Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  If only she knew how much sleep he’d lost because of her already, and precious little of it due to guilt. ‘I just wanted to check you weren’t angry with me.’

  ‘Your annoying habit of always leaping to the rescue makes it impossible for me to be angry with you. You have been a brick today. A very tolerant and calm one, all things considered, when both my father and my mother would try the patience of a saint.’

  ‘I am not burdened with an artistic spirit like they are.’ It was the most diplomatic answer he could think of which did not inadvertently insult either of her parents. ‘This room appears to be a testament to that talent.’

  She chuckled, pretending to be offended. ‘Is that your polite way of saying they use sheet music and portraits instead of wallpaper?’

  ‘Perhaps—but oddly it works. I like all the family portraits especially.’ He gestured to the cluster of three identically shaped baby pictures. ‘They seem to chart every stage in you and your sisters’ lives.’

  ‘Hardly a surprise when our father is England’s premier portrait painter.’

  ‘He paints premier landscapes too.’ Piers pointed to the seascape over the mantel. ‘That is perhaps my favourite painting in the room.’

  She regarded him oddly, as if questioning his sincerity, then her lovely mouth slowly curved in a smile. ‘That’s not my father’s work, Piers—it’s mine. And clearly you know very little about art as it only has pride of place over the fireplace because it was my crude first attempt at oils and my parents have always been encouraging and knew my poor fourteen-year-old’s confidence would be devastated if they hadn’t hung it somewhere. My compositions are much better now. I promise.’

  He scraped his jaw from the floor. ‘If you painted that well at fourteen, I can only imagine how brilliantly you must paint now. Because this is wonderful, Faith. Truly wonderful.’

  He could see she wanted to believe him but doubted herself. Her teeth were suddenly worrying her plump bottom lip as if she were nervous, then she took a deep breath. ‘Would you like to see some? Only I cannot decide which picture to submit to the Academy for judging and I’d value your opinion.’

  She grabbed a lamp and led him down the hallway, then down a short flight of steps to a tiny room next to the deserted kitchen which smelled of paint. ‘This is my studio. Papa’s is upstairs.’ A scruffy, empty easel stood in the centre, splattered in every conceivable colour of the rainbow. He could make out the shadowy forms of various canvases leaning against the walls beneath cluttered shelves filled with jars of pigment powders and bottles of oils. As she lit some more lamps, she smiled shyly. ‘I’ve never shown my paintings to anyone outside the family before—apart from the judges at the Royal Academy that is. But as the judging for their exhibition is a highly secretive affair, conducted behind closed doors and done by faceless men I’ve likely never met, they don’t really count. Please be gentle…but not dishonest. I’d hate for you to humour me as this competition is important. Careers are made on the back of it.’

  She went to the stack of canvases and retrieved two, keeping them close to her body so he couldn’t get a glimpse. ‘Don’t look. Better still turn around. I need to display them side by side so you can judge them together.’

  Piers did as he was told, and faced the door instead, until his eyes were drawn to a large canvas propped in the corner. Even lying on its side, the vibrant painting drew him in, the colours of the huge expanse of sky so striking he tilted his head at a right angle to study it.

  It was obviously London. He could see the shadowy outline of St Paul’s towering over the plethora of church spires and rooftops of the city, the first rays of sunrise shooting fragmented highlights on the cathedral’s dome and picking out traces of London Bridge stretched over the inky River Thames. But this wasn’t a picture celebrating London, it glorified the sunrise. Basked in it. Understood every nuance of the way it crept over the horizon, changing the sky he had taken for granted all his life into a spectrum of colours his mundane eyes could never fully contemplate unless guided by another’s brilliance. Red and orange were reflected in the river while green and brown tones were picked out in the water and bounced up on the heavy grey clouds above. Purples and lilacs blanketed the horizon and blended with the greys and midnight blues as they battled to banish the night and herald in the new morning. So beautiful he felt his heart quicken—a staggering reaction to mere paint he would not have thought possible.

