Annalies considered that basic fact with cold deliberation.
She owed Tobias a great deal, for he had directed her success for more than a year. Only…if she was to consider her work in the hard, commercial light Peter had taught her, then had she not paid Tobias with the income from her paintings in all that time? He controlled her money, as every head of every household she had lived in had done so her whole life. As Tobias had been months without an allowance from his own well-to-do family in the north, then Annalies had been supporting him.
Surely, it settled any debt between them?
Her heart hurried as Annalies contemplated the decision she was on the verge of making.
The night she spent at Marblethorpe had been only her second night away from the striped house on Abbey Road. She escaped to Marblethorpe, she realized, because Tobias’ frigid, stiff anger had driven her from the house. She dashed to Sussex because Marblethorpe was still home in her heart.
Annalies realized she had made her decision. It had been made for her days ago, when she first rushed back to Marblethorpe. It was why she felt free to kiss Peter.
Now, she must finalize the decision. She must speak with Tobias and formally sever their relationship. Both relationships, for Tobias and she clearly disagreed upon the direction her work must take.
Peace settled into her breast. Annalies stopped fidgeting. Instead, she watched the lights of the villages and town rush past the window, and listened to the train chug, biding her time until she could unsnarl the ugly tangle of her life.
THERE WERE FEW LIGHTS BURNING in the house, when Annalies stepped into the narrow front hall, even though it was not ridiculously late, not for this household.
She put her key and reticule, gloves and hat on the stand by the door, and carried her portfolio and notebook up the stairs, to her studio. There were no lights on in the studio, and only a single pilot light along the corridor. The house was silent.
She tried the brown room first and was only a little surprised to find Tobias was there. He spent more and more time in this room, tending to affairs she had grown less interested in with each passing week.
“There you are,” she said as she shut the door. “I need to talk to you, Tobias.”
The lamp on the table was turned down so low only outlines of the furniture were visible. Tobias had pulled the wing chair over to the window and sat peering at the moon, which was a large yellow crescent hanging low in the sky. He stirred as she spoke.
“There you are.” He sounded tired. “You ran away again, today,” he added.
“I did not. I left word with Mrs. Thistlethwaite that I was taking a pair of paintings to Farleigh. Did she not tell you?”
“She did. My assertion remains.”
Annalies pulled the other wing chair over so she could sit and see his face. “Is that why you are speaking directly to me, now?”
He sighed. “We have not been kind to each other, lately, have we?”
Annalies considered it. “You have not been kind to me,” she amended. “I have, in my turn, been preoccupied with my work, which you cannot hold against me. It is all which stands between us and ruin.”
He sighed again.
“Tobias, there is something I must say—”
“No, let me speak first,” he said quickly. “Please.”
Annalies hesitated. What did it matter if she must wait to announce she was leaving? There was a skerrick of truth in his assertion that she had been unkind, after all. Ignoring everyone and everything while she painted could be cruel, even if it was unintentional.
“Go ahead,” she told Tobias, trying to sound gracious and reasonable.
He didn’t move. He didn’t sit up or stir himself. He remained slumped against the corner of the chair, his face a pale oval in the moonlight, his eyes two dark disks, the brows black slashes over them.
“I know you are unhappy, Lisa,” Tobias began.
She grimaced at the name. It was only now she realized how much she disliked it. She stayed silent, for it would be dishonest to protest that he was wrong.
“I have been distracted lately,” he continued. “Or I may have noticed and done something about it, long before now.”
Her heart thudded. Why did she feel as though doom was descending upon her? Was it something about his voice, or the defeated way he was sitting in the chair?
“I’m not sure you have ever noticed, Annalies, but I do love you.”
Her heart jumped. “Tobias—”
“No, please let me finish. I love you, far more than you realize. I love you enough that I have been willing to accept you on whatever terms you wanted, as long as you stayed in my life. Which brings us to this unhappy arrangement we find ourselves in, which I now realize might be a blessing in disguise.”
Her temples beat along with her heart. Fear touched her. “What are you saying?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer at once. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “You have been unhappy, and that is my fault. I would ask that you give me another chance. Let me prove my devotion. Let me make you happy once more.”
“We disagree about my work…” she whispered. Surely, he could see the fundamental fault which divided them?
“Not anymore,” he replied. “I spent the morning going through the paintings and your sketchbooks from this week. I see…I begin to see what you have been trying to tell me for a long time now. There is a quality in your new work which has been missing since…since you changed your style, because I asked you to.”
The pain in his voice! The ironic self-awareness was uncomfortable to listen to. Annalies pressed her fingers to her throbbing temple. “You will let me paint what I want?” she asked, disbelief making her tone twist.
“I don’t believe what I want will have any bearing on what you paint, from now on.” His tone was dry. “That is what I am trying to say and failing at it, clearly. I want you to stay with me, Annalies. Paint what you want—you will, anyway. Only stay with me.”
“Are you…asking to marry me again?” she whispered.
He gave a choking sound, soft and hoarse. “It’s too late for that. I will not complicate your life with marriage. Not now.”
“Why do you say that?” she whispered, barely able to speak the words.
Again, the sigh. He gripped the arm of the chair. “I am dying, Annalies.”
The horror, fully realized, tore through her. “No…” she whispered.
“I have suspected so for a while,” he added, his tone soft. “A few days ago, the doctor confirmed the diagnosis.”
The way he had of sitting suddenly. The pallor of his face. The perspiration which appeared suddenly at his temples. The little signs and symptoms she might have put together to arrive at this truth for herself, if only she had paid attention. “Consumption,” she breathed, her eyes aching with building tears. “Oh, Tobias…”
He did not speak. He had said everything he needed to say, anyway.
She reached for the same cool, deliberate contemplation she had used on the train, to reassemble the facts.
How could she leave Tobias, now? He wanted her to stay, on any terms. How cruel and indifferent would she be, to reject his need of her, now?
Annalies got to her feet, moving stiffly. She felt as she did after a long day of painting. Every joint ached. Her head, too. She held out her hand. “Come to bed, Tobias. You need to sleep.”
He gripped her hand with desperate strength.
Annalies drew him to the door.
LATER, WITH THE MOONLIGHT SPILLING across the white sheets, Tobias rolled away from her with a choking sound. “I’m sorry. I cannot. As much as I wish to, I haven’t the strength…” He pummeled the mattress. “I’m not left even this,” he whispered.
“It doesn’t matter,” Annalies lied, trying to ignore her throbbing, unfulfilled body. She eased herself up against his long body and took him in her arms. “This, right here. This is enough.”
That was a lie, too, yet she fel
t no qualms about the petty sin, for Tobias found comfort in it.
WHILE PICKS CLINKED AND HAMMERS thudded, while men shouted pithy encouragements to each other, Peter sank onto the pile of stones he had been transferring to the cart. He reread the telegram the post office coach had just delivered to him, trying to encompass the simple fact written there, and failing.
THREE BUYERS BID FOR PAINTING STOP SOLD FOR SEVEN HUNDRED POUNDS STOP FUNDS DEPOSITED FIRST OF MONTH STOP MORGAN FISHER
Seven hundred pounds!
The second painting Annalies had left behind for Peter had made him laugh when he first unwrapped it. It showed a dozen women of the family playing croquet on the lawn at Innesford, during one of the gathers. He even knew which gather it was, for the moment was etched in his memory. It had been years ago, and the women all wore the wide hoops, with their skirts hitched up out of the way so they could swing their croquette mallets without tangling the mallet in their skirts.
Sharla had just swung her mallet to knock her ball across the court. Only the head of the mallet flew across the lawn, to bounce and slide, while the ball shot across the gravel.
Annalies had even painted in Travers carrying his silver tray loaded with dishes, and calmly stepping over the speeding ball.
While everyone showed shock and alarm, in the background, Ben stood with his arms crossed, a knowing smile of amusement on his face. Clearly, he was the perpetrator of the disaster.
The canvas was flat, the paint merely an illusion, yet the figures in the painting moved. They lived and told stories about human nature.
That evening, Peter ate supper at the table and considered the two paintings side by side. He was tempted to keep both of them. He didn’t give a damn about the money he had lent her. He would never miss it. Now he was here on the estate and not spending a fortune on cards or drink or women in London, his allowance was piling up at the bank, untouched.
When he rose the next morning, though, he wrapped the croquet picture in the brown paper and string and had James take it to Morgan Fisher, the art dealer in Cambridge whom Peter knew, with instructions for Fisher to sell it for the best price he could get. Peter parted with the picture not to raise the money, but because he knew how good it was. He wanted to see what the art world thought of it. The price at which the picture sold would be a measure of its worth.
Peter put all thoughts of the painting aside, after that. There was far too much work to do, and the daylight hours were growing shorter. Paintings took time to sell, anyway.
Yet, three days later, he was staring at the telegram from Fisher, and the enormous sum stated there. He read the wire once more.
Seven hundred pounds.
James came over, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with his kerchief. “Bad news?” he asked diffidently.
Peter sought to find a way to explain. James had seen both pictures the same night. He smiled at the first, then studied the other, his smile fading. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I only met them the once. She is one of the nicest ladies I’ve ever met.” He looked at Peter. “Do you need to go home?”
“Not yet,” Peter said, his heart squeezing. “This is a warning, for now.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? You can brace yourself for it.”
Peter nodded, his gaze drawing back to his parents. Now, in the harsh light of a late August afternoon, Peter thrust the telegram toward James. “You saw the picture.”
James frowned over the telegram. Then his frown smoothed out. He whistled crudely, as he handed the page back. “I thought they were good, myself, although I know nothing about art. I guess they are good.”
“They are,” Peter said, folding the wire and putting it in his trouser pocket, for he wore no jacket. He got to his feet once more. “They are quite brilliant, in fact.”
Was she happy, now she was painting what she loved? He hoped so.
Then Peter forcefully thrust aside all thought of her, and returned to work, his only panacea.
