1883, Baycliff, an isolated English village on the Irish Sea. Two womens friendship becomes passion. Cynara, a sculptor, alone, befriends Byron, a visitor whos left Paris in unhappiness. They ride horses, talk, play chess, and exchanging tenderness. Byron inspires Cynara as she sculpts, Cynara becomes Byrons muse as she writes. Then each imagines expressing physical passion to the other, Cynaras visions in black and white, Byrons in color. Their touches remain brief. Does respectability hold them back? What might pull down any last barriers to their expressions of love?
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