He took her hand and gave a little bow over it. “You are most welcome, Lady Williams. Miss Annalies.”
Annalies replied politely, as Newman led her through the beautiful manor, directly to a suite of rooms which included a private bathroom—something which even the highest dukes in the land could not boast of. Newman urged her to treat the rooms as she would her own, for as long as she was here. Dinner was at seven o’clock and a footman would show her the way to the dining room at that time.
Newman did not step into the suite with her but left her at the door.
Annalies closed the door and leaned against it, surveying the room. This first room was a sitting room, with a secretary by the window and a deep, comfortable chair and footstool in front of the fire.
Through the door beside the fireplace, Annalies could see the bedroom. The size of the bed was astonishing, drawing her across the sitting room to stand in the doorway and survey the grand bed. It was larger than any bed she had ever slept in. Three people would be most comfortable. It was not high off the ground, as she was used to. It did not have a brass frame at the top and bottom, or even a bedhead of wooden slats.
The foot and head of the bed were, instead, beautifully carved and polished walnut, with vines and flowers running along the tops and sides. The mattress was low to the ground—no higher than the seat of the average dining chair. She would not have to climb onto the bed at all.
The cover was not warm, dull wool, but a tucked and pleated satin which gleamed in the light from a lamp which burned on the little table beside the bed. Annalies had heard of such arrangements and furniture—it was very French. Everything about the Newman estate spoke of good taste and forward thinking.
Annalies settled on the bed, confirming it really was at the same height as a dining chair—and spread her hand over the smooth, silky coverlet. She was in the lap of a rare luxury, about to be completely and utterly spoiled, while she did nothing but paint…and she was miserable.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to spend one more night in Peter’s arms.
She even wanted to see Tobias, to assure herself that he was not suffering, that he was content.
With a sigh, she got to her feet and took off her hat. Once she was painting again, everything around her, even the thoughts which plagued her, would fade away and she would be happy once more.
Abbey Road, St. John’s Wood, London. Five weeks later.
THE THIN WOMAN ANNALIES CALLED Mrs. Thistlethwaite showed Peter through the house. She did not lead him to the same dark room as before, but a light-filled, glass-roofed room with white tiles on the floor. The white walls were almost completely hidden by framed and unframed paintings, hand drawings and sheets of paper holding sketches, which had been crudely nailed to the walls.
A tall easel without a canvas mounted on it stood in one corner, looking skeletal and forlorn. The front edges of the easel were covered in drips of paint, while the section normally hidden by a canvas was pristine, oiled wood.
There were a dozen small tables, some of them on wheels, lined up along every wall. Their tops were stacked with paint pots, tubes, jars of paint brushes, bottles of turpentine and other chemicals, piles of rags, and other paraphernalia. Everything was blotched with daubs of paint in every color in the rainbow.
A round table in the middle of the room was bare of anything but a paisley tablecloth and a big vase of roses.
Roses. Annalies’ favorite flowers.
Tobias reclined on a chaise longue in one corner. He had lowered the book he had been reading when Peter entered, although he didn’t speak at once.
Peter’s gaze moved back to the roses.
“Yes, she is here, even when she isn’t,” Tobias said. “Hello, Peter.”
Peter nodded acknowledgement. “I have business which brought me to London this week.”
“Yet you are here,” Tobias pointed out.
Peter cleared his throat. “It occurred to me that Anna would appreciate knowing you are well.”
“Anna…” Tobias tilted his head.
Peter mentally cursed himself for the slip. He kept his gaze even and unblinking.
Tobias smiled. It was a knowing expression. “Annalies writes nearly every day, and I respond by return post. She is thoroughly up to date with my welfare.”
Hating himself, yet knowing it was why he had come in the first place, Peter spoke with as casual an air as he could manage; “And how does her commission go?”
Tobias closed the book with a snap and sat up. “She does not write to you…” It was as if he was speaking to himself, tasting the idea.
Peter scowled. “A single woman cannot maintain correspondence with a bachelor. It is indecent.”
Tobias didn’t flinch. He held Peter’s gaze, until Peter looked away. “No, she does not write to me. I would not reply if she did.”
Tobias made a soft sound. “You try so very hard to be honorable, don’t you?”
The judgment stung. Peter scowled. “Someone must,” he snapped and turned on his heel. “I wasted my time coming here.”
“Wait!” Tobias called.
“No, I don’t think so.” Peter thrust open the door.
“She’s lonely,” Tobias said.
Peter couldn’t take another step. He gripped the door handle, willing himself to leave. Tobias’ call echoed in his mind. He closed his eyes. “Damn, damn, damn…” he breathed and turned back into the room.
Tobias didn’t look happy, the way Peter thought he would. A line marred his brows.
“She’s alone there?” Peter demanded.
“She’s surrounded by people. Newman’s family. Dozens of friends and guests. She can do anything she wants, go anywhere she wants. She doesn’t have to pay for a thing. Her letters are full of sketches. Descriptions of parties and dinners and conversations. Newman is kindness itself.”
“But she’s lonely,” Peter ground out, willing the man to get to the point.