  ‘All right…you can turn around now.’

  He did, expecting to be similarly dazzled, and wasn’t. Both pastoral scenes were lovely, stunning even if one hadn’t just witnessed complete perfection, but they paled against the magnificent sunrise. He smiled because she was anxiously awaiting his judgement and he could tell by the fear in her troubled eyes as he stared at them stood on the seat of a battered chesterfield she had placed them on, that entrusting him with this was a momentous thing for her. ‘They are both wonderful.’

  ‘But which do you prefer?’

  ‘That is an impossible decision to make—especially when one knows nothing about art and is clueless about what those judges want.’ The diplomatic answer annoyed him because he understood his opinion meant a lot. She had never entrusted anyone outside her close family circle with her work, but he did not have the heart to tell her neither picture stood out.

  ‘My father always says that if he were a judge, he would choose only the submissions which spoke to his heart. He believes good art should be a visceral experience. Something about it should conjure emotion and call to your soul…’

  ‘Then that makes this a very simple decision to make.’ Because this meant the world to her, he had to be sincere, even if that sincerity hurt her. ‘Neither do.’ Her shoulders slumped and he felt wretched. ‘But this does.’ He turned her by the shoulders and pointed to the sunrise. ‘That painting is breathtaking, Faith.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t submit that.’ She was too quick to dismiss it. ‘It’s too…’

  ‘Bold? Unique? Hypnotic? Seductive?’ All adjectives which also perfectly summed up her too.

  She offered him a half-smile at that assessment, obviously flattered at the compliments despite all her self-doubt. ‘I was going to say it was too radical for the Royal Academy.’

  ‘I am sure that the same charge was also levelled at Michelangelo and Raphael, and likely your own father when he started out and dared to paint faces that actually smiled.’

  ‘Perhaps but…’

  He touched his finger to her lips, a huge mistake because it made his blood heat and his body want, and then it made him mourn the imminent loss of her more.

  ‘I suspect your indecision is born out of the fact you have no visceral or emotion reaction to those two other paintings either. But you care about this one, Faith. This picture matters to you and that is why you are scared. I can see it in your eyes.’ Eyes he was currently drowning in. Eyes he wanted to drown in. Eyes his suddenly wanted to stare at for ever. A new and troubling realisation which rocked him to his core. ‘What does your heart say?’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Faith felt decidedly strange.

  Not quite dizzy or anxious, though she was undoubtedly both of those things now that she stood alone on the Strand and was seriously considering marching back inside Somerset House and withdrawing the submission she had bravely handed over mere moments ago. Understandably, there was also a large dollop of fear tossed into the mix combined with some undeniable excitement that she was finally trusting her gut and listening to her heart. Because Piers had been right, the sunrise over London was the most honest representation of her work.

  She had poured her whole self into that picture, and assuming she would never dare show it, had been bold and reckless and gloriously untraditional in its execution. It was more of her than either of the two others she had been struggling to choose between. Both those landscapes were, she realised now with
perfect clarity, unsatisfactory and insipid compromises as they had both been created specifically to appeal to what she thought the judges wanted to see and not what she loved to paint. Whereas the sunrise was all her, laid bare on the canvas, intensely personal and easily bruised by criticism, so it wasn’t really a huge surprise that she was a little overwhelmed.

  But beneath all those turbulent, wholly understandable emotions, there was a deep seam of sadness. A despondency which had nothing whatsoever to do with the painting because it had begun long before she had waved Piers away last night. Even as she watched his horse turn out of Bedford Place, she found herself wishing she was brave enough to throw caution and common sense to the wind, call him back and act on the overwhelming impulse to kiss him goodbye as she had wanted. But as the strange intimacy in her studio had lingered, some inexplicable force daring them to acknowledge there was more between them than friendship as they drew out those final moments for longer than any friends ever would, she had sensed they had both shied away from that truth.

