Lillian And Jack Quotes

“I love you," he says.
She pulls away, and studies him carefully, but the words rise up in her too, undeniable, irrepressible. "I love you."
He smiles. "L'amour étend sur moi ses ailes!"
"What is that?"
"A line from the song your sister was listening to."
"What does it mean?"
"Love spreads its wings over me.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“She finds herself, by some miraculous feat, no longer standing in the old nursery but returned to the clearing in the woods. It is the 'green cathedral', the place she first kissed Jack all those weeks ago. The place where they laid out the stunned sparrowhawk, then watched it spring miraculously back to life.
All around, the smooth, grey trunks of ancient beech trees rise up from the walls of the room to tower over her, spreading their branches across the ceiling in a fan of tangled branches and leaves, paint and gold leaf cleverly combined to create the shimmering effect of a leafy canopy at its most dense and opulent. And yet it is not the clearing, not in any real or grounded sense, because instead of leaves, the trees taper up to a canopy of extraordinary feathers shimmering and spreading out like a peacock's tail across the ceiling, a hundred green, gold and sapphire eyes gazing down upon her. Jack's startling embellishments twist an otherwise literal interpretation of their woodland glade into a fantastical, dreamlike version of itself. Their green cathedral, more spectacular and beautiful than she could have ever imagined.
She moves closer to one of the trees and stretches out a hand, feeling instead of rough bark the smooth, cool surface of a wall. She can't help but smile. The trompe-l'oeil effect is dazzling and disorienting in equal measure. Even the window shutters and cornicing have been painted to maintain the illusion of the trees, while high above her head the glass dome set into the roof spills light as if it were the sun itself, pouring through the canopy of eyes. The only other light falls from the glass windowpanes above the window seat, still flanked by the old green velvet curtains, which somehow appear to blend seamlessly with the painted scene. The whole effect is eerie and unsettling. Lillian feels unbalanced, no longer sure what is real and what is not. It is like that book she read to Albie once- the one where the boy walks through the wardrobe into another world. That's what it feels like, she realizes: as if she has stepped into another realm, a place both fantastical and otherworldly.
It's not just the peacock-feather eyes that are staring at her. Her gaze finds other details: a shy muntjac deer peering out from the undergrowth, a squirrel, sitting high up in a tree holding a green nut between its paws, small birds flitting here and there. The tiniest details have been captured by Jack's brush: a silver spider's web, a creeping ladybird, a puffy white toadstool. The only thing missing is the sound of the leaf canopy rustling and the soft scuttle of insects moving across the forest floor.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“Who was it who said, 'the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless: peacocks and lilies, for instance'?"
"I think that was Ruskin," says Jack.
"Ha!" laughs Charles. "There's truth in that. Could have included women, too." Charles laughs loudly at his own joke.
"Only if you're to assume a woman's sole purpose in life is to look good," counters Lillian.
"Well of course... there's looking good... and there's child-bearing," adds Charles, still looking ahead at the bird.
Lillian grips the bag in her lap a little more tightly.
If the artist seated behind them is aware of the tension, he deflects artfully. "I think Ruskin misses the point," he says. "Beauty is never useless. It has purpose. Look at us, sitting here. We've ceased all other activity just to pause for a moment and wonder at the sight of this bird. The extraordinary jolts us from the mundane and makes us feel something. It reminds us we're alive."
"Rather like art," says Lillian, after a moment.
Jack meets her gaze in the wing-mirror and nods. "Yes. Art. Music. Love."
Lillian drops her gaze, unexpected heat flooding her cheeks.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“They weave between the trees and bracken, leaves and sticks cracking beneath their feet, grey flints and white chalk jutting like shards of bone glinting through the soil. Out of the direct sunlight, the air is soft and green, as if they walk through cool water. The further they go, the thicker the insidious ivy scaling the beech tree trunks and the denser the canopy.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“It is quiet in the clearing, though gradually Lillian's ears attune to the soft rustling of insects and birds moving through the undergrowth, the faraway tapping of a woodpecker high in a tree. Down on the ground, a bronze-colored beetle tries to scale the side of her shoe. It slips on the smooth leather and tumbles back into the dry leaves, waggling its legs in the air.
