“He’ll never hold me in his arms again,” she’d wailed, “we’ll never dance together again,” sobbing into her pillow. And even Charlotte was moved, and wondered if she’d been too harsh, constantly pointing out the plumpness of Mr. Luskie’s backside and the growing bald spot on his head.

Julia cast her eyes on the ground. “He’s a man of God,” she finally said, softly.

“What?” said Charlotte, not understanding her.

“He’s … well, he’s a curate!” Julia said.

“A curate? Julia!”

“He has blond curls, Charlotte. He looks like, well, he looks like a painting!” Having confessed the worst, she ignored Charlotte’s frown and listed the curate’s many graces: He was young, and more handsome than anyone including the seller of sweet lavender who sometimes came by the school and who, until now, had been consecrated as the most handsome, even if Mr. Luskie was the most cherished.

“Even you will like him, Charlotte. Because he’s full of virtue, and quite thin—you know how you were always saying that poor Mr. Luskie was a bit plump. And he would be a wonderful person to paint.” Julia sat up, and looked speculatively at Charlotte.

“You don’t suppose … You can’t keep painting fruit now we’re out of school, Charlotte! Why don’t you offer to paint Christopher?”

“You’re demented,” Charlotte said fondly. “I will not offer to paint a young man I’ve never even met! Why, my mother would collapse in shock.”

“Well, Charlotte, you do have to start thinking about men instead of paintings now, you know,” Julia said a bit sharply. “You just never seem to show any interest!”

The curate is more handsome than the lavender seller, Charlotte thought on Sunday, her heart sinking a bit. Julia stared at him so devotedly that Charlotte had to elbow her twice, so that she would bend her head to pray. Charlotte watched him too, out of the corner of her eyes. He was somberly dressed in a black cassock, blond curls smoothly shining. He didn’t look like a painting; he looked like a statue—a statue of a mischievous faun. There was something too smooth about his curls, and his face looked naughty, she decided. Like her brother Horace’s when he’d been sent down from Oxford.

On the way out of church Charlotte watched the curate wink at Julia and give her a very small, very private smile while the cold spring sunlight shone on his hair. And when the squire and his wife turned to greet two friends, she saw him slip Julia a bit of paper, and her knees went weak.