The beds were full of weeds and wild grass. Once, Peter knew, they would have been well-ordered areas, growing all manner of vegetables, herbs and berries.
Behind the potager was a structure nearly as tall as the house, made of glass and iron, with a pitched roof and a conical tower at one end. The iron still had a coat of dark green paint. The glass walls were steamy with humidity and behind the fog, Peter glimpsed the silhouettes of tall growing things. It was a conservatory, attached to the house itself.
“Damn…” Peter breathed, forgetting he was not alone.
Scott laughed. “I know exactly what you mean, sir.”
Peter put his hands in his pockets, and simply looked. The thought came to him without calculation.
Annalies will want to paint this.
Then he scowled. If she could let go of her need to be fashionable and popular, then she might see the house as he did.
The reminder removed a degree of charm from the moment. Peter frowned. “Let me see the inside of the house, please,” he told Scott.
Chapter Six
When her daily painting went badly, Annalies had learned to put down her brush and take a walk. The Regent’s Park laid some distance away and was good only for long walks. However, the Lords cricket ground was at the end of Abbey Road. Even on hot days, walking upon well-mowed grass amongst trees never failed to renew her energy. It let her return eagerly to the easel.
Every day this week had gone badly, which meant Annalies spent rather more time than usual strolling the length of Abbey Road in her lightest muslin dresses, with her largest parasol.
She emerged from the house shortly before noon. She was not in the slightest bit hungry, although she would be when she returned. Instead, she fumed as she moved along Abbey Road, passing elegant houses behind stone walls, and nodding to fashionably dressed couples and groups she passed. There were many well-dressed pedestrians, for this was St. John’s Wood, one of the most sought after addresses in all of London, particularly by artists and other creative types.
It was all Peter’s fault she could not paint successfully this week. It wasn’t simply the powerful lust he generated in her, or that Tobias seemed unwilling to do more in the bedroom than sleep, which he did a great deal. It was more than that.
Peter had nudged open a corner of her mind she thought she had successfully closed. He had reminded her of her earlier work, the work she had done when she was young and naïve. When she had believed art meant painting what appealed to her, not what art-lovers wanted.
He had put his finger upon a spot which ached at the reminder. She had loved painting, in those days. When had she stopped loving to paint? Oh, she enjoyed it well enough, for learning new techniques and practicing them was absorbing. Only, she had stopped looking forward to the next time she could stand at the easel and get lost in capturing the scene in front of her, or the scene in her mind.
Annalies nearly bumped into a short gentleman in front of her and murmured an apology as she moved around him. Everyone was walking far too slowly, in her estimation.
“Why, it is Miss Williams, is it not?” the gentleman said. He had a French accent.
Annalies turned, startled. She took in the man’s dark hair, drooping mustache and sad eyes. “Why, Monsieur Tissot! I am so sorry I did not acknowledge you. I did not mean to be rude.”
He smiled, and the sadness in his eyes fled. “Your mind was elsewhere. I can tell by the paint on your fingers. You are struggling with a thought which refuses to come out upon the canvas, no?”
Annalies stared at him, startled. “Why, yes…almost exactly that. How could you possibly know that?”
“Oh, because I have been in the same position many times before.”
“You?” Astonishment rippled through her. “I refuse to believe that, Monsieur Tissot. You are one of the most prolific artists I have met.”
“Yet I, too, struggle with doubts. Please, walk with me, Miss Williams.” He waved to the space beside him.
Annalies turned back and moved alongside him. They moved down the footpath together, their pace as slow as anyone else on the street.
“It surprises you that a painter like me could struggle, hmm?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted. “You are so successful, Monsieur.”
“Am I?” he asked, his tone dry.
“Well, I did read that…only that you were very successful,” she said awkwardly.
Tissot laughed. “You read that dreadful report about my income, is what you are too refined to say.”
