Then back to her studio with reluctant steps, her thoughts a jumble which made her skin flush, her heart to thud and her guilt to stir. Not all her thoughts were of Peter and the moment when she recognized he wanted to kiss her, yet they were guilt-laden, for what she was thinking was disloyal to Tobias.
She returned to the new canvas and stared at the still-wilting roses on the table, her thoughts far away. She drifted over to the storage room and opened the door. The smell of turpentine and oil was strong. After all these years, the aroma was pleasant because of its association with painting. Along the floor, propped against the walls, were dozens of completed paintings, stacked eight or ten deep. Annalies bent and brought the first painting forward, so she could see the one behind it.
A still life, this one of a table with a paisley cloth and a book, the background indistinct. This stack included the most recent pictures. The farther back into the storage room, the older the paintings.
Slowly, she flipped through each painting, letting herself stare at them and not assess them. She blinded herself to the flaws, the weak techniques. Instead, she tried to see them as someone would for the first time.
She came to the first landscape a long way back into the room and paused. It was a simple farmer’s field, in the haying season. Only half the field was harvested, and an entire household of people gathered to tie the big sheaves of hay. In the foreground, the farmer stood mopping his brow, while staring at the remainder of the enormous field still to be cropped. He was exhausted, but there was simple pride and contentment in his face.
The farmer was John Shaw, one of Jasper’s tenant farmers. Annalies had watched the haying two summers ago and captured the moment in her sketchbook.
She worked her way through the rest of the pictures, her heart hammering. There were landscapes, seascapes. Portraits.
One of the last was also one of the oldest, a picture Annalies would never sell or even give away. It was set at Innesford, during one of the great family gatherings. It was the year her mother married Raymond, in a flurry of preparations which involved the entire family. The picture was of the moment they announced the marriage to the family, in the drawing room.
Annalies let her gaze wander over the details, remembering the tense, astonishment-filled moment. In the picture, Raymond held her mother’s hand, just as he had in that moment. Everyone seemed to catch their breath at the same time as delighted understanding dawned upon them. Her mother, with the thick white streak running from her temple, had glowed. Yet doubt still touched her, as she confronted her friends and her family with the fact that she intended to marry again. Her dress was one of the old-fashioned full-hooped gowns, which had been the height of fashion, then.
And there… There was Rhys, looking as if he had taken a fist to the jaw. Aunt Annalies for whom she had been named, a knowing smile beginning to form, as she pressed her hands together.
Cian, just barely out of boyhood, yet already tall, looking uneasy about the news, although not surprised.
Annalies ran her gaze over the picture, cataloging the reactions as she remembered them. She had painted the picture many years after the moment itself. Most of it was based on memory. She had used over a dozen sketches in her notebook of the people in the picture, which she collected over the years, to help her assemble the painting into a whole.
She sank to the dirty floor, her pinafore folding around her, staring at the picture. Her eyes prickled hard.
Oh, how she missed everyone! How she missed Innesford. Marblethorpe, too!
Annalies buried her face in her hands and wept a few bitter tears. She had known from the beginning that her decision to live with Tobias would isolate her from the family. This was the first time the separation felt like a burden.
How she longed to be with them, once more!
She wiped her face with the hem of her apron and moved back out to the studio proper. From the bookshelf, she plucked at random a half-dozen of her filled sketchbooks and settled at the table to go through them. She pushed the vase of pink roses away from her to make room.
One hour became two, then three, as she worked her way through all her sketchbooks. On the pages were collected thoughts and feelings she’d experienced across years of her life. It was a diary of a different sort, for she remembered every sketch, as if she had just drawn it.
She paused at one page, her heart thudding, as she studied the rough outline, which was full of life despite the hurried markings. It was of Peter, stepping through the door of the kitchen at the Academy, looking for her. That was the exhibition from which the Academy forced her to withdraw, because of the scandal surrounding Jenny’s divorce proceedings. Annalies had retreated to the kitchens, too upset to think, and Peter found her there. He stepped through the door…and everything was resolved, after that. He let her cry upon his shoulder, then took her and every single one of her pictures home.
In that moment, he had been coming to find her. There was another moment, when he had walked away from her…
Sickness gripped her chest and tightened her throat, as Annalies remembered that awful moment in the maze, last year. It was the moment when she fully understood what her decision would cost her.
The fury in his eyes, when she told him! Only, it wasn’t just fury. There was fear there, too. Then he just…turned and left.
Annalies realized she had stood and collected her current notebook without thinking about it. She laid it upon the table and plucked the pencil from the spine and turned to a fresh page.
Quickly, she roughed out how the moment of departure might have looked to an outsider. Peter had not seen her after he left, of course. No one had. Annalies had stayed in the little pocket of hedges until she could face the world once more.
Only now she found the images forming by themselves, spilling out upon the page as if they resented having been locked inside her all this time.
