His painting brings him no joy.
Ignatz bites the end of his paintbrush as he stares at it, his brow furrowed. The colors are correct; sweeping pinks and reds and oranges, splashed across a tight canvas to create a perfect sunrise. The hills are varying shades of green and brown, each blade of grass a careful stroke laid by his finest of brushes.
It is beautiful and looks just like the landscape spread wide before him. Anyone worth their money would pay a hefty price for it, particularly with his name etched into the corner in a splash of yellow.
But, there is no joy, no sweeping emotion, no swell of feelings as his eyes wash over it.
"There's nothing wrong with it," says Claude. He leans against the back of his chair, fingers curled around Ignatz's shoulder. "I mean, it's perfect." He gestures vaguely to the canvas.
"I know there's nothing wrong with it." Ignatz doesn't mean to sound so tart—honestly, he's so rarely like this, but—he sighs, dragging a paint-crusted hand across his sweaty brow. "It's been like this for months. Everything that I paint, as beautiful as it is, brings me so little joy."
Claude pats his shoulder gently. "Well, I like this one and it's exactly what I paid you for. So, consider this a success, yes?" Claude pulls away and Ignatz turns to look at him.
"An artist's work is only as good as the heart that is poured into it."
Claude raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying that you didn't pour your entire being into this?"
"Well, no—"
"Then what is the problem?"
That's the issue, thinks Ignatz. I have absolutely no idea.
He has tried everything—swapped his oils for watercolors; bought a new set of brushes; picked stretches of land that have never known his artist's hands or the touch of his paint. Nothing has worked. Everything that he paints only looks like shades of gray in the end, and Ignatz isn't just left less than satisfied, he's utterly mortified.
Clause waits patiently for an answer, and when he realizes that he won't get one, he sighs. "Look, Ignatz, I've commissioned you how many times?"
"I've lost count," says Ignatz, honestly. Claude has dozens of his works hanging within his manor at this point.
"And we're friends, right?"
Ignatz gives him an amused glance. "You would willingly debase yourself by keeping company with a commoner such as myself."
"Pah. You're from a family of merchants, that isn't low class."
"I'm certainly not a Crown Prince of Almyra either—"
Claude launches forward and slaps a hand over his mouth. "Shh! Others might overhear and then I'm doomed. The ladies will never leave me alone, swooning every time that I stroll by."
Ignatz laughs and Claude pulls away. It's a joke, mostly. Claude's heritage isn't well-known, but it isn't a kept secret either. Claude just prefers plausible deniability whenever it's considered and the less he mentions his heritage, the better.
"Thankfully, no prying ears are to be found within these walls."
Claude laughs as well. "Yes, one of the reasons that I find respite within them." He pauses, thumbing at his chin. "Look, maybe all you need is a change of scenery."
"I am not going to your summer estate," says Ignatz. He did so once. Barely made it back in one piece. Claude is the type to party, which is why the women of the Ton love to be within his purview. High class, high money, high expectations, and fun.
Ignatz is none of that.
"You're a spoilsport," says Claude, clucking his tongue. "You'd be able to loosen up, you know. You're handsome! The ladies—"
"Whom I am not interested in." A gentle reminder.
Claude sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. "Well, in any case, I enjoy your work, and always will. And, if I'm paying for it, that's all that matters."
"Yes," says Ignatz, "truly my best customer."
Customers, though, do little for his inspiration. And, even if Claude is as reliable as they come, Ignatz cannot pretend forever.
#
"Ingrid Brandl Galatea."
Ignatz looks at Claude with a narrowed gaze and a foggy brain. He doesn't often drink and when he does it's only a glass or two. But nights spent in Claude's company at the Gentleman's Club can be a double-edged sword at times. At least the room isn't spinning. Yet.
"I'm sorry?"
"Oh, you know, the Untouchable. The spinster. The unmarried countess from Galatea Country—"
"I know who she is," cuts in Ignatz. And who wouldn't? The countess is truly infamous—sour of temperament and with her treatment of men. She's told her father no to every man paraded before her, and now she's left unmarried into her mid-thirties, still managing to inherit the entire estate, holding it strong for nearly a decade.
A strong, independent woman, the gossip papers like to say. Most men fear the idea of it.
"What is your point?"
"She's looking for an artist to spoil," says Claude. He leans against the counter and gives Ignatz a knowing look. "And I mean, you aren't getting any younger."
"I am not looking for a wife."
"And she isn't looking for a husband." Claude raises his glass and then downs a sip. "Look, you said that you were lacking inspiration—"
"I never said that."
Claude looks unimpressed. "You said, and I quote: 'I find no joy in this.'"
Ignatz groans, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses.
"Ignatz," continues Claude, "I'm only saying this might be a chance to paint something new. Galatea is livestock land—nothing but rolling hills and green pastures. Nothing like this dreary, rainy Capitol."
"Claude, this sounds like a terrible idea. I hear that she's a menace."
"And that's worse than not wanting to paint?" Claude looks unimpressed. "I didn't think you were the type of man to back away from a challenge."