“I did,” she admitted. The newspaper report said James Tissot had earned more than ninety-thousand francs last year. The report included a number of paragraphs explaining that such an income was greater than that of many of the peerage, with their enormous estates. Tissot had bought a large house in St. John’s Wood, and it was rumored he served champagne to everyone who visited.
“Yet I am not permitted to join the Arts Club,” Tissot said.
“I did not know that,” Annalies said, shock slithering through her. “Why on earth would the Arts Club not want you as a member? You are adored by art lovers.”
“I am adored by people who buy my paintings,” Tissot corrected her. “Art lovers prefer Whistler and those the Academy tells them to like. My work is too workmanlike for their tastes.”
Annalies’ middle jumped. Why, she had said something similar to Peter! Tobias had also said something like it, about the dangers of alienating the Academy. “You do not seem upset that the Academy does not favor you, Monsieur,” she said carefully.
Tissot smiled. “Why would I be upset? I have a beautiful new house and fine clothes and I drink champagne whenever I want. What is there to be upset about?”
Annalies considered it. Tissot was the leading proponent of genre painting, the grubby commercial art at which the Academy turned up its collective nose. “Do you like your work, Monsieur?”
Tissot shot her a sharp glance. His gaze returned to the pavement in front of his feet for a few steps. “Last week, I finished a painting of a lord’s daughter, and when his wife saw the picture, she wept. She said it exactly captured the spirit and soul of their daughter, you see.”
Annalies drew in a breath. She had seen paintings which made her want to weep, too.
“Yes, I love my work,” Tissot added gently. “How could I not?”
“You paint what you want to,” Annalies murmured.
“Oh yes. And sometimes, the world does not agree with what I paint. Often, though, it does agree with me, very much so.” He chuckled.
Annalies considered that, her heart beating harder than their slow pace demanded.
“You do not love your work?” Tissot asked her gently.
Annalies sighed. “I did, once,” she admitted.
“Ah!”
“What does that mean, Monsieur?”
“Only that I suspect you forgot how to love what you do when it stopped being work and became art,” Tissot said.
She halted, right there on the pavement. “Do you know my cousin, Monsieur? Have you spoken to Peter recently?”
Tissot turned to face her. “I am afraid I do not know your family at all, Miss Williams. Only you, and your landscapes.”
Landscapes.
“I stopped doing landscapes a long time ago,” she breathed.
“It would explain why I no longer see them anywhere.” He turned around once more and held out his elbow. “Come along.”
Annalies took his elbow. Her hand trembled. “You know my work.”
“There is the one called…what was it? Ah, yes. Innesford. Your family home, I believe, yes?”
She nodded. “Why does everyone talk about that one?”
“Because you put your heart into the work,” Tissot replied. “And it shows.”
“Is that what you do?”
He didn’t answer at once. Then he said softly, “I am the son of a poor draper, did you know?”
“I did not,” she admitted.
/> He nodded. “I spent many years watching my parents work with gowns and dresses, hats and jackets. I developed an eye for fashion details. You may have noticed.” His tone was modest.
Annalies laughed. “I did notice. Monsieur, your details on dresses are what people love the most about your work.”
“Indeed,” he agreed complacently. “I adore such detail, myself. A lovely woman in a pretty dress moves the Academy to tears of boredom, while I itch to capture her upon the canvas. I am happiest when I can bring such an image to life. I put more than my heart into my work, Miss Williams. I put everything of myself into every brush stroke.” He rested his hand over her fingers where they laid upon his sleeve. “All your differences will be resolved if you can but allow yourself to do the same. You did, once. I have seen it for myself.”
She swallowed. All the objections rising inside her were echoes of Tobias’ lecturing tones. “I would be afraid to do that,” she whispered.
“You, afraid?” Tissot replied. He laughed. It was a cheerful sound. “I do not believe it.”
Annalies pressed her lips together.
Tissot patted her hand once more. “A turn about the grounds at the end of the road, then you and I will both return to our studios, renewed and ready, yes?”
