How I miss you! I sit in the dressing room I have converted into a makeshift studio and stare at my palette. Through the open window I can hear Clive’s sister organizing the riders, her voice a peremptory bark. I go over and close the window. I cannot bear to hear any more. I have argued with Clive and the thought makes me wretched. I tried to explain my need to paint regularly but Clive’s only response was to tease. He told me that in his view if things did not come easily it was probably a signal to stop. I am beginning to despise his halfhearted attitude to working. I fear that for all his brilliance Clive will never produce anything of note. I think of the long hours Father spent laboring in his study, Mother’s commitment to nursing despite all the demands on her time. Their motto was sacrifice and dedication, words I sense are anathema to Clive.

It all started as we were alone in our dressing room after breakfast. I tried to persuade Clive not to accompany the others but to stay with me and write. For twenty minutes we worked in companionable silence. Then Clive pushed his books to one side.

“This is absurd. I feel about as fertile as an old newspaper.”

I look up.

“You need to give it time. Just sit with it a little and something will emerge.”

For a while Clive accepts my advice and we are quiet again. I return to mixing my paints. Finally Clive loses patience.

“Oh come on, Nessa! It’s a glorious day. Far too lovely to be stuck in here. Let’s ride with the others and then stop somewhere and have lunch. What do you say?”

I gaze at the floor. We rode yesterday, and the day before. If I give in to Clive there will be no further chance to paint today. I think of all the hours you and I spent working together in the conservatory at home. As I broke off and looked at what I had done, the sound of your pen crossing your page was all the incentive I needed to continue. I sigh.

“You go. I’d like to stay. There will be plenty of people on the ride. No one will miss me.”

I finish preparing my palette. As I clean my brushes I look out the window and see Clive arm in arm with a striking dark-haired woman. I wonder who she is.

I try to settle back to work. Your last letter is on the chair beside me and I pick it up. Here, I am a beached dolphin, lashing about for water on the sand. I need your words to revive me.