Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 5

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 5
“I’ll show you them one by one. Starting with this one!”
“Yes, let’s do that.”
Invited to Beatrice’s Greenhouse Atelier, the Duke and Duchess set aside their worries for a moment, absorbed in admiring their daughter’s work accumulated over several years.
“As expected, our Beatrice’s talent hasn’t dulled one bit.”
A large landscape painting depicting a small fishing boat caught in the midst of a tempest, several still-life works left unfinished, and charcoal sketches that were rough yet strikingly dynamic—
Beatrice shook her head, insisting these were nothing, to the delight of her parents, who had thought any salon would be honored to hang such work.
“What I’m truly absorbed in lately is this kind of painting. I’d call it my future.”
Beatrice drew her parents toward the center of the atelier.
Draped in white cloth, her final work before graduation awaited them. With her parents’ eager eyes upon her, Beatrice swept the white covering away in one swift motion.
“Oh my!”
The Duchess startled, taking a step backward. The Duke stared at the canvas with wide eyes, rendered speechless, utterly unable to muster any response.
“Hmm….”
Could this even be called a painting?
It was a dizzying blur without form. Vivid reds, brilliant blues, bright yellows—clashing intensely as though devouring one another, masses of color tangled together, each asserting itself without restraint.
A savage riot of brushstrokes so fierce that one could not discern where the landscape lay or which part might be a figure.
“It’s Fauvism. A school of painters that’s appeared like a meteor lately—they’re quite intense. It’s painting that expresses ‘feeling,’ you see.”
Beatrice offered a simple explanation, but the couple did not grasp it immediately.
Painting that expresses ‘feeling’?
“In other words, rather than copying what one sees exactly as it appears, it’s a style that freely expresses the artist’s feeling. What do you think? Isn’t it splendid?”
“Yes. Quite… bold, I’d say.”
The Duchess’s mouth opened and closed, but the word “splendid” would not come. Of all things, her daughter had fallen for such a style.
Where had her lovely youngest daughter gone—the one who drew neat still-lifes and delicate landscapes that drew admiration from all?
“Hmm.”
The Duke was equally bewildered. Having traveled abroad extensively in his youth, to his eye Beatrice’s work seemed to be….
“Primal. It burns like pure flame, with a charm that makes the viewer’s own heart grow warm. Don’t you agree, my dear?”
In the face of her parents’ effort to wring out whatever praise they could muster, Beatrice could not help but smile bitterly.
“Well then, shall we set the appreciation aside for now? You ought to change into your dress and come down to dinner.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The Duchess used the latening hour as a pretext to slip away, and the Duke followed his wife out of the atelier.
The moment her parents left, Beatrice’s expression shifted entirely.
…I had hoped they would recognize the value of this work. It seems the older generation finds it far too radical, after all.
So then, the chances of them permitting my overseas study after seeing my art are… nil. This approach won’t work.
She’d graduated from art school; her parents likely thought her future lay in remaining at home, quietly painting agreeable pictures and finding a suitable man to marry.
Beatrice was on her way to her room to change into her dress.
As she passed before her mother’s drawing room, a low conversation drifting through the half-open door suddenly caught her ear.
“Dear. I think it’s finally time we speak to her properly about this.”
Beatrice stopped in her tracks without thinking.
“She’s graduated, and we’ve no excuse to delay any longer. We must begin looking seriously for a suitable match this season.”
“Well… but the girl has only just returned home. Let her catch her breath.”
“You of all people know high society is already in an uproar. There aren’t many worthy prospects left. ‘Acceptable’ prospects, that is.”
A silence fell. Her father’s voice emerged from beyond the door.
“Do you think our Beatrice will accept our wishes without resistance?”
“She won’t take it well, of course. Which is why we must explain ourselves carefully. We’ll need to broach the subject very delicately….”
Beatrice stepped backward silently. Retracing the hall on her tiptoes, she entered her room and closed the door, finally releasing the breath she’d been holding.
Of course. Of course that was it.
‘Marriage.’ It had been the thread tugging at her consciousness since the moment she received her diploma.
Soon enough would come gentle remarks about resting at home for a year or two before it was time to marry, attending etiquette lessons in flower arrangement and needlework, frequenting social gatherings with greater enthusiasm.
That simply cannot happen…!
Rather than change into her dress, Beatrice returned to the atelier and summoned Arthur, the butler who had been directing the packing of her belongings.
“Arthur, look at me a moment. I need to ask you a favor.”
