Page 83 of A Thousand Painted Hours
“Not personally, not you.”
“But I am English.”
He nodded. “And the Guru tells us that all of us are equal, but that does not make it easy to love everyone.”
“Is it hard to love me, Tanveer?”
“No. Never.” Tenderly, he touched my jaw, stroked, the line of my neck. “Our souls are one. I love you easily and always.”
I bent to kiss him, his precious mouth, so giving, so rich. Light filled me, head to toe. “That part I know is true.” I closed my eyesand tucked myself into his shoulder. “The rest—I don’t know.” I rested there, feeling whole as I never did elsewhere. How could such a feeling be erroneous? How could such a union be anything but a good force in the world? “What if,” I asked quietly, “the whole point is that we do love each other?”
His hand moved in my hair. “Then we are succeeding, at least in this.”
At least in this. I shoved the world aside and nestled closer to him. Somehow, there would be a way forward for us. There had to be.
—41—
The weekend couldn’t last forever, of course. On Sunday evening, we took our leave of each other and returned to our various posts and responsibilities. Tanveer continued his tour of the world of the English gentleman, much as he privately despised it. I wanted to return to the studio, but I had promised Mother I would visit her. I traveled to Herewich from Clystmere Hall as I had done so many times since arriving back in England.
This trip, I stared out the windows, adrift in memories of the days Tanveer and I had spent together. His laughter rang in my ears, his touch along my skin. I felt more whole than I had since leaving him in India, and with the optimistic heart of a young woman in love, I was sure there must be some way for us to work out a future together. Perhaps it would not be conventional, but I did not think either of us would mind.
Although he did hope to influence the course of his country through politics, a notoriously unforgiving world. The warning rippled through my glow, but I dismissed it. Love would find a way.
To my surprise, my mother met me at the station. She looked vigorously healthy, but a shadow hung in her eye. “Oh, my dear girl,” she said, taking my hand. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”
“What is it? Is Father declining?”
She sighed, climbing up next to me in the carriage. “He is, but that is not the trouble.”
“Then what? It isn’t you, is it? You look as healthy as I’ve ever seen you.”
“I am, truly, very well. England agrees with me. Do you know I haven’t had a relapse in over a year? It’s remarkable.”
I squeezed her gloved hand. “I’m so glad.” Then I frowned. “What, then, gives you such gravity?”
“You’ve been the subject of a great deal of gossip, Elsie.”
A wash of something—fear?—moved through my body. I knew what the gossip would be.
“Your brother is furious. He’s threatening to marry you off to the Baron of Little Field.”
“I don’t even know who he is!”
“You would be no less horrified if you did, I assure you. It seems he saw you at some function or another and was quite smitten. He’s a widower with three children and needs a wife, and spoke to your brother about it last week.”
“He can’t just sell me off! I have some say.”
“Very little, my dear. The bare facts are that you must marry well or Herewich will likely fall to ruin.”
“Why does it fall to me to save the family? And why can’tmy brotherbe the one to marry a fortune? An American millionairess or the like?”
“That is possible. It does not alter the reality that you’ve been heedlessly ruining your reputation.”
I felt I’d been tossed into a cold lake. “Ruining my reputation? What do I care for a reputation? I’m an artist, not a countess.”
Her smooth cheeks burned red. “Do not take that tone with me, daughter. I have always had your best interests at heart, and this—entanglement—you insist upon has ever been a detriment to your progression in life. I thought surely moving back to England would solve the trouble, and yet, here we are, years later, facing it again.”
“Entanglement?” I echoed. “That hardly encompasses my relationship—”
