Risk of Ruin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Iefan smiled. He had a nice smile, which Annalies had only realized of late. He’d rarely smiled in the past. He held the front champagne glass toward Mairin, who plucked it carefully out of his fingers, then held the second to Annalies. “I’ve been trying to go without it as long as I can.”

  “At first, he could only manage for a few hours at time,” Mairin said. “Now, it is most of a day.”

  “And tonight, I am stretching my boundaries, although Mairin will have to find other dance partners tonight, for dancing is still beyond me.” He raised his glass toward Annalies. “She can better woo new customers on the dance floor, anyway.” And he winked.

  Annalies laughed and drank the still-chilly champagne. By the end of the night, the bubbling liquid would be intolerably warm.

  Mairin caught at Iefan’s arm. “I was just telling Lisa Grace about Archibald Newman.”

  Iefan nodded. “Yes, he couldn’t find your work at any of the usual galleries,” he said. “No one seemed to know where to find you, when he enquired.”

  Annalies’ heart sank. “He was looking for me?”

  Iefan rolled his eyes. “He saw one of your paintings for sale at a dealer’s establishment in Cambridge. He even bid on it and lost. Not because he wouldn’t raise his prices, but because the dealer closed the bidding too quickly for him to offer a higher price.”

  Cambridge. She didn’t know a single dealer or auction house in all of Hertfordshire. Cambridge was the market town closest to Farleigh and Annalies knew with utter certainty that the painting Archibald Newman had bid on was the croquet painting. Peter had sold it. She hoped he had made his money back and then some.

  Annalies was practiced at dismissing thoughts about Peter from her mind. Sometimes it took a great deal of concerted effort. Tonight, though, she had this intriguing prospect before her. “Mr. Newman likes my work?”

  “Likes?” Mairin asked. “He adores the painting. He has been turning the art houses upside down, looking for more. When he learned Iefan was your brother-in-law, he was beside himself.”

  Annalies’ heart pattered. None of her paintings were in the galleries right now because Tobias was too ill to visit them and show them her latest work. Annalies could not visit them herself. Even if a woman could enter into business transactions, she still wouldn’t know what to say to any of them. How did one go about selling their work?

  Iefan drained his glass of the last drops of brandy. “Newman is here tonight. Let me introduce you.”

  Annalies drew in a slow breath. “Just like that? I am to speak to him and…and he will buy something?”

  Mairin laughed softly. Iefan raised a brow. “It really is that simple,” he assured her. “Did you think selling wares was difficult?”

  Annalies clenched the stem of her glass, discomfort building in her middle. “I wouldn’t know what to say. How does one sell something? You two do it all the time.”

  Mairin bumped her shoulder against Annalies’. “I think you have already cleared the greatest hurdle, Lisa Grace. You are not fainting at the idea of crass commerce.”

  Iefan nodded. “After that, when a buyer is as eager as Archibald Newman, all you need do is tell them about your latest work. I’ve seen you speak about your work before, Annalies. You have a natural and infectious enthusiasm. The selling will take care of itself, after that.”

  Annalies drank deeply. “Then, you had best introduce me to Mr. Newman.”

  ARCHIBALD NEWMAN WAS A COMMONER, who had grown up amongst the slums of Carlisle, barefoot and hungry. He was still a lean man, with a head of snowy white hair and youthful eyes. His tuxedo was conservative and very proper, and also very expensive. Annalies picked out the details of French tailoring, while the man gave her a deep bow and smiled at her.

  Iefan, who stood to one side, said, “Lady Williams was just telling me about the paintings she finished this week, Archibald. They sound intriguing.”

  Newman raised his white brow. “Indeed. What have you completed lately, Lady Williams?”

  “Annalies, please,” she replied. She had said nothing at all to Iefan about this week’s work. He had said so merely to give her an excuse to speak about her work. Annalies took a deep breath and spoke of the landscapes and portraits and narratives she had been building with the help of her extended sketchbooks and memory. Archibald Newman asked questions, sounding honestly curious. She found herself complaining about the inadequate light in winter, the tribulations of having to stop work to deal with mundane matters such as sleeping and eating and attending balls…

  He had laughed loudly, drawing the attention of ball-goers as they streamed passed. The four of them stood by the large and tall doors which opened upon the back balcony where dancers took air and recovered from their exertions.

  “Do you draw from real life at all, Miss Annalies?” he asked.

  “As my sketchbook notes are all taken from life, I suppose everything I do is a study of real life,” Annalies replied. “It is often difficult for me to get away from the house, though.” The statement came perilously close to speaking about Tobias and her heart thudded unhappily.

  “Yes, I imagine being an unmarried and unaccompanied maiden makes an artist’s life quite difficult. I understand James Tissot sets up his easel wherever he wants, and remains for days on end, while his staff bring hot meals as needed.”

  Annalies didn’t think it was true for a moment. Tissot liked his house and his things. However, it did make a colorful story. She smiled, not refuting the tale. “I must sound very ungrateful. I am lucky to devote my life to painting.”

  “The bigger mystery is why the world has not discovered you before now,” Newman replied. He tugged at his cuffs. “How would you feel about taking a small vacation in the north, Miss Annalies?”

  “A…vacation?”

  “A working retreat. The light in the north, especially at this time of year, is soothing.” Newman hesitated and glanced at Iefan. “I have a proposal…should I speak to you, Davies?”

  Iefan smiled. It was an easy expression. “If it makes you more comfortable to do so, then by all means. Annalies is happy to discuss business, though.”

  Annalies nodded, her heart hurting. She didn’t know if she was happy to discuss business, although she was willing to try, especially if Iefan lingered to listen. He did not seem to be in a hurry to move away from the conversation.

  “Perhaps we should find chairs and a quiet corner?” Newman suggested, glancing around.

  “There is a private library upstairs,” Annalies suggested.

  Mairin took her empty champagne glass from her hand. “Only tea or water now,” she murmured. She added in a louder voice, “I will find a footman to bring us more refreshments.”

  Annalies led the way up the crowded stairs to the upper level library. There were many rooms along the gallery. The rooms were usually empty for people lingered on the balcony to watch the dancers below.

  No one was in the library, as she had hoped, for it was at the far end and around the corner from the gallery. Iefan shut the door and lingered by it, while Newman settled himself on the arm of one of the pair of tucked and buttoned leather sofas facing each other in the center of the room.

  Annalies didn’t want to sink upon the lower level of the sofa. She didn’t know why. In her heart she knew that putting herself at a lower level would also put her at a disadvantage in some way. She certainly didn’t want to sit and crane her neck to look up at Newman.

  So she turned and rested her rear upon the arm of the opposite sofa, twisting a little so she could look at Newman without turning her head completely to one side. She rested her hands in her lap.

  Newman smiled, as if he recognized what she had done. His eyes twinkled. “I would like you to paint a series of family portraits for me, Miss Annalies. Each of my family, and a group portrait. But not just any portraits. I want to feel about the pictures you paint of my family the way I did when I saw the picture of your family playing croquet.”

&nb
sp; Annalies nodded. She knew, now, what Newman was asking for. A year ago, she would have been puzzled. “That is something I can do,” she said, as calmly as she could. Then, because this was commerce and discussions of money were part of commerce, she made herself speak, even though deep discomfort lodged beneath her ribs and made her temples throb. “How much would you be willing to pay for such a series, Mr. Newman?”

  He didn’t look disgusted or even startled. Instead, Newman merely appeared thoughtful.

  Iefan smiled, behind the man’s back. He seemed to be laughing silently.

  Newman scratched his thick white beard. “The winning bid on the croquet picture was seven hundred pounds,” he said thoughtfully.

  Annalies barely hid her shock. Seven hundred pounds! It was an enormous sum.

  Behind Newman, Iefan’s gaze drilled into her. He held out his hand, the palm up, and lifted it in little movements.

  Up.