“Yes, miss.”
Was she about to set some scheme in motion? The moment Arthur met Beatrice’s unusually bright eyes, he felt seized by inexplicable dread.
Whenever Lady Somerset looked at him with such gentle warmth and called upon him thus, she was invariably about to commit some grand mischief.
For more than a decade, he had watched her kind gaze and the soft curve of her eyebrows, those gleaming teal eyes as endearing as a favorite grandchild—and he had aided this troublemaking young lady more times than he could count. What would it be this time?
“You see, Arthur…”
Arthur blinked nervously as Lady Somerset’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
* * *
“What are you up to? Where are you going?”
Patrick frowned as he caught sight of the carriage bearing the Harrington Family crest emblazoned large upon its doors.
“To drink. Somewhere fitting for that tweed jacket of yours—you look like a common laborer in it.”
“Come now. What’s wrong with tweed? It’s comfortable as anything. Besides, it doesn’t show dirt easily.”
“What good are servants if you won’t use them? At this rate you’ll be doing the laundry yourself. Never mind. Just get in the carriage.”
The two of them descended into a bustling commercial district and walked the streets exchanging idle jokes. As the surroundings grew progressively shabby, Dominic turned into a narrow alley and came to a halt before a pub in the first building.
“Here we are, Patrick. Welcome home.”
The Golden Lion—a decrepit establishment with a faded lion painted across its weathered sign, which creaked on its hinges.
It teemed with laborers and impoverished students, a chaotic den where the stench of beer, sweat, and tobacco smoke all mingled into one.
Once upon a time, this place had been Patrick and Dominic’s hideaway, along with a handful of other friends. It was where they would slip away to whenever they fled that hellish prison of Saint Jude Boarding School, sneaking drinks in the shadows of memory.
“Nothing’s changed here at all.”
Patrick caught sight of the portly bartender behind the counter and let out a hollow laugh. Only the waitresses had changed; the rotund, balding owner stood exactly as before, polishing beer glasses with that same stolid expression. As if time itself had frozen still.
“Let’s head deeper in.”
The two of them shouldered their way through the crowd and settled side by side at a greasy table.
Oily appetizers and drink soon filled the space between them. As cheap liquor burned down his throat, Patrick found himself slipping back into those old days—that time when they’d tasted freedom by dodging the eyes of their elders.
“So, did you meet anyone while you were at Collins University? You weren’t just touching stuffed animals in some laboratory the whole time, were you?”
“My major was Botany, actually.”
Patrick burst out laughing at Dominic’s bewildered expression.
He knew that no matter how many times he explained it, Dominic would only dredge up talk of taxidermy again. Still, Dominic was the only person who bothered to ask after him at all.
“In any case, Patrick.”
Dominic glanced sideways and took a sip of his drink.
“Your mother has issued a special decree that I help you find a match. She seems quite eager about it, so mind yourself.”
“Enough.”
Patrick silently refilled his glass.
There were plenty of other topics they could discuss, yet here was marriage talk again.
Whether it was his mother’s earnest plea to find her son a suitable partner, or whether Dominic himself had just waded into the fierce competition as another breeding male, Patrick couldn’t say—but Dominic had begun to press him relentlessly on the matter.
“Patrick. Get your head on straight. Do you think people marry because they’re in love? You meet someone, decide she’s to be your wife, and cultivate affection along the way. That’s how we do marriage. It’s the joining of one family with another.”
“I don’t know. I have other things to do. I’m not thinking about marriage right now, and I haven’t got time to devote to it.”
“You can handle it after you marry. What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t want to.”
Patrick’s voice rose a notch.
“Just because everyone else does something doesn’t mean I have to do it too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you fool.”
Bang. Dominic slammed his glass down hard and raised his voice further.
“Be honest. It’s Juliet, isn’t it?”
Patrick’s hand froze mid-motion as he reached to drain his glass. But it was only for a moment. He composed himself and emptied it anyway.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Tsk. Dominic clicked his tongue and refilled his own glass.
“You need to see a doctor or something. Go to a psychiatric hospital and get your head examined. How long are you going to cling to a ghost?”
“Dominic, stop.”
The moment he returned to the Capital, Juliet’s shadow had come crashing down on him again. He should have burned that damned box after all.
Patrick drained his glass violently, as if to purge himself of something.
No matter how he looked at it, this was not a good sign. He could only hope to find work soon and lose himself entirely in his research.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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