Ignatz hates challenges. He's rather meek as a man, certainly the least adventurous one within any given room. Still… there is an interest there, a small twitch of curiosity that curls in his gut. Claude is right—Ignatz has never been to that part of the countryside and he doesn't know what to expect.
"So, she's looking to be the patron of an artist?"
"I think she's finally become bored enough that she needs to pay someone for company." Claude chuckles at the thought. "She's scared off just about everyone who's tried, though. Not one artist has lasted more than a month. Or so they say."
"Or so they say," repeats Ignatz.
"I can put in a word for you if you'd like."
Ignatz hesitates as he stares into his glass. It isn't the landscape that interests him or catches his attention.
"Alright," he says before he can gain the courage to stop himself.
An old, crusty woman who bites off the fingers of others, he's heard whispered in rumors. Ignatz wonders what it'd be like to paint a woman like that.
#
The Galatea Estate is a sprawling landscape of rolling pastures and gardens.
Lady Ingrid falls closer to the low end of financial worth when it comes to the Ton, so Ignatz isn't exactly sure what he expected from her home. Not quite this. Quiet, quaint, and homey. The manor itself looks a little lived in, though in good enough shape.
"Are you done staring?"
Ignatz jumps at the sharp voice, turning slightly to meet the severe face of Lady Ingrid herself. He's seen her from across the room at various functions over the years, but never quite this close. She's neatly presented, her hair tied back into a bun, and wearing what is considered appropriate attire. She watches him with a narrowed gaze.
But, her mouth is turned slightly in humor. A decent start.
"Ah, I—Well, I was just taking in the place. It's very nice."
Ingrid scoffs, walking towards him. "Don't be an idiot. The horse barn is in better shape than my home." She kicks Ignatz's trunk with her shoe. "Is this all that you brought with you?"
He blinks. "Was… I supposed to bring more?"
"Probably. This will prove better for you, though. When you leave you won't have much to take back."
Right to the point then. "You invited me here," he reminds her kindly.
"Only because I owed a mutual friend of ours a favor and we both know that he won't stop his scheming until he gets his way."
Claude, thinks Ignatz. He did say that he had an in, but Ignatz wasn't sure to what extent. And she's right, of course; when Claude puts his mind to something, he won't stop until he gets close to his desired outcome.
Ignatz chuckles, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I'm here on contingency, then," he says.
"I promised that I'd give you a chance. I'm a woman of my word."
"So I hear."
Ingrid smiles then, a salty-sweet thing that crinkles her face and doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It seems that I have a reputation that precedes me."
"Unfortunately for you, word travels fast in the Ton. People think that it's the women who are the gossips, but I assure you, the men are worse."
She watches him then, for a long moment. "Tell me, Lord Ignatz—"
"Oh, I'm no lord," cuts in Ignatz with a laugh. "I only paint them."
"Mr. Victor, then. You are funny—funnier than most of the men who waltz in here, thinking that they can leash me. That being said, it will not be enough. Here is what will happen. You will paint a portrait because I do, in fact, want one. And once you are done, you will pack up your things and leave, just like every other man that has filed through my front doors, but you will leave knowing that you've entertained me more than most."
Ignatz admires her no-nonsense attitude, and aggressively clipped words. "All right then," he says. "Show me where to set up?"
#
When Ignatz sits before his easel, he does not expect to be inspired.
He is led to the sunroom and given a stool. "It'll take me some time to get everything together."
"Of course," says Ingrid, before she leaves him be.
He is used to running through the motions. He builds his frame on the floor and stretches the canvas tight. Ingrid walks in again later as he's mixing his paints. When he finally settles onto the stool and looks up, he is caught.
Ingrid watches him back from her chair, hands curled gently in her lap, wearing a gown the color of seafoam. Her cornsilk hair is tied into a loose braid that hangs over her shoulder. She wears no cosmetics, just a stern look, and the soft wrinkles that frame her mouth and eyes.
He is so unused to seeing a woman present herself just as she is. The Ton is an environment best navigated by pretending—which is likely why Ingrid does not care much for it. She's a raw sort of person. What you see is what you get.
And Ignatz sees, he sees.
And he is inspired.
With the first swipe against the canvas, he smiles.
#
Ignatz considers his first portrait of Lady Ingrid to be not only a rousing success but likely one of his best paintings.
He painted overnight in fevered haste, long after she departed for bed. He took great care in mixing his colors, matching the hues of her dress, and the shadows that fell across her form. Most women of the Ton would request that he paint them as though they were ten years younger, fine-faced and trimmer at the waist.
Ignatz thinks that Ingrid would dislike that, so he doesn't stay his hand when it comes to carving out the soft lines of her face in contrasting grays. He keeps the slight circles underneath her eyes, the tired slope of her shoulders, and that stubborn half-turned frown that's a little like amusement.
It is a gamble, but even if Ingrid sends him home as promised, he'll have at least painted a masterpiece, and his time will not have been wasted.
Ingrid blinks slowly when he turns the canvas to reveal it. Her eyes wash across it, from top to bottom, narrowed slightly in a crinkled expression.