“She doesn’t say a word,” Tobias replied. He ran his thumb over the corner of the book cover, watching the cover lift and fall. “Although I can tell.”
Peter’s chest tightened. “She has her work.”
Tobias met his gaze. “Even Annalies can only paint for so many hours in a day.”
Peter swallowed. He wanted to sprint for the door, take the next train and find her, but he could not. That was not his right.
Tobias was back to scratching at the book cover. “Would you like to…I would be happy to show you her letters, if you like? Drawings, really. Pages of drawings. It is the same thing, to her.”
Peter fought with temptation. Was he so pathetic he would grasp at another man’s private correspondence, just to catch a hint of her?
Tobias put the book aside with a firm movement which spoke of decision. He eased himself to his feet and stood swaying for a moment.
Peter instinctively took a step toward him.
Tobias threw up his hand. He lifted one finger in warning, while he watched the floor, fighting for balance.
Peter stepped back, his heart pattering.
Tobias raised his head. “I eat an early supper. Join me for dinner.”
“I don’t—”
“I won’t take no for an answer. You look like a brandy man. Yes?”
He could drink a pint of it right now. Peter nodded.
“Good. Come along.” Tobias moved passed him, walking easily enough, with no hint of the weakness he’d just displayed. “I will talk Mrs. Thistlethwaite into making a butterscotch sauce for the fruit cake I could smell cooking this morning.” He turned at the door which Peter had left open. “The one advantage to having no future is that one can eat and drink what he pleases.” His smile was dry. Amused.
Peter’s laugh was strained, but it was there.
It was not the last time he laughed that night, a fact he would have flatly refused to believe, yesterday. But then, a year ago he would not have believed he would find himself rebuilding a family manor, either.
Truly, the world contained unexpected corners.
Chapter Fifteen
Kirkaldy, Scotland. Two weeks later.
Even in June, the Highlands weather could be cool. No one in Bridget’s family seemed to notice. Annalies kept the heavy lap rug up high around her middle and her hands beneath it, as the open top carriage drove up to the old house.
Annalies had been to Kirkaldy many times before, mostly as a child for family balls. The Christmas events had been the greatest of adventures, for the snow was deep and the rambling old house had hidden rooms and secret places they could explore.
“I don’t remember Kirkaldy being this cold,” Annalies admitted, shivering.
“And you’ve been in Cumbria for weeks, too,” Bridget said. Annalies’ sister wore a smart tweed suit and a matching hat, and carried an attaché case everywhere she went, including when she had picked Annalies up from the train station. She even wore spectacles, while peering at business documents which Morgan drew up for her or brought to her attention.
“What did you think of the business, then?” Bridgette said, as the carriage came to a gentle stop in front of the house. Annalies had trailed behind Bridget for the day as she toured her mills and weaving houses and consulted with the managers.
“I am in awe of your abilities, Bridget,” Annalies said, throwing aside the lap rug with deep reluctance. They climbed to the ground as the footman hurried out to help.
“Tea, please, Gerard,” Bridgette told the boy. “We must thaw out Lady Williams.”
“Right away, my Lady!” He dashed into the house.
Bridget clutched the attaché case in her other hand and linked her arm with Annalies’. “What I do requires merely a clear head and deep thought. What you have done, though, no one else could. You are truly talented, little sister. You have finished a commission worth a small fortune and signed another six contracts in between. Father would have been so proud of you.”
Annalies smiled. “All I did was bore everyone at dinner parties about my paintings.”
“And Archibald Newman merely showed them the portraits you had finished. Yes, you told me that.”
“And now I must fulfill the contracts. I fear I will never go home at this rate.”
“Then perhaps you should stipulate next time that your clients must come to you.” Bridget shrugged.
Alarm touched Annalies’ innards. “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” she said quickly. Clients in the house would quickly expose her true circumstances.
“If you wish to stay home, then you can demand exactly that. You are a successful artist, Annalies. You must understand what that means.”
Annalies sighed as the warmth in the drawing room bathed her cold cheeks. “It means I must buy more evening gowns, so I may mingle with Archibald Newman and his many, many friends.”
“Rich friends,” Bridget added. Her smile changed, shifting to something warm and intimate.
Annalies turned quickly. Will had come into the room. He came over to Bridget, tilted her chin up and kissed her thoroughly. Then he took the attaché case from her hands and kissed her again, this time pulling her against him.
Annalies studied the fireplace, where a fire which had grown too high had blistered the paint beneath the shelf and scarred the old gray stones permanently.
Will cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say hello before the guests descend.” His voice was warm. Low.
Annalies sighed. She recalled another deep voice, speaking low and heatedly.
“Six o’clock,” Bridget reminded him. “Your beard needs trimming.”
“Six it is. You look cold, Lisa Grace!” He laughed as he strode away again.
“He has been too long in the Highlands,” Annalies said, turning back to Bridget. “He has no idea what heat means, anymore.”
Bridget pushed a tendril of hair back into the knot on her head. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” Her smile was small, tinged with wickedness. “Our anniversary is next month. I can’t believe four years have gone by. It feels like only yesterday.” She picked up her attaché case once more. “I considered Will to be the most outrageously rude and ignorant boy in the family, growing up.”
