Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 50

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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 50
Her prediction hadn’t missed by a single step.
The moment she stepped through the door, she found her mother waiting—all curiosity and sharp eyes. Mrs. Somerset’s green gaze pierced straight through Beatrice.
“Beatrice, didn’t you just get out of Baron Bennett’s car?”
“We had some business to attend to together, so we went out at the same time.”
“Oh, is that so?”
The older woman’s eyes glimmered with interest.
Beatrice could see the itch to pry further written plainly across her mother’s face, so she hastened toward the stairs. But inevitably, a voice pursued her up the steps.
“What have you brought back with you?”
“Things I need for work—paints and brushes! They’re supplies purchased with the Museum budget!”
Beatrice nearly shouted the words before bolting up the staircase. All she wanted was to barricade herself in her room as quickly as possible.
Yet at the corner of the corridor, Arthur the butler stood waiting. His expression was deeply troubled as he lowered his voice.
“Miss, about the letter from Berkyon—”
Right. Arthur was here.
Thinking of him stewing all day in worry, she felt both grateful and sorry. He’d quietly passed her the response this morning, too.
Beatrice paused mid-stride. When she spoke, her tone was steady, without much sadness in her face.
“Listen, Arthur. I failed the entrance exam.”
“Oh, no…”
Arthur seemed to be choosing his words carefully before asking again, his tone cautious.
“Then… what about your plans to go to Berkyon?”
Beatrice glanced at Arthur’s expression. It was clearly tinged with relief.
She was tempted to declare cheerfully that she’d forgotten all about Berkyon and would continue working at the Museum—but Beatrice caught herself.
The moment she announced that overseas study was off the table, that tiresome refrain would start up again: “Well then, shouldn’t we think about marriage now…”
“In any case, I will go to Berkyon. I absolutely will!”
With that declaration, Beatrice wheeled around and vanished into her room, leaving Arthur standing before the closed door, baffled.
It was fortunate, certainly, but something felt odd.
Given Miss’s temperament, there should have been tears and storms locked away in her room. Yet why did her footsteps sound like those of a child returning from an outing?
“What did she say? You did deliver that letter from Berkyon this morning, didn’t you?”
The Duchess had slipped quietly up the stairs and was now asking with studied casualness.
Nothing escaped notice in this Mansion. She had known from the start that a letter from Berkyon had arrived.
“It appears she failed the entrance exam, madam.”
“My goodness!”
Color flooded the Duchess’s face. That overseas study she’d been so worried about had fallen through—it was nothing short of excellent news.
“Still, it doesn’t seem she’s given up entirely, madam.”
“No, look at her. For someone who just failed… she seems remarkably composed?”
“That’s what puzzles me as well.”
The Duchess gazed at the closed door for a long moment, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She’d expected tears and rage at the rejection, but the girl had been all brightness. Clearly, feelings were blossoming between them after all.
If so, it was wonderful news indeed.
“Arthur. It seems that girl’s interest isn’t limited to the Museum, hmm?”
“I couldn’t say for certain…”
Could she be alluding to his relationship with Baron Bennett?
Whether it was appropriate for him, a servant, to smile knowingly at an unmarried couple returning by carriage late in the evening—he wasn’t sure.
Being a subordinate and by nature conservative, Arthur merely let his words trail off and maintained a measured demeanor.
Still, the Duchess’s expression had grown considerably brighter. In any case, it was far better than having their precious young lady run away to a foreign country.
“I do hope she continues as she is.”
The Duchess was thoroughly delighted and hurried off toward her husband’s study to share the news at once.
* * *
Only once she’d locked the door behind her did Beatrice feel able to breathe. She set down the parcels she’d been carrying one by one on the table, unpinned her hat, and hung it on its peg.
After a moment to collect herself, Beatrice drew out Étienne Morel’s letter—one she’d almost forgotten about.
Yawning applications… talentless applicants… a mess your protégé vomited onto the Atelier floor… narrow-minded, foolish women…
Don’t make her laugh.
The bitterness lingered, but now, looking at it again, it all seemed so trivial. Childish even, almost ridiculous.
To have wept over this all morning—what a waste of tears.
Beatrice laughed bitterly and tore the master’s letter in half. Then in half again. And again. The piece bearing Morel’s signature she shredded with particular force, grinding the fragments between her fingers.
She brushed the scraps that had accumulated in her palm into the fireplace, and the flames leapt up eagerly to meet them.
She fed the smoldering fragments to the fire like kindling for her rage, pushing them deep into the heart of the blaze, and sparks scattered upward in a shower.
The flames licked hungrily at her enemy’s words until they were utterly consumed. Beatrice kept watch until every insult Étienne Morel had penned had turned to ash.
It was nothing.
Whatever became of Berkyon’s salons, it didn’t matter anymore. Fauvism could wait for another day.
Let them see. She and Patrick would accomplish far greater things together and make a name for themselves yet.
Beatrice picked up the square bundle on the table with a sense of relief. It was a gift from Patrick.
Should she open it now? Her fingers itched, but Beatrice set his gift back down. She wanted to end this perfect day beautifully.
Even as she washed her face and changed into her nightgown, a faint smile played at the corners of Beatrice’s mouth.
The street they’d walked together, the orange glow of the Glass Workshop’s flames. The Penny Lick she’d tasted for the first time. The waltz by the Lakeside—
And the sonnets they’d recited together, alternating verses.
Each memory, without exception, had settled in her heart as something precious and luminous.
Settled into bed, Beatrice trimmed the lamp’s wick and propped a pillow against her back to settle into a comfortable position.
The bundle resting on her lap was wrapped in brown paper with twine—nothing more, remarkably plain.
Running her fingers slowly over the surface, she felt firm, straight edges. It was undoubtedly a book. The packaging itself was so perfectly him.
So he chose this poetry collection while thinking of me?
Beatrice carefully unwrapped the package. A favorite collection of poetry, no less. A romantic after all, it seemed. The more she learned about him—
Thump.
Her fingers froze mid-motion as she pulled back the brown paper.
Wait. This is—
Her heart plummeted. Beneath the lamplight, a familiar, softly gleaming green cover. Gold-embossed title on William Wordsworth’s Poetry Collection.
She sprang from the bed as if catapulted and rushed to the bookshelf. She couldn’t believe it—she had to confirm it at once or she’d go mad.
When she pulled out an old, worn book wedged in the corner of the lowest shelf, deliberately placed where it wouldn’t catch the eye, Beatrice’s hands trembled faintly.
This can’t be. This can’t be right!
She laid the two books side by side.
Green cloth binding. Gold-embossed title. Even the ivy pattern at the corner of the cover—identical. Two books that were exactly the same, except that one was new and the other’s edges were worn thin with age.
Is this some kind of curse?
Unbidden memories flooded in. A winter when she was sixteen, the moment this green book emerged from a package. How joyous she’d been then. The memory of her first love—the happiest moment of her entire life.
Yes.
Beatrice had been given this exact book before.
Long ago, from that boy with whom she’d shared a bitter-sweet love—a boy who had left her with indelible shame and wounds. A piece of garbage she would resent even in death.
Her first love, so cowardly and pathetic.
From Romeo.

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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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