Joan Wolf by A London Season Read Free Book Online

*
    The day before Jane left for school, George and Laura Rivingdale rode over to Heathfield to see the Marquis's new horse. The Rivingdales owned a small stud some seven miles from Heathfield and for the few weeks a year they were in residence they were neighbors.
    It was a crisp, sunny day when the Marquis appeared in the stableyard leading the Rivingdales. David and Jane had been out on the heath with a few of the grooms exercising the hunters and their arrival in the yard coincided with the Marquis's. The Marquis called to David and he came over, handing his horse's reins to one of the grooms.
    Laura Rivingdale looked at him and her eyes narrowed. A lock of sun-bleached hair had fallen forward over his forehead. His shirt was open and she could see the golden-brown column of his neck, the pulse beating strongly in the hollow of his throat. There was about him a curious and almost godlike air of simplicity and directness. She thought again of Michelangelo. She asked him a question about the horse and he replied, looking at her in a friendly, unsmiling way.
    Jane came up to them and exchanged greetings in her cool, composed voice. “You've come to see Condottiere?” she said. “David had better bring him out."
    A corner of David's mouth twitched and he gave her a half-glance, amused and tender. Laura stared after him for a moment, then her eyes turned, speculatively, to Jane. She was surprised by what she saw. The plain child, who had so astonished the neighborhood by her riding prowess, was growing up. Jane was beautiful. Laura's eyes moved from the striking face to the resilience and vigorous perfection of the young body, clothed so casually in an old riding outfit. Jane, unaware of her scrutiny, was talking easily with her uncle and Mr. Rivingdale, discussing the merits of the hunter she had been riding. David brought Condottiere out and the great gray was duly admired by the assembled company. Before they left, Laura Rivingdale ascertained that Jane was leaving for school the next day. She found this piece of information extremely interesting.
    [Back to Table of Contents]

 

    Chapter VII
    Doth she not think me an old murderer,
    Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy....
    —William Shakespeare
    Jane returned to school for her last year. This September she was almost looking forward to going back. She had worked all summer on a painting that she was anxious for Miss Becker to see.
    Jane's position at school had changed radically in the three years she had been there. The distrust and uneasiness of her first year had given way to genuine admiration. Jane Fitzmaurice suffered from none of the uncertainties or insecurities that beset most adolescent girls. She went her way with a sublime disregard of either the customs or conventions that held the other girls in bondage. She was totally uninterested in romance, a topic that loomed large in the minds and the conversations of the other girls; yet no one was oblivious to the fact that the dancing master and the Italian master looked upon Jane with obvious admiration. She treated them with the arctic aloofness she reserved for anyone she did not greatly care for. The intensity of her feelings for David preserved her from the schoolgirl fantasies of her fellow students. She was both more innocent and more mature than they.
    She waited two days before she mentioned her painting to Miss Becker. The art mistress asked to see it immediately and Jane brought it down to the small art room which was, blessedly, empty of everyone but themselves. She propped the canvas up on an easel by the window and stepped back, her eyes on Miss Becker's face, her brows tense with anticipation.
    The woman's eyes widened as she looked at the painting before her. It was a picture of a boy and a horse standing in the middle of a grassy heath. What made it so extraordinary was the quality of the light she had achieved. It was a golden picture, full of the pure light of sun and sky and meadow. The