She shifts slightly on the tree trunk then watches as Jack pulls a strand of grass from a clump growing nearby and sucks on one end, looking about at the canopy overhead. "Wonderful light," he murmurs. "I wish I hadn't left my sketchbook at the house."
She knows she must say something. But the moment stretches and she can't find the words so instead she looks about, trying to see the clearing as he might, trying to view the world through an artist's eyes. What details would he pull from this scene, what elements would he commit to memory to reproduce on paper?
A cathedral, he'd said; and she supposes there is something rather celestial and awe-inspiring about the tall, arched trees and the light streaming in golden shafts through the soft green branches, filtered as though through stained glass.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“She glances up at Jack and finds he is watching her, a small smile playing on his lips. She wonders if he is at all alarmed to find himself in such close proximity to her after their shared encounter in the clearing the day before.
"You'll have to go gently with me," he says to Albie, his eyes still on Lillian. "This is all rather new to me."
Lillian blushes and stares down at the wall of tiles laid out on the table before them. "Albie is the expert. You should know that neither of us stands a chance against him."
"I'm lost already," he says quietly. "My concentration is completely off today."
Lillian swallows.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“It's a little early to be falling asleep," says a voice, soft and low, at her side.
Startled, she spins to face the man who seems to have materialized from nowhere.
"By all accounts," he adds, "there are still hours of this to get through."
She doesn't recognize him. In the near-darkness his face is smooth like sculpted marble and his eyes shine almost black; his expression is hard to read- playful, perhaps- but it's his choice of words that intrigues her the most.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“I'm still waiting for a moment with our gracious host." Something in his wry smile offsets the intensity in his eyes. Really, he is very handsome. "And in the meantime," he adds, with a sideways glance, "I have you."
He is flirting with her; very gently, but definitely flirting and it's at that moment that Lillian realizes he have no more idea of her identity than she has of his.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“Fincher," he says. "Jack Fincher. I'm an artist," he adds, a hint of apology in his voice.
"An artist?" Lillian has not expected this reply. "Are you any good?"
The man gives a wry smile. "If I say "yes", you will think me horribly conceited. And if I say "no", you'll probably vanish at the earliest possible opportunity and find someone far more interesting to talk to."
"You wouldn't want me to vanish?" she asks, once more surprised at her daring.
"No," he says, holding her gaze. "I wouldn't want you to vanish.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“In the dim light of the swaying Chinese lanterns, it's hard to read his expression but once, as Charles's gaze drifts out across the lawn, she sees his dark eyes slide across to her and wonders if she imagines the slightest twitch of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“She is about to close the book and return it to the desk when she catches sight of a face passing on the flickering pages. She leafs her way back until she finds it again- not an entire face, but a section; an eye, the sweep of a cheekbone, the curved line of a neck observed from side-on; all illustrated as if seen in the reflection of a small, oval mirror. A car-wing mirror.
She peers at the page more closely, breath held in her chest as the moment returns to her: sitting in Charles's new car, Jack scrunched in the back and Lillian in the front, a peacock barring their path. It is exactly how he would have seen her reflected back at him in the wing-mirror.
As with the other drawings, the accuracy is remarkable. She is amazed at his ability to recall the smallest details. There is the pearl stud at her earlobe and the almost indiscernible beauty spot above her lip. Yet the more closely she studies the sketch, the more she is discomforted. It isn't just the precision of the pencil lines conjuring her on the paper- butt more the expression he has captured- a certain wistfulness she hadn't known she wore so plainly. The portrait feels so intimate; almost as if he had laid her bare on the page.
She continues to leaf through the sketches and finds a second portrait. This time she is seated in the drawing room, her face turned to the window, the skirt of her dress falling in a fan to to the floor. A third reveals her standing on the terrace, leaning against the balustrade, a long evening dress sweeping about her legs. The night of the party. The next page shows just her arm, identifiable by a favorite diamond bracelet dangling at the wrist. The last is of her head and shoulders, viewed from behind, the curves of her neck rising up to a twisted knot of hair. Looking at the images she isn't sure how she feels; flattered to be seen, to be deemed worthy of his time and attention, though at the same time a little uncomfortable at the intimacy of his gaze and at the thought of having been so scrutinized when she hadn't even known he was watching her.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“Here we are," says Jack.
Lillian stops and looks around, marveling at the high, green canopy and the soft light streaming through the branches. Overhead a magpie flits through the branches of a tree, rustling leaves until it takes flight with a mournful cry, its wings beating the air. "This is beautiful," she says.
