by Deb Marlowe
“It should worry ye nae longer, lass, for I say here and now that ye and yer bairns are hereby placed under our protection.”
He gestured and around the taproom, a step was taken here, a shift in position there, until it was clear that a loose circle had formed around Roddie Grant.
“Anyone who raises a hand against any of ye will answer to us.” He raised a brow at the glowering man.
Rhys tensed. The bastard looked defiant. He could react a number of ways, none of them good.
He snarled something low and mean, but the circle tightened. Roddie Grant, it seemed, knew when the odds were against him. His shoulders slumped, his head lowered. The circle opened and he stalked out of the taproom.
Jean Grant’s head went up, proud and glad. The men then gathered around her. She exchanged quiet words with them, then embraced them, one by one. Wiping a tear from her eye, she headed for the back room and Rhys saw Mrs. Spencer step out to meet her and gather her in her arms.
Rhys watched, his thoughts wheeling.
The taproom slowly returned to its noisy rhythm.
Francis hopped off of her stool. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty
And then my pains began. I was so frightened, after the early difficulty, but my fears were unfounded. The birth was as any other first time—that is, difficult, long and painful. But so worth every moment of it.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Outside the tavern Francis put up her hood and set out, walking.
Jean Grant and her girls would be safe now. Relief enveloped her as thoroughly as the mist in the air. She let it sink in. Maybe it would wash away the pain of what was coming.
“Francis. Wait.” Caradec was striding along purposefully behind her. “We have to talk about what just happened.”
“No, we do not.”
Roddie Grant was angry, it was clear to Francis and anyone else, too. But he couldn’t show it, could never act on it, not without appearing weak before all of his friends and fellow dockhands. He would likely posture a bit, proclaim how happy he was to be on his own again—and there would likely be some truth to it.
A clatter of hooves sounded behind her and the hack drew up next to her in the street. “Coming aboard?” Young Geordie grinned down at her from the driver’s seat.
“Is everything all right at the shop?” Mrs. Spencer peered out. Jean Grant spotted her and panic raced across her face. “Wee Janet? The babe—?”
“Everything is fine,” she reassured them. “Angus and his crew are guarding the girls. Mr. Caradec just needed the proof of his own eyes to believe our plan was sound.”
“Your plan, you mean.” Jean Grant put a hand out the window, reaching for hers. “Thank you. You were right. It was just what was needed. He’ll never look twice at us now.”
Mrs. Spencer was looking from her to Caradec. “Come along, the two of you, and ride along to the shop with us?”
Francis shook her head. “Thank you, but Mr. Caradec and I are overdue for a discussion. One that will require a bit of privacy.”
The older woman frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you out alone this late, and it’s a long way back to High Street.” She craned her neck out and looked around. “There’s a kirkyard ahead. Have your discussion there, dear, and I’ll send the nice boy back to pick you up after he’s deposited us. That should give you plenty of time.”
Sighing, Francis agreed. The ladies closed the coach windows and the carriage moved off. She started off after it at once.
Rhys hurried to catch her up. “It was your doing—that scene tonight. How? How did you know?”
“I did what was needed. I asked. I found the right questions and answers.”
“Francis, slow down a bit, will you? Clearly I owe you an apology. At least let me offer it up.”
“I’m going into the churchyard. I am not going to argue with you in the streets.”
“Must we argue?” he asked plaintively.
“I’m afraid we must.”
She reached the low, stone wall surrounding the kirk and followed it to a simple wooden gate that opened easily. It was dark and quiet inside. There were trees and green grass, a wide stretch of tombstones on one side and a tall set of steps leading up to the closed doors of the church. She took a seat on the stairs. Caradec leaned against a nearby tree and watched her.
“I do apologize,” he said softly. “But won’t you help me to understand? How did you know how to handle Roddie Grant—which tactics to use against him? I know you didn’t know him before this.”
“No. But I learned what I needed to know,” she said impatiently. “I investigated the man, the entire situation, as best as I could. I watched him a bit, took his measure, talked to the people in their lives. I found a way. It seems that there’s only one thing that Roddie values, and that’s the company of his mates. His standing amongst his fellow dockworkers is everything to him. They’ve a hierarchy, a ranking, as well as a bond between them. The last thing he would wish to compromise is his place in the brotherhood.”
“And you turned that reluctance into the perfect weapon. And you let his victim wield it.” He was not much more than a broad shadow next to the tree, but she could see his head shaking. “It was masterfully done. I was wrong. I should not have doubted you.”
“Accused me, I think you mean?” she asked shortly. “I did tell you that I knew what I was about. You just chose not to believe me.”
“You’re right,” he said dully.
She sighed, and all the stiff indignation slid out of her. It left only sadness—and dread for what still must be said.
He stepped closer and peered at her in the dim light of the moon. “Francis, are you crying?”
“Only a little.” She wiped at her face. “Damn you.”
He knelt and tried to take her hands, but she pulled away. “I can’t touch you and say what I have to say.”
Silent then, he moved away and sat a few steps below her.
“That damned painting,” she groaned. “It fooled me utterly, gave me false hope.”
“What does the painting have to do with any of this?” he rasped.
“Everything!” she said wildly. “It made me feel as if I was not in this alone. But I should have known,” she said on a bitter sigh.
“Known what?” he asked, a bit defensively.