Renewed, most likely. Ready? Annalies did not think she would ever be ready in the way Tissot was describing. She nodded, anyway.
PETER HANDED HIS HAT TO Collins. “My father, Collins?”
“In the morning room, Master Wardell. If you came down on the night train, then you will be in need of breakfast. Should I ask Cook to put something together for you?”
Peter’s stomach rumbled. Breakfast was not the first meal he had skipped in order to reach Marblethorpe as soon as possible. “Any food at all would be marvelous, thank you, Collins. And perhaps a pot of tea?”
“I delivered a fresh teapot to the morning room a few moments ago. I’ll bring another cup for you.”
“Thank you.” Peter moved through the big rooms to the smaller, but still grand, morning room. Unlike morning rooms in most households, this one did not cater to only the woman of the house. More than one wife lived at Marblethorpe, each with their respective interests, correspondence and concerns. Here, though, even the men lingered in the company of their wives, if they wished to, reading newspapers, or chatting.
Vaughn sat with Elisa at the small round table where she preferred to write her letters. Raymond was at the tall secretary by the window, frowning over a letter of his own, while the Princess Annalies sat on the sofa, a book on her lap, peering over her reading glasses at the heavy text. Jenny was in a wing chair, a lap secretary on her knees.
Everyone looked up as Peter entered and a smile moved around the room.
Peter nodded at them. “A dashing visit, I’m afraid,” he said shortly. “I have to return to London today. Father, if I might speak with you?”
“You can speak freely right here, if you wish,” Vaughn replied. He hooked the nearest upright chair closer to him with one foot and patted the seat.
Peter kissed Elisa on the cheek as she smiled at him. He settled on the edge of the seat and leaned forward. “I was at Farleigh yesterday.”
Vaughn raised his brow. “A dashing visit, indeed. Did you sleep, last night?”
“Not much,” Peter admitted.
Collins silently placed a side table beside Peter, and settled a teacup and saucer on it, along with a plate holding a slice of fruitcake. “Cook is putting breakfast together for you, Master Wardell.” He poured the tea.
“Thank you,” Peter told him.
Elisa got to her feet. “Perhaps the meal can be brought here, Collins? Peter, take my seat. You can eat here, while you talk.”
Collins deftly transferred the teacup and cake to the table, while Elisa swept her letters to one side. Peter settled at the table, while Vaughn turned to face him. He paused long enough to take an enormous bite of the cake and chew quickly. His stomach cramped emptily.
“How did you find Farleigh?” Vaughn asked.
Elisa sighed.
“It is the ugliest house I’ve ever come across,” Peter admitted. “It feels…crooked, when one is standing in it. It is the strangest sensation and quite uncomfortable.”
Vaughn exchanged glanced with Elisa. He nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it described that way, but yes. It is crooked. Ah, well. A few hundred pounds a year to preserve the family seat will have to do.”
Peter shook his head. “No. That won’t be nearly enough, Father.”
Vaughn lifted his brow. “It won’t?”
“I intend to live there…that is, if you allow it.”
“At Farleigh?” Vaughn’s tone was flat with disbelief.
Peter swallowed the second mouthful hurriedly. “Not in the big house. Not at first. I want to live in the old manor—the grounds man’s house. And, if you agree to it, Father, I want to knock that ugly mausoleum down, and build another house. A better one.”
He had not slept on the train to London, or the second train to Sussex, not because of the swaying of the train, but because his mind could not leave the matter alone. He had schemed and planned and made a great many notes. He pulled the notebook out of his jacket and opened it to the page where he had scratched diagrams and plans with his pencil, all through the night.
Vaughn twisted his head to study the open page. Peter spun the notebook for him to read it properly.
Elisa got to her feet and bent over the open notebook, too.
“Ten acres of gardens?” Vaughn said, his tone rising.
“Peter, I had no idea you even liked gardens,” Elisa murmured.