When Mrs. Thistlethwaite came to call her for lunch, Annalies ignored her. Instead, she set up a fresh canvas. A large one, turned to the horizontal. With her sketchbook propped upon the stool beside her, Annalies transferred the images to the canvas.
Then she scraped off and cleaned a palette and got to work.
Annalies didn’t notice Mrs. Thistlethwaite place the plate of sandwiches upon the table. She only stirred when the light was failing and she could no longer see the canvas well enough to distinguish details. She glanced up at the glass roof, overhead, frowning. It was almost completely dark, which meant it was very late.
For the first time, she noticed her body was stiff from being held so long in one position. Her feet throbbed in her boots.
Her head ached.
Annalies forced herself to put the palette down and creep through the dark and still house to her bedroom. Tobias was asleep on the other side of the bed. Only now did she remember that he had looked in upon her somewhere during the day or night. He may have spoken to her. She had not spoken to him.
She undressed and slid into bed and was almost instantly asleep.
It was late when she woke the next morning. Tobias was gone. Dismayed at losing so much good light, Annalies dressed in the same gown and went directly to the studio.
Mrs. Thistlethwaite stood at Annalies’ easel, the vase of wilting roses and the plate of untouched, stale sandwiches in her hands. Her eyes were very large as she studied the half-completed picture.
“Mrs. Thistlethwaite!” Annalies cried, for she hated anyone looking at her pictures before they were finished.
Mrs. Thistlethwaite jumped. “Oh, oh, I’m so sorry! I just couldn’t help but look and then I couldn’t stop looking!”
Annalies’ breath caught. She moved around the easel to look at the canvas. There was enough of it completed to understand the scene. A high hedge, with a grand, sand-colored house behind it and pale blue summer sky in the corner. A stone bench, with a woman with black hair collapsed upon it, propping herself up, despair pulling at every line of her body. In the far left corner, the heel o
f a shoe lifted and the lower edge of a man’s trousers were to be seen, as he moved out of the picture.
“Do say you will finish this one,” Mrs. Thistlethwaite murmured.
“I think so, yes,” Annalies whispered back.
“I’ll get you a pot of tea.”
Annalies’ belly burbled emptily.
“And a scone,” Mrs. Thistlethwaite added.
Annalies didn’t hear her go. She picked up the palette and her brush, her mind already three strokes ahead of the brush.
ANNALIES FINISHED THE PICTURE AT sunset that night. Her entire body throbbed with tiredness as she hung the cover over the easel. She made herself eat the sandwiches Mrs. Thistlethwaite brought her during the day and now she wanted nothing but to lie and rest for a moment.
She put her head upon the pillow and closed her eyes, only to open them a moment later, to find the sun high in the window, and the warm day half over. She had slept the clock around.
Annalies bathed quickly, while deciding what to wear for the day. As she rinsed the last of the soap from her skin, she paused, astonished, for she had been humming. She giggled and pressed her hand to her lips.
Energy bubbled in her veins, making her want to skip and run. She dressed swiftly. She couldn’t wait to return to the studio once more. She was brimming with ideas.
She hurried downstairs and along the back passage to the studio. The studio had been added to the house in the last few years, when St. John’s Wood became a fashionable address among artists and artisans.
The door had large glass panes in it, to encourage every scrap of light to enter the studio. She paused, her hand on the handle, for Tobias stood behind her easel, the cover thrown back.
He was studying her finished painting, and his face was thunderous.
Annalies drew back from the door, her heart hammering. She had forgotten, in the last two days, everything Tobias said about wooing the Academy, about advancing one’s career with smart choices.
She had not once considered how angry he would be about her painting a picture like the one on her easel. In fact, she had forgotten everything but the joy of pouring that moment upon the canvas and letting it speak for itself.
Annalies leaned against the wall, breathing hard. She didn’t want to face Tobias now. Not now. Not today.
“Lisa!!” Tobias shouted, loud enough to be heard upstairs, which was where he still thought her to be.
Annalies jumped. She pressed her hand to her mouth to hold in her gasp.
“Mrs. Thistlethwaite!” Tobias shouted again.
Mrs. Thistlethwaite would hurry to answer the summons and would find Annalies hovering in the corridor. Annalies turned and walked back to the front of the house, her heart strumming.
She picked up her reticule from the sideboard in the front hall. Briefly, she considered collecting her gloves and hat and parasol. She could not be bothered with any of it.
She let herself out through the front door and hurried along the footpath until she saw a cab and hailed it. She climbed in and gave directions.
Her heart did not calm at all during the short journey. Mayfair was clogged with the big carriages of families leaving London now the season was officially ended, loaded down with trunks and all manner of luggage.
Even if the journey had only taken a heartbeat or two, it still would have been too long.
Annalies rapped on the door and stepped into the sitting room to wait as directed. She could not sit down. She could barely stand still. She paced, instead.
Peter opened the door and moved in, closing it behind him. He was in shirt sleeves, which she barely processed, although she did notice that the right sleeve had violet ink stains.
“Anna, what are you doing here?” His voice was a low rumble.