It should have been the end of it. He intended that the madness halt right there. He did not have to worry any more that Annalies would find herself destitute. Fisher’s telegram told him Annalies would find all the willing buyers she needed, now. It was time for Peter to withdraw from her life.
Only, he continued to worry, because the danger of ruin still hung over her. A misstep, the wrong comment to the wrong ears, gossip passed to the wrong person…anything might expose her sinful life to the world and destroy her.
Yet there was nothing he could do about it but wait and hope that Annalies would reach out to him for help if disaster did strike.
When the Farleigh hack with the dirty orange hood hove into view at the crest of the hill in front of the manor, five days later, Peter watched it roll down the hill to the bridge and up toward the site, knowing in his bones it was Annalies. No one else was expected today. Townsend, the architect, would arrive in two days’ time with the new plans.
Had disaster struck already?
Peter dropped the hammer and rolled down his sleeves, heading for what remained of the old driveway, where the haulage and supply carts off-loaded, these days. The hack would halt there and he would rather hear the news sooner than later.
He opened the door of the coach as it halted and held out his hand.
Annalies looked startled. Then she took his hand and stepped down to the ground. She wore pale lilac muslin, edged with dark purple braid shaped and stitched into flourishes on her sleeves and hems, and was a delight to look at.
“Please stay,” she told the driver. “I will only be a moment.”
Peter drew her away from the carriage, so no one would overhear her. “Tell me,” he urged her.
Annalies bit her lip. Her eyes glittered. “After last time…”
Peter nodded.
“I wanted…” She halted, then shook her head. “No, it would be cruel to say that,” she said to herself.
Peter’s heart galloped. “Say it anyway,” he ground out.
Annalies met his gaze. Her eyes welled with tears. “I can’t be with you, Peter. Tobias is dying, and I must stay with him.”
Peter had been kicked in the hip by a horse, many years ago, and the blow had sent him flying across the yard. He had limped for months, and his hip still hurt when it rained.
Now, the blow of her words was exactly the same, striking him in the chest and making him want to stagger. Only he couldn’t move.
I can’t be with you.
She wanted to be with him and couldn’t. In one breath she had dangled hope, then snatched it away.
Peter let out a gasping breath. “He’s dying?” he croaked.
Her tears spilled. “Consumption,” she whispered. “Do you see why I cannot leave him, Peter?”
He could see it all perfectly. “No, you should not leave.” He made himself say the bitter words. “You cannot leave. You are not that sort of woman.” He pulled down the edge of his unrolled sleeve and dabbed at her damp cheeks. “Thank you for telling me,” he added. He couldn’t keep his voice even, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, anymore. “You should go back.”
She nodded. She had already anticipated returning. She had held the cab.
Peter pushed at her shoulders, turning her around. His hands shook. He took her elbow and led her back to the cab and opened the door.
Annalies looked up at him. Her eyes glistened. Her lips moved, as if she had much more to say. Then she closed them, reached up on her toes and pressed them to his cheek.
It was a hot, invisible brand.
His flesh rippled.
He helped her up into the carriage and shut the door. “Back to the station,” he told the driver. The old man tugged his brim and clicked the horses into motion.
Peter watched the carriage roll to the top of the crest and disappear. He turned and found James a few paces behind him. “I’m going back to the house,” Peter said roughly.
James didn’t look surprised. He just nodded, his mouth
twisted into a grimace.
Peter dug the last three bottles of brandy from the back of the pantry and drank all of them that night.
It blurred his thoughts, but not his love, which had blossomed because she would not leave the bastard. Because she was too kind and too honorable to take what she really wanted.
Him.
Chapter Ten
Two days later, when the consequences of drinking far too much brandy in one sitting had worn off, Peter took the day to travel to London. He had wired Townsend and arranged to meet him in his offices, rather than have the man travel to Farleigh and lose an entire day.
It was the reason he gave James for his journey. Once he had successfully concluded his business in Pall Mall, though, Peter hailed another cab and gave directions for St. John’s Wood.
Peter had acquired the address long ago. Aunt Natasha believed the striped house on Abbey Road belonged to Mrs. Thistlethwaite, who acted as chaperone and companion, cook and maid to Annalies. Natasha had been happy to give Peter the address.
He had the cab halt across the road from the house and waited. When had he learned that Annalies liked to walk in the middle of the day? She must have mentioned it in passing, perhaps more than once, and the fact had lodged in the back of his mind and lingered there.
While the horses snorted and pawed impatiently, making the carriage rock and the driver to tap the horse’s back with his whip, to calm the mare down, Peter kept his gaze upon the house across the street, waiting.
Shortly after noon, Annalies emerged from the house. Her hat was wide brimmed, her gloves lace and her parasol wide enough to cast plenty of shade. She was a vision in lace and white muslin, as she hurried across the road in front of an approaching charabanc. She slowed her steps to a steady stroll, heading south toward the cricket grounds.
Peter got out of the carriage. “Wait for me,” he told the driver. “I won’t be long.” He handed the driver an entire pound. “There’s another one when I return.”
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