“I don’t. I mean, I did not…only because I’d never understood them until now. There is a garden about the old grounds man’s house which is utterly charming.”
Vaughn sat back. “I remember it,” he said, his tone more reasonable. “Mrs. Smith spent hours in that garden. She would pluck blackberries for me to eat, right off the bush, when I was a small boy.”
Peter nodded and gulped a mouthful of piping hot tea and hissed in reaction.
“I remember it, too,” Elisa said. “I don’t remember it being so remarkable that it would strike you in this way, Peter.”
“I don’t suppose it is all that remarkable when you consider all the gardens in England,” Peter said. “Only, I walked out of the main house and the weeds which surrounded it, straight into that garden and the contrast was astonishing. I did not know gardens could be warm, happy places with memories, until I saw that one. I’ve never met Mrs. Smith, yet I feel as though I know her. It was very strange.” He tapped the notebook. “That’s what I want to build at Farleigh,” he finished.
“Memories,” Vaughn breathed, beginning to smile.
“New memories,” Peter amended.
Elisa sighed. “How perfectly, wonderfully appropriate,” she added.
Chapter Seven
Annalies fought hard for three days.
When she returned to her easel after walking with Monsieur Tissot, she did not find herself the slightest bit ready to continue painting the vase of bright pink roses she had thought to capture.
She made herself stand at the easel, anyway. “Just one petal,” she told herself, her irritation building.
One petal was simple enough. She loaded the brush with paint and traced with her eye the outline of the petal upon the canvas. A simple little curve, to which she could add a darker pink to make the curl at the top of the petal.
She made the stroke and stepped back.
It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
With a sigh, she picked up the knife and scraped the wet paint carefully away. Then she picked up the palette once more and dabbed the brush in the pink mix. She remade the petal.
It was passable, she decided, her heart beating heavily. She moved onto the next petal, building the rosebud.
Slowly, the work absorbed her. Time passed, until she finished the first layer of the flowers and st
epped back to consider the overall effect.
It was…adequate, she decided, studying the vase on the table and comparing it to the vase on the canvas. Although why it was merely adequate escaped her. She loved roses. Was that not what Tissot meant about doing what one loved?
Only, the vase sat upon the canvas, with no inclination to make one weep.
Tobias kept to himself in the brown room that evening, giving her no chance to discuss it with him. Annalies went to bed early, to hug her pillow in the dark, her heart beating heavily.
What was wrong with her? Why did nothing make sense anymore? Painting had once been the only thing which made sense.
She wanted Tobias to come to bed, so she might draw herself up against him, and take comfort that way. She fell asleep waiting for him.
The next morning, Annalies rose, her body aching as if she had walked a dozen miles, not a mere two. She lingered over breakfast, her heart still working too hard, until she could no longer put off the moment.
She went to the studio and donned her pinafore, while staring at the adequate vase of roses. Perhaps it was marred by what had come before?
Annalies took down the canvas and inserted another in her easel, and quickly sketched the outlines of the arrangement on the table. Then, because some of the real roses were wilting, she spent more time plucking and re-arranging the blooms, trying to find an arrangement which pleased her and would make her want to paint it.
She returned to the easel and picked up the charcoal to continue outlining.
Unbidden, an image of Peter slipped into her mind. Peter, standing far too close. She felt once more the heat of his flesh and the scent of soap and of a man, as if he were right there, right now.
Annalies pressed her wrist to her belly, as her innards shifted and rolled. The charcoal in her fingers smeared black smudge upon her apron. She barely noticed. Her breath came roughly.
With enough courage, you can do without the Academy. His voice, low and deep, caressed her inner thoughts.
Annalies threw the charcoal away from her, with a low growl of her own. With angry snatches, she tugged the pinafore undone and took a long walk. This time she walked all the way to the Regent’s Park, then along the straight paths between the neat flower beds of Queen Mary’s Rose Gardens, hoping for inspiration.
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