Nancy Griffiths, a young & beautiful woman with musical talents, came from a poor working class family from Bloomsbury. Together with her mother, Nancy worked as a maid at the Danbury household while her father was a simple clerk.
Following the pas...
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- BENEDICT BRIDGERTON -
Heavenly and freeing...
If there is a way to describe how it feels when you listen to the compositions of Nancy Griffiths, it would be those exact two things. She has always had a way of creating melodies that can transport you to a place where no harm can be done, where you can live a life without a single care in the world, with all the peace and quiet your heart desires.
And that is what I envisioned while creating this painting of her; sitting behind the pianoforte in her home while the light shines through the window onto her warm ivory skin, where her smile is as bright as the sun and her eyes as brown as honey.
Oh, to have her in front of me again.
"It is a beautiful painting, brother." Anthony compliments as he comes to stand next to me to behold the only artwork I made where Nancy is visible.
We stand in my old room in Aubrey Hall where I used to practice my art skills before I left for Berlin.
"Has it really been three years?" I ask, not being able to keep my eyes from the painting.
"Given the fact that you have only returned from Berlin yesterday as a now renowned painter and poet, I have to say that time has indeed passed... Additionally, it is Colin's wedding day."
"Took them long enough to get here." I smile.
When I received the wedding invitation, I jumped on the first boat back to London. I would not miss any of my siblings weddings for the world.
Especially Eloise's, might that day ever come.
"When can we expect you to settle down, Benedict?"
"Trust me brother, I want to, but..."
"No one is Nancy Griffiths... I know." Anthony interrupts.
Three years ago, when Nancy's departure was still fresh, I had difficulties accepting the fact that I had to wake up knowing that I would not see her that same day. I was so used to the idea that I would meet her eyes from across the room at some ball or to see her at her home where we could both act as if it was only us against the world, but no.
We still write to each other often, but sometimes, it feels as if she is slowly becoming a distant memory, someone from the past you cannot retrieve, and I do not think my heart can handle it.
I want to remember her very clearly; remember how she would look at me with those eyes, kiss me so passionately and melt me with just one touch. I want to remember the sound of her laughter and the way she always became so emerged with the pianoforte whenever she was writing a new composition. I want to remember the way she would call my name and follow it up with her witty and scandalous remarks and opinions.