"Yes," agrees Jack. "It's like standing inside nature's own cathedral, don't you think?”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“She isn't sure how long they sit like that, the two of them side by side, lost in their own thoughts, but it's a soft scratching sound that brings her attention back to the clearing. Opening her eyes, she looks across to where they had left the prone bird and is startled to see the hawk no longer lying beneath the leaf litter but standing upright, its head cocked, one beady orange eye peering at her with suspicion. "Look," she whispers, reaching for Jack's arm.
Jack follows her gaze. The bird studies them a moment then hops clumsily away through the leaves towards the base of a tree. Lillian holds her breath, watching as it half-extends one wing. It hops a few more paces but it looks off-balance, too damaged to fly; but it's as if it hears her thought and determines to prove her wrong for suddenly it stretches out both wings and, in one fluid movement, takes flight across the clearing to land in the lowest branch of a nearby tree. Lillian feels her heart beating in her chest, a heady mix of excitement and elation.
The sparrowhawk perches on the bough, its eye still fixed in their direction before it glides off the branch and sails low across the clearing in a showy swoop before soaring away through the trees and out of sight.
"Well how about that?" says Jack. "Lazarus rises.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“A sigh leaves Jack's lips- a soft exhalation- and in that moment she is lost. There is no Cloudesley, no Charles, no ticking clocks, no past or future; there is nothing but the clearing and Jack, and their hands clasped together. When she looks up at him, his face seems closer, so close she can see the amber flecks in the slate-grey of his eyes.
It is like gravity, she thinks, as she leans in towards him, her lips meeting his. Its is a force so natural- so inevitable- so like falling- or flying- that she isn't sure she could stop their kiss even if she tried.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“I don't think you two have even tried to beat me," says Albie with obvious dissatisfaction as he declares "Mahjong" for a final time.
"Sorry, Albie," she says. "It just wasn't going my way today. Well done." She reaches across the table and begins to stack the tiles to pack them away, her hand accidentally brushing against Jack's as he simultaneously returns his pieces to the centre of the table. She glances at him, wondering if he too felt the surge of energy pass between them.
"I'd like a rematch," says Jack, his eyes fixed firmly on Lillian's. "I feel sure I can only improve my performance with practice.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“I think it would be for the best if we both pretend yesterday afternoon- in the woods- it never happened. Wouldn't you agree?"
"I would." He takes a step closer, his eyes still locked on hers. He is no longer smiling.
"And I think we should avoid any future situations that put us in close proximity to each other."
"Like this one?"
"Yes."
Jack nods, still holding her eye, and she tries hard to control the rise of blood to her face as a fragment of something from the woods comes back to her- the sensation of his fingers running down the curve of her collarbone, his mouth against her neck.
"Good." She clears her throat. "I'm glad we understand each other."
"We do." He takes another step towards her, so close now that she wonders if it is the breeze through the open window she can feel on her skin, or his warm breath. "I think that is our problem, Lillian. We understand each other. You and I, we seem to share something."
Lillian can hear her heart beating in her ribcage.
"I felt it that first moment I saw you... at the party."
Lillian swallows.
"You feel it too, don't you?" he asks.
The sun, now low in the sky, filters through the trees outside in the arboretum, casting them both in a burnished glow. She knows she must go. She knows she must turn and leave the room, but something in his eyes holds her fixed to the spot.
"Tell me that it's not just me, that I'm not imagining this," he says in a low voice.
There is a stillness in the room, as if they both await the next breath, the next word.
She swallows. "I feel it, too."
She isn't sure who takes the next step but it doesn't really matter; she is in his arms again and he is kissing her, pulling her close and all reason and rational thought- all the jumbled arguments she has agonized over- fly away like a flock of birds startled from the branches of a tree. Her arms are wrapped around his waist and his hands are on her face and in her hair as they stumble backwards. She meets the edge of the desk, and then he is lifting her onto its surface, several brushes clattering to the floor as he presses against her.
"We mustn't," she sighs, but already her fingers are tugging at the buttons of his shirt. She parts her legs and his hands move under her skirt, his fingertips grazing the bare skin above her silk stockings.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asks, his breath hot against her neck.
