Page 68 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“I shall be aware.” He folded his hands comfortably, at ease here as everywhere. I mentally captured the memory for future reference,quickly gathering details, the angle of thigh, the ease in his torso, light falling across his face. Perfect portrait light. I itched for him to sit there long enough to capture it. Perhaps a sketch in a moment.

Instead, I flung off my hat, took an apron from a hook to pull over my head, and started lining up the paintings. First the ones I’d decided to discard or paint over, what was left of them, the Nainital market and the people in India. Then came the first one I wanted to keep, of Gurdaya, and then the night sky in the desert when we’d been at his father’s palace. Then more—a vivid, even exaggerated palette expressed in a garden of tulips beneath a spring sky, my mother bent kneeling in her garden; one of Nina, insouciantly draped over a chair, her dress the pink of bougainvillea flowers, and one of Rocky swimming in a lake.

“I haven’t worked everything out yet,” I said when they were lined up, side by side. “After you challenged me to consider my own colonialism, I admit I had a bit of a crisis.”

“And?” His dark eyes held no judgment, only curiosity.

“I discovered that you were right, of course.”

“Not ‘of course.’ I was not offering judgment, only prodding you to find your truth.”

Looking back at the paintings, I pointed to the first ones and explained how I’d felt when I realized that they were painted in order to make an appeal to the “exotic,” rather than exploring deeply. “But I believe my sense of color is honest. And I do love portraits. I think I am able to see people in a deep way.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am moved by the painting of Gurdaya. She is so mighty there. Is it the first day we swam?”

I nodded. “I painted it when you wrote that she’d married.”

He held out a hand, and I went to him. He looped an arm around my waist comfortably, and I had the deepest sense of home, of rightness. “I love this work, Elsie. Even the vegetable wallah, truly. But Gurdaya and your mother are both filled with such love. I feel peaceful looking at them.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds so bucolic. Shouldn’t I strive for challenge, or something utterly new?”

“I don’t know. Should you?”

I leaned into him, my hip against his side. “The art world would say yes. That this is safe work.”

“You’re learning, Elsie. Perhaps you don’t have to know everything immediately.”

I laughed. “What? I’m allowed to be a student for now? What a relief.”

He smiled up at me, and he was right there, so close, so I bent to kiss him. Gently, once, twice, and then pulled away, my palms against the line of his beard. “Would you allow me to sketch a portrait of you?”

“I might be persuaded,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes, “if you will kiss me again.”

I did, lingering this time, falling into the world that belonged only to us, this meeting point of our lips, his hand on the small of my back.

“One more,” he said when I raised my head. And then again: “Once more.”

“The light will fade!”

“Very well.” He released me. “Paint away.”

I smiled gently. “It will give me a chance to simply look at you.”

“And I will look at you in return. If looking is what you wish.”

I feigned innocence. “What else could there be?”

So I painted him looking at me, his hand on his thigh, and I knew even as I sketched it quickly that the resulting painting would always be important to me. When the light grew long, he sighed. “I am expected at a function this evening.”

I wiped my brushes clean and washed my hands. “I would rather you could spend every moment of your visit with me.”

“As would I. But I think my father would object.”

We walked down the stairs, holding hands. “Nina has sent out the invitations for her house party,” I said. “Did you receive one?”

“Yes.” His fingers tightened. “Will this be a bohemian orgy?”

“What?” I laughed. “No, no orgy, or at least not that I know of.” I looked up as we emerged into the courtyard. “It will likely be very eccentric.” Memories of recent gatherings tumbled through my memory. “And, yes, perhaps a bit more liberal than you are accustomed to. Shocking, even.” I winced. “Will you hate it?”