Annalies wanted to laugh but was struck with a sudden bolt of…something. It snagged her middle and twisted. Her chest clamped, shortening her breath.
“Is something wrong, sister?” Bridget asked her. “You’ve gone pale.”
“It’s nothing,” Annalies made herself say. “I think I’m just cold.”
Bridget pulled her into the drawing room and made her drink the first cup from the pot, then a second, and put her close to the fire. Annalies let her fuss, while she tried to sort through the unnamed feelings massed inside her. Perhaps she was simply tired. It had been a long few weeks, finishing the Newman commission, then dashing to Scotland for a single portrait for one of Archibald’s dearest friends. And now a third commission, next week, in York, before she could finally go home.
She missed home, yet she dreaded returning there. The dread had been building steadily, every time she thought about the odd little house on Abbey Road, or when she received Tobias’ letters, with his perfectly formed, upper-class flourish-filled hand which was near illegible.
Annalies drifted through the dinner party that night, being polite to Bridget’s guests, but otherwise not engaging in serious conversation, still troubled by the illness of that afternoon.
When dinner was over and the guests headed for the drawing room once more, Will and Bridget’s three children came downstairs to say goodnight, their nurse keeping them out of the way of the dinner guests. The youngest child, Mairin, was still a babe-in-arms.
Will scooped up two-year-old Vaughn and lifted him high, making him laugh and kick his feet, while Elizabeth, who was the oldest child, held up her arms, waiting for her turn.
Last night, Elizabeth had sat at the dinner table and eaten with her mother and father and Annalies, who was family. It was the way Annalies had grown up, too, which was decidedly different from the way most children were reared.
Annalies watched Will crouch to talk to Elizabeth while Bridget stood nearby, watching them fondly, and finally identified the sick feeling from that afternoon.
It was envy.
Henley Royal Regatta, Henley-on-Thames. Early July 1874. A week later.
THE GRAND CHALLENGE CUP HAD been raced and won, and most of the ton had hurried home for the great soiree held to celebrate the closing of yet another year of the Regatta. A few less-fashionable society members lingered by the river as the day wound down into the evening, to savor the cool breeze blowing across the placid, wide river. Club waiters and footmen served the last of the champagne and liquors, while other workers dismantled the pavilions and flooring, the observation decks and benches, around those who lingered with their cigars and spirits.
Peter didn’t smoke—he didn’t like the taste. Tobias looked regretfully at the humidor when the footman offered it and shook his head. “I cannot. I would be bed-bound for the next week if I do.”
So they sat away from the glowing tobacco ends of the other drinkers, sipped their brandy and watched the last of the pale daylight behind the oaks and willows on the other side of the river.
Tobias stretched and reached for the glass he had almost forgotten and took a sip. “This has been a most pleasant day, Peter. Thank you.”
“It has put some color in your cheeks. I thought it might.” Peter leaned against the back of the bench. He considered asking a waiter for a cushion, although he was too comfortable to stir himself.
The silence fell between them. There was often silence between them, yet it was not a strained one.
Then Tobias stirred once more. He had grown increasingly uneasy over the last few minutes. Peter knew he had something on his mind. Like most men, Tobias would come to it in his own time, when he had overcome his discomfort with speaking of deep matters.
Peter was happy to wait. The air was cool, moist and refreshing, wh
ich made the idea of returning to London an uncomfortable one. Thankfully, the myriad requirements which had pulled him back to London repeatedly over the summer were coming to an end.
“I do wonder,” Tobias said softly, “if I will be able to attend next year’s Regatta.” He spoke it with the air of someone consulting his calendar and finding it full. Peter tensed, anyway.
“You should get out of London,” Peter replied. “The air cannot be beneficial, there. There are sanitariums in the Alps, very good ones—”
Tobias shook his head.
“If you would only inform your family, they could make all manner of arrangements for you.”
“No,” Tobias said, his tone firm. “I will not consider it.”
Peter gave a hiss of annoyance. “Families will forgive almost anything and rally around, when it comes to trouble of this sort. My family would forgive me every sin and stupidity, were I to come to them with…with your news.”
“Your family is not my family,” Tobias replied. “I know my father well. If I were to ask for his help, it would come with conditions.”
“Then meet the damned conditions, man,” Peter growled. “What do you care, if they extend your life?” They were direct words, even cruel, for they had been building in Peter’s mind for weeks now.
Tobias shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?” Peter demanded.
“Because the first condition,” Tobias said, dropping his voice so there was no danger of being overheard by anyone, “the very first condition he would lay down is that I must sever my association with Annalies.”
Peter’s heart squeezed. His response, the natural response of a true friend would be: Then leave her.
Only he could not say that, because it would look self-serving. And it would be…yet it was not purely self-serving. Not anymore, because in the last few weeks, despite Peter’s resistance to the idea, Tobias had become a friend. Every time Peter returned to London, he found himself stopping by the striped house on Abbey Road. At first, it had been to hear any news about Annalies, and sometimes, to read her letters to Tobias, who shared them freely.
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