But she draws him to her again, pressing her mouth against his ear to whisper her answer. "Don't stop. I don't want you to stop.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“This spark between us is so strong. Sometimes, I feel it might steal the oxygen from the air around us."
"Exactly." He smiles and leans in to kiss her on the mouth.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“What did you tell him?"
"The truth: that you're spending your days cloistered away and that you only emerge for sleep and sustenance."
Jack seizes her arm and nibbles the crook of her elbow. "I suppose that makes you sustenance, does it?”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“Ever since the sparrowhawk... since that day... you've released something in me." He clears his throat, as if embarrassed, but he doesn't stop. "For days I was all angst and despair, tortured by the blank walls, uncertain how to cover such a vast space. Then, after that first night together, it was there; the idea arrived, almost fully formed. It's exhilarating, and terrifying."
"Terrifying?"
"Yes. I'm so gripped by it that I don't want to spend too much time away from the room. I'm terrified I will lose the thread of it if I don't keep going. There's a moment when you're creating, when you lose yourself in the act of it, when you know you're finally hitting the flow of the piece. That's what I'm desperate to hold on to. Though it's quite a challenge. The size of the room means I have to work a little differently. It's all an experimental process, a sort of unfolding." He reaches out to stroke her bare shoulder. "I've never felt so inspired, so excited by a piece's possibility." He glanced at her, that wry smile of his just visible in the darkness. "I think I may have discovered my Muse."
"Cloudesley?"
He laughs and shakes his head. "No, you clot. You."
Lillian smiles. She can't think of a greater or more unexpected compliment than being called Jack's Muse.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“She falls asleep with her head resting in the crook of his arm. Jack lies next to her, listening to the wind moving through the beech trees, watching the gauze curtains lifting in the breeze, gently tracing the delicate bones in her wrist as he stares up into the darkness overhead.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“Jack pulls out the chair next to Lillian and as he sits, she feels his foot settle beside her own, a light but insistent pressure brushing against her heel. Joan teases him briefly on his newfound status as village heartthrob and engages him in a conversation about his art, but as soon as her attention is diverted by the arrival of others from the village, Jack slides his own hand beneath the table and strokes the soft part of Lillian's wrist where it rises out of her glove. "You look beautiful," he murmurs.
She jumps at his touch, the words of the fortune-teller echoing in her mind. Someone is watching. "Don't," she says. "Not here."
He has an intense way of looking at her, the undercurrent of a smile hidden in his dark grey eyes, the slightly predatory way his gaze sweeps over her that brings a flush to her skin as she remembers the intimate things he did to her the night before; her hands gripping the bedhead, the way she had bitten down on there back of her hand to prevent herself from crying out. It's agony not to be able to touch him. To hell with virtue and propriety; all she wants to do is seize his hand and drag him away from prying eyes and idle gossip and those pretty girls, back to Cloudesley, back to the privacy of her bedroom.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“They follow the road into secluded green valleys, before climbing back up into the chalk hills. She looks across at Jack and finds him smiling at her. "Eyes on the road," she warns, but she takes up his hand and places it on her warm thigh, gradually directing it under the edge of her skirt and petticoat. He glances across at her again, his smile broadening. Lillian shifts a little in her seat, parting her legs slightly, releasing a soft sigh as his fingertips graze her inner thigh.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“They have the place to themselves and for a while they simply sit and look out at the view, her body relaxing into his. The cloudless sky is a spectacular wash of graduated colors- navy highest above them, fading to lighter cyan closer to the earth, under-lit by the rosy blush of the sun hovering upon the horizon. There is a peace to the place, a certain stillness, nothing but the setting sun and the occasional silhouette of a soaring bird to distract from the awe-inspiring view.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“The most poignant image of all is one she only notices as she takes another turn and gazes at the ceiling. In a single patch of blue sky, a solitary gap in the dense canopy, she sees the outline of a familiar bird: a sparrowhawk flying free. She smiles to see it, remembering that first day with Jack in their woodland cathedral.
It's then that she realizes, finally, what the room represents. It isn't just a playful depiction of their woodland place, a triumph of the mastery of illusion. This painted room is something else entirely. It is a declaration of love. It is a veiled tribute to their love affair- a depiction of the most precious moments they have shared, laid out in a secret code only she will understand. Lillian spins around, astounded, drinking it all in.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer