A Portrait of Loyalty

by Roseanna M. White

  Maybe not, but she wasn’t exactly going to gush about her hopes and dreams concerning Zivon with DID. “I grabbed some of the new film to process at home tomorrow, if that’s all right.” She’d taken work home with her before, though on rare occasions. She had to assume he wouldn’t have a problem with it now when he hadn’t then, but she’d rather be certain than face his anger.

  Thankfully, he waved that away. “Of course. But feel no obligation to give up your day off. Tuesday is soon enough, unless you grow bored.”

  Entirely possible, since Ivy would be teaching and Mama had an aid meeting. Although perhaps she would see if Ara would like to have tea or something. They rarely had the chance to socialize outside of Charing Cross, but her friend had taken the day off tomorrow too.

  “See you soon,” Hall said by way of farewell as they mounted the stairs. He continued up them when she peeled off at the first landing and aimed herself out the back door.

  The weather was beautiful, a perfect afternoon that would lead to a perfect evening for a wedding. The warmth in the air put a bounce in her step as she hurried home.

  Eaton opened the door for her the moment her foot touched the first stair, his eyes gleaming. “You had better hurry. Miss Ivy is in a state.”

  Lily chuckled and turned toward her darkroom rather than toward where her sister waited. “I’ll be up as soon as I drop this off.”

  She did hurry, though, depositing the film in a bin, her old bag with it, and then picking up a new bag Ivy had given her to match her gown. This she’d already packed with her two favorite cameras and more blank film than she could possibly use in a single night.

  “There you are! I swear, Silly Lily.” Ivy charged into the corridor, her eyes wide, as Lily closed the door on her darkroom. “You’re going to be late! You aren’t even dressed yet.”

  “I have plenty of time.”

  The exasperated huff of breath Ivy gave her disagreed. Her sister grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward the stairs. “Up to your room, young lady. Now. I won’t have you looking anything less than perfect for this occasion, thank you very much. It’s far too exciting.”

  “Ivy.” How was it that seeing Ivy’s enthusiasm put a check upon her own? Made anxiety overtake the hope she’d been dwelling on all day? “It isn’t that exciting. I’ll be taking photos—”

  “You’ll be breathing too.” Ivy sent an amused look over her shoulder. “No point in listing what you always do as a reason for the night not being special.”

  Well, she couldn’t exactly say to her sister, “I don’t mean to get any more attached to my date until I know the government has decided he’s on the up-and-up.” She opted instead for the most convincing argument for temperance in this situation that she’d been able to land upon. “Well, how about this as a bit of cold water on the excitement? It’s been two months and he doesn’t trust me any more now than he did at day two of our acquaintance.”

  “I find that infinitely hard to believe.” If anything, Ivy quickened their pace on the stairs, rather than slowing in thought.

  “It’s the truth. He hasn’t told me anything about what drove him here. He’ll talk a bit of childhood memories, but that’s it.”

  Her sister sent her a strange look over her shoulder. One that, instead of being commiserating, seemed confused. “What else do you expect, Lil? Clarke hasn’t talked to me of battles and fears and close scrapes either.”

  Not uncommon for a soldier who’d been in the thick of things, she knew. It was too hard to process the dichotomy—the trenches, where they became mere animals, and then London again, where the world had kept on spinning. Where people had dinner parties and went to the theater and planned house parties for the weekends. “It’s different.”

  “I really don’t think it is.” Ivy’s words themselves might not have made Lily take any particular notice, but the tone demanded it. “Whatever Clarke saw at Jutland, whatever led to the pneumonia that brought him here to London, that shaped him. But it’s painful. And if I’ve learned anything from Daddy, it’s that men don’t often like to speak of what happened. Not to us, anyway. Whatever your Russian went through, it’s no doubt the same. His country is embroiled in a civil war, Lily, and he was obviously caught up in it enough that he had to escape or be killed. You think that caused him no pain?”

  “Of course it did. It separated him from his brother, for one thing.” And she knew that the silence from Paris weighed more heavily on him every day.

  “After he fled, yes. But what led up to it?”

  “I don’t know! That’s my point!” And it was that, wasn’t it, that made Hall view him with caution?

  Ivy sighed, tugging her around the landing and to the next flight of stairs. “No, you’re missing the point. He may never tell you—or maybe not for years. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he can’t talk about it. Did you know that Daddy never told Mama about his role in the Sudan until we were in school? Ten years of marriage before he could talk about it with her. And I certainly hope you’re not going to say that Daddy didn’t trust her.”

  Lily’s breath abandoned her. “How did you learn that?”

  Ivy pulled Lily onto the same step and wove their arms together. “I had the same fears as you, you know. With Clarke. He never mentions the war, the battles, the . . . anything from when he was on a ship. Sometimes he’ll mention a friend or relate a funny story. But nothing real. Nothing ugly. So I asked Mama.”

  What a simple way to get a bit of advice—one she’d never thought of when it came to this. “So I’m just being unreasonable?”

  “Impatient, anyway.” Ivy beamed a smile of pure sunshine at her. “We must grant them time. And give them the certainty that whatever nightmares haunt them, we’re willing to stand by their sides. Willing to be silent about it, if that’s what they need. Willing to listen if and when they’re ready to talk.”

  Lily bumped her shoulder into Ivy’s. “When did you get to be so grown-up, anyway?”

  “Gracious if I know. Probably when I had to learn how to wrangle a classroom full of eleven-year-olds on my own.” She bumped Lily’s shoulder back. “May I say one more thing?”

  Lily chuckled. “Could I keep you from it?”

  Her sister studied her for a moment as they turned in unison toward their bedrooms. “I don’t think it’s just a matter of whether you think he trusts you. I think it’s a matter of whether you trust him.”

  “And she’s grown wise too,” Lily said to the portrait of Great-Aunt Matilda on the wall.

  Great-Aunt Matilda clearly found it a marvel as well. The arch of her brows said so.

  Ivy laughed. “I have to think it’s that his previous world was so far removed from what’s familiar to us. I can convince myself that I don’t need to know what happened aboard the ship because it’s nothing every other wife and sweetheart of a sailor isn’t wondering too. It’s not unusual—whatever he lived through, and his silence. But Mr. Marin . . . his experiences are surely quite different from the average English lad’s. So, can you live with that, or is it cause to break things off?”

  The words sent a jolt through Lily, making her pause with her hand outstretched toward her door. “Who said anything about breaking things off?” She couldn’t imagine doing that. Or wanting to do that. Her questions, and Hall’s doubt, weren’t loud enough to drown out the allure of another hour in Zivon’s company. Of hearing the beautiful way he shaped his vowels, of watching him take in the world around him. Of seeing his thoughts go deeper and deeper the longer they talked. Of cajoling him into teaching her a common phrase in a language she didn’t know.

  What would a week be without learning how to say “pass the salt” in Slovakian or Bulgarian or Portuguese?

  Ivy opened her door for her, presenting the chamber with a flourish of her hand. “Things can’t go on as they are forever, you know. You either move forward or you give him leave to pursue someone else. He isn’t exactly fresh from university. He’ll want a wif
e sooner or later.”

  At least she didn’t go on to point out that Lily wasn’t exactly in her first season anymore either. She set her bag on a padded chair and moved toward her dressing screen, where tonight’s evening gown was already hanging, ready for her. “Aren’t you the one who was waxing poetical about enjoying the ‘now’ of a courtship?” She paused at the screen, wiggling her shoulders upon remembering the day dress she was currently wearing had buttons down the back.

  Her sister obligingly slipped the buttons free. “But if he does share more, as you clearly wish he would, that would change things. The truth of his past will either push you away or draw you closer. But it will, without a doubt, change things.”

  A miniature circus sprang to life in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure if it was from fear or anticipation. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re probably right.”

  “Of course I am. I’m wise, you know.” The last button must have been free, because Ivy gave her a little nudge. “You may, in fact, refer to me as O Glorious Sage. Or perhaps—”

  “Enough!” Laughing, Lily slithered out of her day dress and reached for the evening gown. It was a few years old, but she’d only worn it a handful of times, so it still looked practically new.

  She emerged from the screen a minute later, smoothing the fabric into place. “I still wish we’d had pockets put in this.”

  She couldn’t help but grin because she knew Ivy would roll her eyes. “It would have ruined the lines. You can’t always weigh your skirt down with a camera, you know. That’s why you’re carrying a bag.”

  One that Ivy had presented her with a proud smile two weeks before. It was sturdy enough to hold her equipment, but it was also made of a beautiful brocade that perfectly complemented her dress. “It is indeed.” She sat at her dressing table and reached for her hairbrush. “All right. I suppose I’m ready for you to call Caroline in to do my hair.”

  “I have an idea.” The words were whispered directly into Lily’s ear, still barely audible over the orchestra, even as fingers closed over hers. Her heart skipped, tripped. Zivon, of course—she’d know the voice anywhere.

  But somehow the touch, unexpected as it was, felt far different than when he usually took her hand. “Why do you not put the camera down just for a few minutes, and we can dance?”

  She didn’t dare turn her head much, given how close his face must be to hers. But she couldn’t resist a bit of a tilt so she could see his eyes. They glowed with a smile, brighter than she usually saw from him. That alone would have had her lowering her camera. Or, more accurately, swinging it around to snap a quick picture of him instead of the bride and groom.

  He laughed and lowered the Kodak. “You surely have enough of those by now.”

  “Never.” She smiled at the man who hovered a few inches away. He’d been more than patient with her duties this evening, never saying a word when she slipped away for a different angle of something, other than to ask her if he could help.

  If he wanted to dance, she owed it to him. And didn’t at all mind the intrusion upon her assigned task, to be perfectly honest. She put the Kodak into her bag, tucked it out of the way, and put her hand in his so he could lead her onto the dance floor.

  When he swung her around to face him with more flair than she’d expected, she laughed. “Why am I surprised that you like to dance?”

  His brows lifted, better to showcase the glimmer in his eyes. “I do not know. My mother always said every good Russian should know how to dance. She taught us from the time we were boys.”

  That she could imagine—a miniature Zivon, with that curl falling stubbornly onto his forehead, dancing with his mother. He’d have approached it seriously, almost mathematically. And she’d bet he hadn’t stepped on his matushka’s feet more than once. That grace of his was already making itself known within their first few revolutions of the waltz. “So can you do the Cossack dance?”

  His laugh was quick, deep. “Do I look like a Cossack?”

  “Hmm.” She made a show of looking him over. “Not to my way of thinking, but I’ve never met one. Perhaps they all have a charming curl to their hair that they try to deny and all move with the grace of a . . . a . . .” She lifted her brows. “What’s an animal of the Russian plains known for its graceful running?”

  His lips twitched. “Reindeer?”

  Another laugh bubbled up. “No. Not at all what I was thinking. Don’t you have leopards or something in Russia? Tigers, even?”

  “We have. And I like this image much better.” He puffed out his chest, lifted his chin. “Zivon, the mighty tiger.”

  At this rate, she’d giggle herself into tomorrow. “Zivon, the mighty dancing tiger.”

  He widened his eyes in mock horror. “No, no. Tigers do not dance. If we are looking for a Russian dancing animal, it must be the bear.”

  The image sent her into another peal. “Dancing bears are not graceful!”

  “Shh. Do not say that.” He leaned close, as if imparting a great secret. “Their feelings are very sensitive. Everyone knows not to insult a dancing bear.”

  He spun her around, his hand landing on her back again with unerring precision. She shook her head, smiling. “And did your mother hope to give you all the skills of a bear when she taught you to dance?”

  Another twitch of his lips. This time a grin broke its way into the corners. “She was more set on the French dances, I confess.”