"I'm aware that this is perhaps not what you might have asked for," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.
She doesn't look annoyed, which is a good sign. Ignatz is fairly sure that she is the sort of woman who wears her feelings right on her sleeve. "Mr. Victor," she says quietly, "I asked for a portrait."
"Which I—"
"And that is what you have painted for me." She thumbs at her chin, stepping closer to the canvas. "It seems that Claude was correct in what he said about your discerning eye. I hate that I owed him another favor."
"Lady Ingrid—"
She drags a finger over the corner of the painting gently, tracing Ignatz's carefully penned signature. "I had heard of your masterpieces, but they are mostly landscapes, no?"
Ignatz swallows, unsure what her point is. "That is what I usually paint, yes."
"Hm." Ingrid pulls away from the painting. "I shall have this hung in the main hall, I think. The likeness is uncanny, and I find myself fond."
Ignatz hides a genteel smile behind his palm.
Later that night, Ingrid invites him to share dinner with her. "Congratulations, Mr. Victor," she says, cutting into her steak. "It seems as though you are the first man that I will not send back home immediately. I never thought I would see the day."
"I hope that I can continue to impress." When he looks, he finds Ingrid watching him with a calculated gaze.
"Time will tell, won't it?" she asks simply.
The rest of the dinner goes well with polite conversation and banter. When Ignatz tucks himself into his bed afterward, veins thrumming with the burn of wine, he wonders why his heart beats so fast.
#
They ease into a strange sort of rapport.
Lady Ingrid gives him one simple instruction: "Paint what you wish, Mr. Victor. We'll see if you survive another week."
And that is what he does. Ignatz rises with the cry of the early morning rooster from the horse barn. He dresses simply, enjoying the lack of prying, judgmental eyes from the rest of the Ton. With every new painting, he finds new beauty in the lands of Galatea.
He paints the rolling hillside, brilliant in its green, peppered with bright spots of colorful wildflowers. He mixes browns and blacks to paint the livestock, and vermillion and saffron to capture the handsome horizon as the sun dips below to allow the night to come.
Ignatz comes to know Ingrid, too. She prefers to wear pants and ride horses on warm afternoons. Her hair is usually pulled into a loose and lazy braid, forgoing hours of early morning prep. Ingrid can often be found doing chores alongside her staff, her fingers scrubbed raw and calloused by washing brushes, and the harsh lye soap used on her clothing.
She is an enigma, and Ignatz finds that he doesn't just love to paint her, it's more than that. His chest tightens when she laughs, and he finds himself seeking her company for the minutest of things. Ignatz finds excuses for lingering touches, subtle things that are as simple as brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, or tilting her chin to the side for a better-angled portrait.
A dozen new ones now hang in the halls of her manor, showing the raw side of Ingrid that most choose to ignore.
One day, Ignatz sits underneath a tree, sketching in his book, a warm-up before he settles into beginning a new painting.
Ingrid is there too, sitting on the blanket with one leg up, leaning back on a hand. "Tell me, Mr. Victor, why is it that you accepted my proposal to come here?"
"To paint? Ah." Ignatz chuckles softly as his graphite drags across the paper. "I have been feeling uninspired lately."
She tilts her head to the side, intrigued. "Uninspired? You? You seem to have no problem finding beauty within everything you've painted here."
"Yes, well, that was after I came here, wasn't it?" Ignatz sighs softly as he looks out to the grassland. "Art is a fickle thing, I've learned over my years. Maybe it is because I'm older that I feel a little lost. It certainly seemed easier when I was younger. I can paint masterpiece after masterpiece, but they don't mean much if I don't feel for them."
"And you felt…?" Her question halts.
"I am unsure what I felt, truth be told."
Ingrid's mouth snaps shut as she thinks. "And what of your time here?"
Ignatz smiles, looking at her. "I would think it obvious that I have found that spark again. After all, you haven't sent me home yet."
"Your work speaks for itself," she says diplomatically.
Her gaze lingers long enough for Ignatz's cheeks to pink. "I—well—" He laughs awkwardly. "It is easy once you find a muse."
"Galatea is certainly a wonderful place for that."
"I wasn't speaking of Galatea."It is Ingrid's turn for her cheeks to burn pink, caught entirely off-guard by his poorly hidden confession. "That is to say—"
"No," cuts in Ingrid. "Ah, what I mean to say, Mr. Victor, is that I think I understand."
Oh, he thinks. How he can feel the way that his heart beats in his throat. Ignatz has never been in love before, but perhaps this is what it feels like.
"You are unlike other men, and you see me for who I am, not who I should be." Ingrid reaches out to grab his hand, turning it over to drag her fingers over his callouses. "My painter dearest, I would call you, were we to write silly letters to each other. Would you stay forever if I asked you to?"
"I would," says Ignatz, moving to slip his fingers between hers. "But I would prefer it if you called me by my name."
Ingrid's mouth curls into a smile. "Ignatz," she says warmly, her voice warm with affection.
Yes, he thinks, this is love. And he'll paint it forever if that's what she wishes.