  Just as they had also quickly shied away from the poignant and loaded moment which had occurred out of the blue, when she had first asked his opinion and he had pressed his finger to her lips, asked her what her heart said and the entire world seemed to shift and tilt on its axis. Because in that moment, her bruised and wary heart answered. It was barely a whisper—a ghost in the distance or a subtle change in the breeze—but she heard what it said loud and clear.

  It wanted him.

  Instinctively, Faith had panicked at the revelation and stepped away, reminding herself of all the reasons why her stupid heart was wrong. Or perhaps he had been the one to step back first as he too had looked suddenly troubled and all at sea? She couldn’t clearly remember, but the mutual hesitation and withdrawal changed the atmosphere around them even though they nonchalantly pretended nothing was amiss as she walked him to the front door, when everything was. Fate had thrown them together, made them question everything they thought they understood, then separated them cruelly with one freak and unnecessary accident much too soon.

  In the end, neither of them had really acknowledged that the goodbye was a decisive ending to something intangible which had barely started—if it had started at all. They had hidden their regrets beneath a thin veneer of detached politeness. She had thanked him for all his assistance with her father, he had said that he looked forward to them colliding again some day in Grosvenor Square once her father was healed, and then he left. Leaving Faith alone on her front steps with her thoughts and her regrets and the achingly empty void of things unsaid and desires unfulfilled.

  It had all felt wrong.

  Unsatisfactory.

  Unfinished.

  Deflated, she stared aimlessly at the river, then took her time walking the short distance to where the family carriage waited on the corner of Surrey Street.

  ‘Are we headed straight home, miss?’ Evan, their driver, helped her in.

  ‘Yes.’ Then she wavered as a new idea formed. ‘Actually, I need to make a brief stop at Grosvenor Square first.’ She had intended to send a message detailing when her father’s workmen would come and remove the canvas, but if she delivered it herself, then perhaps she could steal a moment with Piers to tell him she had been brave and taken his advice, and then perhaps…

  Perhaps…

  The carriage lurched forward, and she huffed out a sigh. At least to herself she should admit the truth. There was no perhaps—she simply needed to see him. She would work out exactly why another time and then lecture herself about the need for caution, prudence and patience over the overwhelming desire to dive in head first with all haste.

  * * *

  Milton, the Writtles’ butler, was obviously surprised to see her but he smiled in welcome and didn’t bother checking to see if the family wanted to receive her. As he took her coat, he reached for a letter on the side table. ‘You have actually saved me a job. Her Ladyship asked me to have this sent to you not more than half an hour ago.’ Before she opened it, he grinned. ‘It’s an invitation to tea…tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh…would it be better if I come back then?’

  ‘To be frank, Miss Brookes, I think she will enjoy the distraction. It’s been one of those days and she is in dire need of cheering up.’

  Before Faith could ask why, Isobel suddenly flew down the hallway. ‘I knew you wouldn’t forget our lesson!’ Which of course, with everything else going on, Faith had entirely.

  ‘Grandmama said she would remind you about it tomorrow at tea, but as tomorrow is Wednesday and we always have our lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I told her there would be no need and set up my easel in readiness regardless. You are teaching me clouds today, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course! Big, white, fluffy ones.’ She allowed the little girl to drag her down the hallway towards the drawing room, grateful that she now had a more believable excuse to be here than the flimsy one she’d arrived with.

  ‘I told you she would come!’ As they burst through the door, the Countess smiled and stood, but there was something about her cheerful expression of welcome which did not quite ring true.

  ‘How lovely to see you, dear! And what perfect timing. I only just this minute scratched out an invitation as I have something important to talk to you about.’

  Faith waved the unopened missive. ‘Then I am all ears.’

  ‘I shall get to that in a minute. First, I wish to enquire about your poor father. How is he today?’

