Sophia and Eleanor both gasped when Eden pulled the muslin away from the picture.
“It’s stunning,” Eleanor told her.
“They’re going to say it’s the best thing you’ve done yet,” Sophia remarked quietly.
Eden frowned. “It isn’t,” she said. “The best thing I’ve done is the picture of my mother in the music room on Beacon Street.”
“Well, no one has seen that, darling,” Eleanor said.
But Eden was still frowning.
“What is it, Eden, aren’t you happy with it?” Sophia asked.
“I don’t care to have Gertrude Brunswick thought the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“It isn’t Gertrude, it’s your painting, darling,” Eleanor said.
Eden was looking at Sophia.
“I haven’t done it yet—the best thing I could do.”
Sophia still said nothing. But she left the studio and Eleanor looked after her, then at Eden, watching her cross the hall to the dining room where Lucy was setting out hot bowls of clam chowder.
Eden replaced the muslin and left the studio, making a bit more racket on the stairs than was really necessary as she made her way to her room. She didn’t come down for dinner.