  Annalies nearly nodded, as she realized what he was saying. She met Newman’s steady gaze. “I am afraid my prices are higher now, Mr. Newman. That was nearly a year ago.”

  He considered it. “Understandable,” he admitted. “What are your rates now?”

  Annalies could barely think for the thundering in her heart and her head. Dimly, she recalled Peter’s talk of overheads and the cost of her time. Expenses…. “I keep my own house, Mr. Newman,” she found herself saying. “Plus my colourman’s bills increase every month. I only use the best, you see.”

  “And her work is in demand,” Iefan said. “That is why you rarely see it lingering in galleries.”

  Annalies thought her heart would burst.

  Newman, though, merely nodded and waited for her to name her price.

  Do not stutter! she told herself and drew in a breath. “A thousand pounds per finished picture.” The words came out evenly, as if she spoke such words every day.

  Newman didn’t faint or protest. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You will not have your usual expenses, while you are a guest at my home,” he pointed out.

  “My expenses do not halt because I am not in the house,” Annalies replied. “The house is not shut down. I have a companion who lives there, and housekeepers and cooks to pay.”

  “A good point,” Newman said. He didn’t sound upset. “Very well. A thousand per portrait. A bargain, in my estimation. As you seem discerning about the quality of your supplies, I will leave it up to you to provide what you need to finish the portraits. I will take care of the rest. Agreed?”

  Annalies drew in another hot, shallow breath, and nodded. Had she just agreed to a seven or eight-thousand-pound deal?

  Newman got to his feet and crossed the floor between the sofas. He held out his hand. “I am used to sealing the deal with a handshake, Miss Williams, especially as this agreement has no written contract to support it. An agreement between gentlemen…I mean, between a lady and a gentleman, yes?”

  She managed to stand on her feet and not sway. Sound was beating at her. Moving mechanically, she reached for his hand as she had seen countless men do. He squeezed her hand almost painfully and pumped it up and down.

  “How soon can you come to Carlisle?” he asked her.

  Annalies fought to sort out pragmatic details. It was mid-March, and Easter was early April this year. “The season proper starts after Easter,” she said. Her lips felt uncooperative. “It is the perfect excuse to leave London for as long as possible.”

  Newman’s eyes twinkled. “Have your supplies shipped to Scotby House, via Carlisle. We will have a studio set up for your arrival, the earliest after Easter that you can manage.” He dug in his fob pocket and withdraw a small, thick cream card. “A letter or wire to me will be answered immediately. I am happy to reach an agreement with you, Miss Annalies.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Newman. I look forward to seeing Carlisle,” she made herself say.

  Newman strode over to the door and shook Iefan’s hand. “Thank you, Davies. I’ll be in touch about the wool.”

  “Whenever you’re ready, Archibald,” Iefan told him and opened the door. He shut the door behind the industrialist.

  Annalies turned and leaned upon the arm of the sofa, her breath fast, her hand to her basque. “Oh my sweet lord…!” she whispered.

  “Iefan, I just passed Newman—” Mairin said, at the door. “Annalies! What is wrong?”

  “Nothing at all,” Iefan said. He sounded enormously amused. “I just watched Annalies make a deal for ten thousand pounds. It was quite the sight.”

  “Ten…” Mairin’s voice trailed off. “Good god!” she added, sounding awed.

  “Ten thousand?” Annalies whispered, her horror building. She sat weakly on the arm once more. “He wants ten pictures?”

  Iefan shrugged. “His brother, five children, a grandson, his wife, and Archibald himself makes nine, and the family portrait, too. That is ten.”

  Annalies pressed her hands to her temples. “I’m so glad I did not think to count up the number of paintings. I could never have completed the deal, if I had.”

  “Ten thousand pounds!” Mairin breathed. She giggled, then pressed her fingers to her lips, as if she was shocked at the sound. Then she giggled again.

  Annalies smiled weakly. She would have giggled, too, if she felt stronger.

  “I think ten thousand pounds is just the start of it,” Iefan said.

  “Start?” Annalies repeated, bewildered.