  “As I suspected. Now.” She tilted her head closer to his. “We shall truly test your mettle when the orchestra takes a break. I overheard the bride’s sister-in-law saying that a few of them are forming a small ragtime band that will entertain us for about half an hour, and I happen to be an expert ragtime dancer.”

  “I do not even know what this is. Ragtime?” He didn’t look intimidated at the thought of something new, though. His mother really must have taught him well.

  She grinned. “You’ll see. The Americans brought it over with them. Apparently it’s all the rage across the pond.”

  “Ah. Well, if it involves me dancing with you, I am certain to like it.”

  Heavens. She couldn’t blame her rocketing pulse on the dance, not when he looked at her as he was doing now. “I have no doubt you’ll be king of the dance floor, Zivon the Mighty Tiger.”

  His chuckle filled the space between them, warmed her, held her. His gaze caressed her face. “I like this Lily.”

  She bit back a grin. She was certainly more flirtatious than her usual self. “Hopefully not too much. I’m not certain where she usually hides.”

  But that only made him laugh more. “Perhaps what I should have said is that I like that both Lilys are within you.” He pulled her closer. Not much, not enough that anyone would look at them and think anything of it. Just enough that she noticed. “To be honest, I have yet to see a Lily I do not like.”

  She’d probably ruin the effect of This Lily if she were to squeak out an uncertain Oh? like she wanted to do. So she smiled instead. “I’m glad to hear it. Because I’m rather fond of Zivon the tiger, Zivon the dancing bear, and Zivon the loping reindeer.”

  The thrumming of her heart wasn’t because of the music. Or the next fraction closer he pulled her. It was because, for the first time, his smile went all the way to his eyes, through them, and lit something behind them.

  She’d never tasted a victory so sweet.

  His fingers moved just a bit against her back. Enough to make her aware of them anew. His shadowless gaze moved likewise across her face. “Did I mention how beautiful you are tonight? Like the lilies of the field, whose splendor eclipses that of a king.”

  Biblical flattery. It made her grin. “You did, but not so eloquently before. I won’t object to the poeticism, even if it is blatant exaggeration.” She nodded toward the bride and groom, who had taken to the dance floor as well. “Only one of us is allowed to eclipse Solomon in his splendor tonight, and it is without a doubt Margot.”

  His smile when he looked at his colleag
ue, however, was more amused than charmed. “She does not look as though her mother insisted she have a dance lesson twice a week, does she?”

  She directed her gaze there too. Margot definitely didn’t take up her position on the dance floor opposite her new husband with obvious joy. She held herself stiffly, precisely, and Lily could all but hear her reciting the proper angles and planes and lines to herself.

  But then Drake pulled her closer than he needed to, leaned down, whispered something into her ear, and her whole demeanor changed. Precision melted into . . . trust, she saw as she watched them move. Margot kept her gaze fixed on his eyes, kept her limbs where he’d positioned them, and let him whisk her around the floor.

  “Sorry.” Lily tugged Zivon back toward her bag. “That demands a photo. Quickly, before their expressions change.”

  Zivon laughed and moved with her. “Of course it does. Do you know what you need, Lily of the fields? A strap on your camera, so you can loop it around your neck.”

  “Now, that is a good idea.” She rushed to her satchel and pulled the Kodak back out, taking a moment to model how it would look. “A necklace to put the jewels to shame, I should think.”

  “It can flash brighter than any diamond.”

  She laughed and opened it up. Whatever had gotten into her had clearly infected him too. She had a feeling this was a night she’d not soon forget.

  13

  For the first time in more years than he cared to count, Zivon found himself plotting how he might convince a girl to slip away from the crowds with him long enough to steal a kiss. He could probably achieve it by wondering what the dance, in full swing, would look like from outside the French doors, looking into the ballroom. Or suggest that they position themselves by an exit to get an unhindered shot of the bridal couple when they left for the night, which surely they would do soon.

  Or, if she kept giving him those looks that said she was having every bit as good a time as he was, he might just forget himself and kiss her in the middle of the crowd.