Weren’t you always the first one into the fray during a battle, leaving the rest of us scrambling to keep up?”
“The circumstances were different then.”
“In what way?”
