Page 48 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Tanveer rose in my mind, tall and good humored, his hair hidden behind an exquisitely wrapped turban. “Sikhs and Muslims and Hindus, and others, too.” I spoke to Rocky directly. “At the market, you might hear four or five languages.” I thought of that market, the faces Imissed, and my throat felt tight. “In contrast, England seems very ...” I couldn’t think of a word that didn’t carry some tinge of offense.

“Homogenous?” Rocky supplied.

Gratefully, I smiled. “Yes. Exactly.”

“Is homogenous a bad thing?” Peter asked. “It would seem to provide a bit of stability in a world that isn’t terribly reliable.”

He seemed a little out of place in this crowd, more earnest than bohemian, and I wondered how he’d come to be associated with Nina. Were they related? “Not bad,” I said, taking his question seriously. I needed to be less judgmental of the people I met here. “Just less ... interesting ... I suppose.”

“I see.”

“What about you, Peter?” I asked. “What fascinates you?”

He considered, chasing peas with his knife and fork. “If I were given my choice, I’d rather like to build things.”

“Oh! What things?”

“Homes,” he said. “Not this heavy, Baroque grandness, but ... less. Have you been to Paris? I quite love the Art Nouveau style, those natural lines and shapes.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” I said. “Tell me more.”

He shook his head. “It will never be more than a hobby, I’m afraid. I’ll be a bureaucrat in the government, no doubt, or perhaps in the foreign service.”

“Oh, do not give in so easily! Surely there is a path toward a respectable career in architecture.”

“Not if your father is the Marquess of Guildford,” Diana said with a snort.

I glanced at her, then back to Peter. “I have talked my mother into letting me study art for two years. Perhaps your father would give such a window?”

His smile was sad. “I highly doubt it. But thank you for your enthusiasm.”

A clutch of worry squeezed my gut. Would I, too, be forced to give in to what was expected of me?

I vowed I would not.

The morning after the dinner party, I awakened just before dawn, tugged from sleep by a dream of tigers. For long moments, I lay still, blinking in the soft twilight of early morning, trying to capture the last shreds of the dream, but they dissolved, leaving behind only a sense of yearning.

Birds sang outside. I got up to open the window. Soft, humid air carried a scent of greenery along with the melody of birds I couldn’t name. One tiny creature whistled exuberantly, the sound much larger than its tiny body. It lifted my spirits, and I stretched hard, feeling the energy in my limbs, a need to walk. Just beyond the edge of the lawns, I could see a small lake, shimmering pale lavender in the subdued light.

I washed quickly and donned sensible short boots and a skirt and blouse, and carried my bag of sketchbook and paints out to the newly breaking day.

Outside, my feet made a dark-green path through the dew. I lifted my head to the landscape, taking in the willows bowing over a little stream, and a row of tall rhododendrons bloomed in pink and white and purple. Trees as wide around as a wagon stood guard as they must have done for centuries. Birds twittered and chirped and sailed through the branches. I chose a slender path leading through a copse of trees, stepping into shadows that smelled of hummus and growth and little beings, and thought suddenly of the fairy stories my mother had read to me when I was small. This was their landscape, these deeply rooted trees, the little holes in the trunks, the tiny ferns and wildflowers scattering color and scent throughout the space. I paused, turning in a circle, and felt a well of happiness that had been missing in my heart for manymonths. Perhaps this was what English people missed when they went to India, this greenery and softness.

Through the branches, I saw the first fingers of sunlight cracking the horizon, and hurried so I could see it break over the lake. It wasn’t far, and I came out of the trees to see the dance of light just beginning on the water. I also saw that I wasn’t the first person up after all—a strong swimmer cut through the water, their clothes left in a pile on the ground.

Would they mind me disturbing their solitary swim? Better to apologize than ask permission.

I scooped a cupful of lake water for my paints, then sat on a flat rock and propped my sketchbook on my knees. The light was the main thing, and it would change quickly, so I focused there first, catching the glimmer of pinkish-yellow dawn on the leaves and the edges of the water. The water itself took on waves of light as the swimmer cut through, creating a triangle of ripples, first out, then back, the light moving like the folds in fine satin, light and dark in easy waves.

It was only as the figure came close that I recognized Rocky. He stood in water up to his waist, smoothing his hair from his chiseled face. “Hello!” he called.

I waved back.

“I’m afraid I’m out here in nothing but the skin God gave me. You’ll want to look away.”

I turned a page quickly, and sketched the rounds of his shoulders, his lean arms and flat belly. “Must I?”

He laughed. “I think you know my tastes are not for ladies.”