  ‘Considerably more belligerent than he was yesterday, which none of us thought was possible after all the fuss he made here last night, but comfortable now, thankfully. Dr Freiberg is confident he will make a complete recovery.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad! The poor thing took quite a tumble and I have been worried sick about him.’ The Countess gestured for her to sit, and when the impatient Isobel pouted from her chosen spot beside her waiting easel, rolled her eyes. ‘Miss Brookes and I are going to have a civilised cup of tea together first, young lady, as we have much to discuss.’

  ‘But we are supposed to be learning clouds today!’

  ‘Which you can still do after we have had tea and conducted our discussion.’

  ‘It is me she has come to see after all and I have been waiting all morning for Miss Brookes to arrive.’

  ‘Then another half an hour won’t hurt will it, Isobel? In the meantime, practise what she taught you last week quietly or I shall send you back next door to your mother.’ Admonishment issued, the Countess turned back to Faith. ‘And speaking of mothers, how is yours today?’

  It was Faith’s turn to roll her eyes, because they both knew her mother had been a nightmare too yesterday alongside her father. ‘My mother veers between making a huge fuss of him while he tragically plays the martyr and laps it all up or lamenting his stupidity for climbing an unsecured ladder in the first place while he sulks. It is all very tiresome, but I suspect they both enjoy the drama of it all. But Mama has asked me to pass on her heartfelt thanks for all the trouble you and your family went to yesterday on Papa’s behalf.’ Which was true in a roundabout sort of way because her mother would have had she known Faith was coming here. ‘Dr Freiberg has been a complete godsend. It has been most reassuring for all of us knowing dear Papa is getting the very best care, so we especially thank you for fetching him.’

  ‘I can take no credit for that, my dear, as I had never met the man before yesterday myself. It was Piers’s quick thinking to send for a bone specialist and thank goodness he knew one.’ The Countess paused while the tea tray was brought in accompanied by a tall Sèvres cake stand piled high with delicious-smelling warm scones. ‘Although, to be fair to my son, he does seem to know a lot of very useful people. He met the good doctor at a dull dinner hosted by the new Bavarian Ambassador to London a few months ago. Dr Freiberg hails from Munich apparently, or so Piers said, and is much revered in medical circles. He t
eaches at the London Hospital as well as running a successful practice in Harley Street. Apparently, doctors travel from all over the country to hear his lectures on all bone-related things.’ She smiled as she poured the tea. ‘He and Dr Freiberg had quite a long, dull chat at that very dull dinner, by all accounts.’

  ‘In German, I presume.’ Faith took the proffered cup and saucer and balanced them on her knee. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear that yesterday. It was very impressive. I am no judge, but to my untutored ears, Lord Eastwood sounded fluent.’

  ‘Oh, he is, dear.’ The Countess smiled, obviously proud. ‘To be frank, that always surprises me too whenever I hear it, but Piers has always had an ear for languages and excelled at them at Cambridge. Heaven only knows who he inherited that talent from because it certainly wasn’t me or his father. But, as it did yesterday, it sometimes comes in handy. Dr Freiberg’s English is reasonable, but Piers’s German is better so I think it helped expedite matters.’

  ‘It did.’ Undoubtedly. ‘I shall be sure to thank your son for all his help before I leave.’ And now she had a genuine excuse to interrupt Piers. ‘He went above and beyond yesterday, and we all owe him a huge debt of gratitude.’

  The older woman’s face clouded. ‘I am afraid you shall have to save your thanks for another time, Faith, as he is not here. He left for the Continent first thing this morning, on urgent government business, for heaven only knows how long.’ She inhaled deeply, then forced a smile as she blinked away the hint of tears which still glistened in her eyes. ‘He’s probably bobbing across the Channel in a packet as we speak.’

  ‘But there is a war raging on the Continent.’ A terrible thought which made Faith feel suddenly sick. ‘Please tell me he isn’t going anywhere dangerous!’ She was struggling to sleep enough thanks to Piers and the complicated and warring emotions he created, she did not need to add constant worry and fear into the churning mix now too.