Page 46 of Under a Dancing Star

I expect Ben to be dismissive, even I can tell this is not exactly top-notch art critique, but he nods. “That makes sense,” he says. “Stubbs studied anatomy and his paintings are incredibly accurate – scientifically speaking.” He gives me a lop-sided smile. “He actually dissected horse carcasses and hung them from the ceiling of a barn, peeling back the different layers and making sketches of them.”

“I didn’t know that!” I exclaim. “That is interesting.”

“You would find the dissected horse flesh interesting.” Ben pauses. “He wrote a book about it, The Anatomy of the Horse,” he continues thoughtfully. “It was quite groundbreaking apparently – the way it brought together art and science.”

“Rather like us?” I say.

“Yes.” He drops a quick kiss on the tip of my nose. “Like us. But with more dead horses.”

I think for a minute. “Do you suppose drawing would help my anatomical studies?” I feel a real tingle of enthusiasm at this.

“I don’t see why not,” Ben replies. “Anatomical study made Stubbs a better painter; drawing might make you a better scientist. Worth a try, anyway. Why don’t you find a suitable subject and see where it takes you?”

While Ben continues with his painting I go off on a hunt for subject matter. While not squeamish about dissection, I don’t like the idea of killing anything just for the sake of a drawing; but about forty minutes later, I find a beautiful and categorically dead Lucanus cervus in one of the flowerbeds. Cradling the stag beetle carefully in my hand I return to find Ben hard at work.

Sitting down on the blanket that we have brought with us, I pull a sketch pad and pencil from Ben’s bag and set to work, carefully trying to capture the insect on the page. Looking so carefully at the insect is revealing an intricate world of minute detail that I haven’t really seen before. I try to remember what Ben has said about form and perspective, and though the drawing I create is far from perfect it is, at least, recognizably a beetle. I feel a huge sense of satisfaction at having observed so much, having learned so much, about the creature itself.

I look up when Ben comes to sit beside me. “Nice.” He gestures to the drawing.

“Thank you,” I say. “I haven’t got the maxillary palps quite right.”

“What exactly is a maxillary palp?” Ben asks, leaning over.

“These bits here.” I point to the small feelers between the beetle’s large, horn-like jaws. “They’re sensory organs for tasting food. I never noticed how wonderfully complicated the whole jaw was before.”

“Seems like sketching could be helpful for a natural historian.” Ben leans back on his elbows. “Perhaps you can go to Vienna and draw those man-eating plants at the end of the summer.”

“The plants are carnivorous, not man-eating,” I say automatically, but my head is buzzing. No one has called me a natural historian before and it leaves me feeling a bit breathless. It sounds so serious somehow, as if he’s taking me seriously. “And I’m not a natural historian,” I say. “I just enjoy studying it. I’m completely self-taught.”

Ben shrugs. “So are lots of experts.”

“I suppose,” I say. “But to be able to study properly, to learn from true specialists and to attend lectures and demonstrations…” I feel something leap in my chest. “Well, that would be a dream.”

There is a brief silence. I realize that I am bracing myself, holding my body taut as I wait for the dismissal, the cold water thrown over my enthusiasm.

“I understand,” Ben says. “That’s how I felt when I was studying art in Florence. Being immersed in it, surrounded by so much knowledge and expertise and trying to take some small part of that for yourself, to improve, to do better… It’s a powerful thing.”

I look at him in surprise. He does understand. At least, more than anyone else ever has.

“So why don’t you go and study?” Ben asks. “At university, I mean?”

“My family would never approve.” I twist my fingers together.

“You don’t strike me as someone who seeks approval,” Ben says dryly.

I shake my head. I could never explain to him what it’s like at home. “We couldn’t afford it anyway,” I say instead. “University is expensive, and any money my parents have goes straight into the estate.”

“What about a scholarship?” Ben presses.

“A scholarship?”

“Yes,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “You’re clearly clever enough. I mean, you’re the most intelligent person I know.” He grins. “That head of yours contains so much knowledge I’m surprised it doesn’t weigh you down.”

“It doesn’t feel possible.” Saying the words aloud I realize that they aren’t exactly true any more. What seemed completely impossible in the insular world of Langton Hall doesn’t seem as unlikely here.

“You could make it happen, Bea,” he says with total confidence. He lies back and laces his fingers together behind his head, closing his eyes against the sunshine.

Impulsively, I lean over him and press a quick kiss on his cheek. The sweet, cut-grass smell of his skin is heady, making my limbs tingle, and I find myself thinking that if I could bottle it I might make a fortune. His eyes flicker open.