  Iefan nodded. “You’ll understand, soon enough.” He came forward, limping only a little, and held out his hand.

  Annalies shook it, still deeply puzzled.

  “Congratulations,” he told her, his tone grave.

  Annalies gave him another small smile. “I would say thank you, but I feel quite ill.”

  “That will pass,” he assured her. “The next deal will be much easier to make.”

  Annalies hoped fervently he was correct, for it took another hour for her to dare step out of the room and look people in the eye.

  She had made a deal. She had sold her own work! Every time she thought of it, she grew weak all over again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the three weeks before Easter, Annalies bought extra paints, canvas, brushes and more. Mrs. Thistlethwaite packed them into two great trunks and sent them to Carlisle.

  It took Annalies more than a week to find the courage to tell Tobias what she had done. However, the steady delivery of more and more supplies demanded some explanation. Tobias spent most of his days in her studio, now, on the divan she had arranged by the sunniest window. He would notice the increased deliveries.

  She settled on the end of the chaise, as Tobias shifted his feet to make room for her, and explained about the commission and, with a slight hesitation, the amount of money she would make from it.

  Tobias’ eyes widened, the only surprise he showed. Then he nodded. “It is the next natural step for you. I know Archibald and his family. It never occurred to me he would want traditional family portraits. He is a fair-minded man and won’t cheat you. Well done, Annalies. Very well done.”

  She pulled at the tufts on the cushioning. “It occurs to me that it might do you good to get out of London. The air up there must surely be conducive.”

  “And how would you introduce me to Newman?” Tobias asked. His smile was rueful. “No, I will stay here. Someone must arrange your next exhibition while you are away.”

  Startled, she was on the verge of saying, “I have no intention of exhibiting ever again,” when the look in Tobias’ eyes pushed the words back, unspoken. She understood what he was not saying as clearly as if he had really said it. He did not want to stay in London to arrange an exhibition. He wanted to stay because he didn’t think he had the health to travel, and he wanted her to seize this opportunity with both hands.

  He didn’t want to hinder her.

  Her eyes prickled hard. Annalies rested her hand against his thin cheek. “I will miss you, Tobias.”

  “I will be here when you get
back, and you can tell me all about your venture.” He turned his head to press his lips against her palm. “When do you leave?”

  “I will spend Easter at Marblethorpe, then I will travel directly to Carlisle.”

  Tobias held her hand in his. “Will Peter be there?” he asked, his tone indifferent.

  Her heart lurched. “I don’t know. Perhaps. It would be natural for him to visit Elisa and Vaughn, especially now.”

  Tobias nodded. She had told him about the painting of an ailing Elisa and Vaughn’s despair. “Good,” he said shortly.

  Her heart gave another sickening sideways lunge. She tried to read what Tobias was thinking. His eyes were shuttered, as they so often were these days, revealing nothing.

  Mrs. Thistlethwaite arrived to inform Annalies of more supplies being delivered, and the moment passed.

  Then it was suddenly the Wednesday before Easter. She dressed in her traveling suit. Her trunk and her satchel with the current sketchbook were loaded onto the cab which would take her to Euston Station.

  Tobias made his way downstairs to stand at the front door, as the cabbie fussed with the sitting of the trunk upon the luggage rack at the back of the cab.

  Annalies turned to him. “I will only be a few weeks. You know how fast I can paint when I am lost in it.”

  “I know.” He gave her an easy smile. “Write to me.”

  “Every day,” she promised fervently.

  Tobias shook his head. “Every day you remember to write, you will,” he amended.

  “Oh, Tobias…!” She wound her arms around his neck.

  He linked his arms around her back, as if they were not standing in the open doorway where anyone passing on the street might see them. “You are visiting Carlisle for a few weeks. That is all.”

  She nodded, even though in her heart, she knew she wasn’t simply visiting the countryside at all. This was the start of something which would change…everything.

  “I’ll take care of the master, never mind, missy Lisa,” Mrs. Thistlethwaite assured her, patting her shoulder.