Oh, I can understand the glamour, the mystique, the force of personality emitting from that painting. My ancestor, Judith Cross, captured all of these in this portrait she labored over of Elizabeth, her lover, her muse.
Westerleigh has conveyed these qualities often enough in his writing, his poems, and the way his blue-green eyes light up whenever he talks about Elizabeth. The topic of Elizabeth makes ‘Leigh even more beautiful, even more bewitched, and utterly untouchable. After all, he’s devoted to his Elizabeth, as devoted as any mortal lured away by faeries.
I fear Westerleigh will suffer as bitter a fate as any of these enchanted victims. I can’t explain the fear I feel when I listen to Elizabeth’s poems, her letters, when I look at reproductions of her painted eyes. Something has been captured in all of these, something with a menacing life of its own.
How can I speak of these things when Elizabeth makes ‘Leigh radiant with joy, when she inspires him like nothing else? His obsession is captivating. He is captivating. He has certainly captivated me. I want to draw Westerleigh in graphite, charcoal, colors, try to reproduce his every expression as he speaks of his enchantment. I listen to his voice, lost in the timbre, unaware of what he’s saying.
Such a guilty pleasure I got out of dressing Westerleigh up as a Gothic heroine to fool his cousin. If I hadn’t fallen for ‘Leigh before, I certainly fell for him when he turned to me, skirts swirling about his legs while the blue in his eyes washed out to green.
Of course Westerleigh’s obsession is contagious. Of course I cannot help but wonder about the woman who’s the object of obsession of the man whom maddens me. At the same time I cannot help resenting the haughty noblewoman who looks down at her admirer from the canvas.
If ‘Leigh looked at me the way he does at Elizabeth, I don’t think I could bear it. What a relief, what a grief that he doesn’t.
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