“Your nana showed you?”
“Yes, we used to go looking for plants to use in making medicines when the twins got a cough, or I fell and scraped my knee, or mommy was feeling poorly. And some of them were wonderfully colorful, and I often thought they were parts of the rainbow broken off and dropped to the ground to take root.”
George laughed. “Oh, I like that. Can you show me some of those plants?”
“Of course.” Lucy left the stream and headed along a trail that led toward a grove of trees. She stopped along the path, picked a few plants and then headed into the trees and began looking for more plants and mushrooms.
After an hour or so, Lucy had her apron filled with clippings, scrapings of rocks and soil, and leaves, roots, and fungi.
“There. That should be enough to get you started. And if you need more colors, you tell me what you need, and I may know where to find them.”
“What a clever child you are, Lucy Brighton.”
“Maybe. But it is just what I know and what my nana taught me. And when you said you needed color, I thought of these.”
Chapter 4
There was no way Nanny Wilkes was going to allow George to mix his paints in her schoolroom. She was very sensitive to odors, and she reacted even to old paintings where the paint had dried a long time ago.
He had no other space of his own to set up his painting, as his mother would immediately recognize the smell of the linseed oil and bring her wrath down upon him for painting if he used his rooms.
“Come with me,” George said, conspiratorially to Lucy, one afternoon after the schoolwork was done and there was still plenty of afternoon light and no one watching over them.
George led her to the stables, up a flight of stairs, and along a hallway to an unused attic room where there was a large window, ample light, and the sounds and smells of stamping horses wafting up from the stalls below.
“Here. What do you think of this place as a studio?” George asked.
“What is a studio?” Lucy asked as she went to the window and peered out as though looking for the answer outside.
“It is where an artist does his painting.”
“Why?”
“Because he needs an uninterrupted time away from others and an inspiring environment. Is this not a splendid space?”
“It looks like a dirty old attic to me,” Lucy said with absolutely no enthusiasm.
“But I can fix it up. Will you help me?” he asked as he began moving boxes, crates, harnesses, and bags of feed away from the window to create a workspace for himself.
“Are you going to sleep up here too?” she asked, picking up a dusty, cobwebbed harness with two fingers and gingerly removing it from its nail by the window.
“No-o-o. Why would I do that?”
“Because it might be the kind of thing you would do.”
George had brought a box with him to the attic, and when he had created enough space to work in for the moment, he moved a small table near the window, set the box on it, and opened it up.
Lucy went over and peeked inside. “Those are the colors we collected,” she exclaimed, happy to have helped with that.
“And linseed oil. And I am going to mix my first colors now.”
“Can I help?”
“If you like. If you do not think this place is too filthy for you.”
“I can make do,” she said reaching inside the box and taking out some dried blue flowers. “I want to make blue.”
“Try it,” he said, handing her a mortar and pestle, some small jars, and the linseed oil.
