The Rose Thorn
an excerpt

Her eyes flickered toward the door. When Lord Langley did not appear, she mingled with the other guests, gradually relaxing and enjoying the party. Several of the women collected around the piano and gave an impromptu concert while in the saloon across the hall, a quartet played for those interested in dancing. She was standing in front of a large seascape when she heard his voice at her shoulder.
“It is not one of Anderson’s better efforts.”
She glanced at him in surprise, but he was staring at the painting, head tilted to the left, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I—I’m afraid I’ve never—”
“Heard of him?” He flicked a smile in her direction. Her heart fluttered before she glanced back at the painting. “No—he is not famous although he could have been.”
She studied the painting done completely in shades of blue, gray and black. The seas raged beneath a leaden sky, the angry strokes boldly standing out in the thickly applied paint.
“I like it,” she declared. “I see nothing wrong with it.”
“It is mediocre.” A cynical gleam hardened his eyes, deepening the hazel to the same gray as the sky in the painting.
“Then why do you have it hanging in your drawing room?”
“To remind me of how easy it is to fall into complacency and do less than your best.”
“Then why—” she stopped, struggling to remain polite although she longed to ask if he was settling for less than the best in her, as well. Would she be another reminder of him of what happened when you failed to do your best? And what did that mean, anyway? How did you truly know when you finally grasped a star?
“How do you know this wasn’t what the artist intended? That this wasn’t exactly his vision?” she asked in a sharp voice. “I like it.”
“You are merely responding as most would to a competently painted seascape. But there is nothing special about it—and I know the artist. I’ve seen other work. He could have done much better.”
“You are too exacting, sir,” she said. Suddenly angry, as if he were criticizing her instead of some unknown artist. “And it is purely a matter of taste. In fact, if it was truly that incompetent, I doubt you would hang it here. You would hang it in a cellar where you could gaze at it whenever you needed to feel superior.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “Despite your poetic observation, I would never keep any paintings, no matter how bad they are, in the cellar—too damp. The attic, perhaps, if I didn’t just use them for kindling.”
“You would burn someone’s creation?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.
He shrugged. “It the piece of art is so bad then I doubt I would own it or be in a position to burn it.” A humorous glint lit his eyes.
“No one creates bad art on purpose—they do the best they can.”
“Do they?”
‘Of course they do—I’m not naïve. No one creates bad art on purpose.”
“Perhaps not, but perhaps they simply decide not to put their entire effort into it.” He turned away from the painting and faced Elizabeth. “I’m not sure you’re enjoying our discussion, Miss Tate. Perhaps you would care to dance instead?”
Forcing s smile, she cast one final glance at the painting. The wind-whipped ocean was a fairly accurate representation of her own emotions at that moment. Indeed, the painter seemed to have captured the mood precisely.
How much better could a painting be?