Annalies stopped in front of him. “You owe me one hundred pounds.”
For a moment he did not react. Then the corners of his mouth turned up. He smiled, the smile growing warmer. Then he laughed.
Annalies laughed, too. She couldn’t help it. All the delight, the heated energy, burst out of her, scalding her veins and making her spirit soar even higher. Yet even that was not enough. It didn’t do this feeling justice at all.
She kissed him, instead.
Chapter Eight
As soon as she pressed her lips against his, Annalies realized her joy over the finished painting had been merely an excuse. She wanted the kiss itself, not simply the expression it gave her.
She moaned, as she felt the firmness of his lips against her own. She felt the tickle of his beard. His flesh smelled just as she remembered. It was the essence of Peter.
The pit of her stomach clenched and throbbed.
Peter held still, perhaps frozen by surprise, or maybe even horror. His stillness let her slide her hand up into his hair. It was soft as down. It tickled the insides of her fingers and sent another shiver of delight through her.
She realized she was pressing against him, her whole body from breast to knee, yet it was still not enough.
Peter gave a deep groan and gripped her waist. He lifted her and turned her, and pressed her back against the door, and held her there with his body, with more delightful pressure than she had managed. Heat and power drove against her and she gasped, pleasure spearing her.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her. His tongue drove into her mouth, to sweep against her own and explore every inch. He peppered her face with kisses, before returning to her mouth and driving deeply into it once more.
Breathless, her stays far too tight for her to pull enough air into her lungs, Annalies barely stood. Her knees trembled. Her body ached. She wanted Peter with a raw torrid need which dwarfed any of the gentle longing Tobias had ever inspired. The power of her need drove all thought from her mind and filled it instead with carnal images of Peter’s body against hers, flesh on flesh.
Peter released her mouth. He pushed his hand against the door beside her head and propped himself up, breathing hard.
Annalies rested her hand against his cheek. “More,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Even this is too much.” He stepped away from her.
Annalies propped herself up against the door with her hands. She trembled.
Peter smoothed his hair back into place with a shaking hand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded Sterling note, lifted her wrist and put the money on her palm.
She curled her fingers over it.
Peter fitted his hands around her waist, making her heart soar once more. Yet he merely lifted her and turned her and put her back upon the floor, facing the door. He touched his lips to her cheek, then opened the door.
“Go back to your easel,” he told her. “Explain how you feel to the canvas, not me.”
Annalies drew in a deep, deep breath. Understanding dawned. Yes, she could do that. She knew exactly how to do it, now.
She put the money in her pocket, picked up her reticule and left.
PETER ESCAPED LONDON BARELY TWO days after Anna had come to visit. Even in his mind, he would not let himself think of the kiss. It was too dangerous to think of it. Even recalling the moment in an abstract way had the power to bring his thoughts to a halt and leave his body quivering.
Work was the only solution. For two days, he visited the offices of contractors and architects, other consultants and experts. Then, when nothing was left for him to do in London, he packed a trunk and took the train to Farleigh.
Scott waited for him once more, this time with a simple gig. Together, they heaved the heavy trunk onto the back. Peter had bought Wellingtons in London and changed into them on the train. He swapped his formal jacket for a new corduroy one.
On the way to Farleigh, he removed his collar and cuffs and tie, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. The air bathed his exposed skin.
“We’ll need fresh gravel for the road,” he told Scott as they bounced along the rutted road to the house. “It is about to get busy.”
“Right y
ou are, sir,” Scott said.
“Peter,” he replied.
“James, then,” Scott returned, with a grin. “I think I might hang about for a while to watch, if you can use my services?”
“You don’t need to tend your other estates?”
“They can spare me for a week or two. All the masters are home now, anyway.” Scott clicked his tongue to encourage the mare to cross the little stone bridge.
“And fix the bridge,” Peter said, glancing down at the crumbling edges of the arches.
“And then?”
“Then I will take great delight at smashing down the walls of that edifice,” Peter said, eyeing the monstrosity as it came into view.
“That is something I want to see,” James Scott said firmly, delight in his voice.
The next week was one of the hardest weeks of Peter’s life. He was not afraid of physical work and immersed himself in any project in an effort to eject Annalies from his mind. There was plenty of work to be found.
He and Scott took a room each in the old grounds man’s house. Peter’s room looked down upon the front garden. Every morning he woke to the scent of green growing things wafting through the window with the morning breeze, which delighted him.
James found a woman in the village to cook and clean for them. For the first day, Peter tramped about the estate, measuring and making plans, and filling his notebook with details and ideas.
The next day, carts arrived filled with laborers with sledgehammers and picks over their shoulders, chests of tools and more.
The first task was to demolish the new manor. Peter moved through the building, checking to see what should be removed. He came away empty handed.
“Even the kitchen has been stripped of anything useful,” James added as Peter rolled up his sleeves and picked up the sledgehammer he had borrowed. “It’s as if everyone knew they would never return.”
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