“Caradec,” she said, softening her tone. “I know I’ve told you that I like the way you see the world. I’ve said it more than once. But it’s only now that I understand—it’s not the same when you are looking at people. You don’t engage all of your senses then, you don’t open yourself the way you do when you are taking in a mountain range or a scenic view. You shut out everything you don’t want to see.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I’m not. It’s true. I’ve watched you do it with your painter friend. And with Malvi. But you saw so much of me that others miss—I just didn’t realize how purposefully you were doing the same with me.”
“That painting is you.”
“No. Not really. It’s the bits of me that you wish to see. And it’s so humbling and sweet of you to notice parts that others do not. You see the fighter in me, the survivor, but you also see the girl who hides behind breeches and work—and you portray them all so beautifully.”
“You are beautiful.”
“I thank you for thinking so,” she whispered. “I do. But I’m so angry at you for refusing to look past those parts you are comfortable with—for refusing to acknowledge the rest of me.”
He made a sound of protest.
“It’s true. Yes, I’ve been through hard times. I fought. I survived. But the work I do with Hestia, doing my best to give back—it is who I am. What would you have me do instead? Sit back and lap up my improved situation? I’m trying to be better than that. Learning to be more than that. My life needs aim, purpose, fulfillment.”
“Are you saying I lack purpose?” he asked incredulously.
“No. I’m saying that I need it as much as anyone else.”
“Yes. But your work . . . the places you go and people you want to look out for. A mistake could be . . . so dangerous.”
“I make mistakes! But I promise, so far as I can know, I’ve never harmed someone more than helped them, nor left them in worse circumstances.”
“It’s not only them I worry for!” he said, exasperated. “It is you, as well. You throw yourself into the fray. All of yourself—heart, mind and soul.”
As she’d done with him. She had to admit it, if only to herself. And it was tearing her heart out. But she could not regret it.
“I must,” she said gently. “Just as you must throw yourself into your work. Art is your purpose. There can be no doubt of that. Your art breathes. It comes alive and makes things come alive in those who view it as well. Wonder and awe and so many feelings—but you run from those reactions, or avoid them entirely.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. Danby told me how you refused to listen to his family’s admiration of those portraits you did for him. How you put down your brush, took your commission and ran. Mr. North told us how you waved off his admiration. And I saw how you reacted when you realized how much of your art I had seen.”
“I don’t paint for others.” His words came out flat and he wasn’t looking at her anymore.
“Of course you do. Somewhere. Some part of you wants that connection. But you cannot make it.” She sighed. “It’s why you cannot face the rest of me, too, isn’t it? If you truly understood me, you would have painted that column in a sea of similar structures. There are so many people trapped, held down by birth, circumstance, poverty, lack of choices. I might have wiggled my way free, but to be happy I have to help free as many others as I can.”
She stopped, gazing down at him, wondering if he could see her longing and heartbreak. His head dropped. Silence pulsed between them, nearly a living thing. “You cannot approve—because you cannot ever be truly intimate, if you do not. “How can you develop deep and real feelings for someone if you don’t acknowledge all the parts of them?” She paused to breathe against the ache that came with understanding. “You don’t want to see all of me.”
“That’s not true.”
“You know it is. And there’s more to it, isn’t there? You won’t see that part of me, cannot approve of it—because of some misconstrued notion you carry about, regarding Hestia.”
He shook his head.
“I know it. I feel it. The anger and disapproval you feel for her bleeds onto me. But I don’t understand. Won’t you explain it?”
He turned to glare up at her, then stood and walked away. “Don’t ask me to speak of Hestia Wright!”
“I must! I’m sorry. I’ve held to our bargain. But it’s reached its end now.” She choked back a sob and hunched a bit over the pain of saying it out loud. “So I must ask. I must know, Rhys. Surely your resentment cannot be because—”
“Because she abandoned me?” he interrupted. “Left me without looking back? Never once inquired about my well-being, my achievements, dreams or miseries? I assure you, I can resent that quite easily.”
“Oh, no!” She could feel his anger welling up and out of his deepest fathoms. “It was not like that!”
“I lived it, Francis,” he answered bitterly. “I assure you, it was just like that.”
“But she had to leave you, to break contact! She had to hide your very existence. Marstoke never let up. He had people following her—he still has spies set on her, all these years later! They came, snooping, insinuating, and asking questions.” She paused. “You have spent at least a little time with Marstoke, I know.”
“Very little,” he acknowledged. “As little as I could manage.”
How she longed to hear that story. But there were more important issues to be hashed out first. “Then you know what he is. Twisted. Wrong. No mother could let him have the raising of her child. You see why she could not risk him getting his hands on you.” She sat quietly a moment, remembering the very few unguarded moments of pain she’d seen from Hestia. “You cannot know what it did to her.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, lifting his head. “But I know what it did for her.”
Francis frowned. “What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “Do you think I conjured up a sense of injury from nothing? Pulled it from my imagination the way Andor did his idea of a fairy bower? No, Francis. I’ve felt the jagged edge of Hestia’s neglect for myself.”
“She has missed you, as well,” she insisted.
“Do you think that I don’t remember her? Did she not tell you that she used to visit me, when I was small? I have hazy recollections of it. Hestia would come to pose for my grandfather, a smiling, blonde angel, who would pick me up to hold me close, smelling of flowers and bearing gifts.”
He swallowed. “So very different indeed from my foster mother, the long-barren daughter of Hestia’s dear artist friend. Maman agreed to raise me, and yet she could not hide the distaste she felt—for Hestia, and for me.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
“Yes. She held me at arm’s length, watching, waiting for signs of my bad blood to show. Every day she expected to see the signs of my breeding. She held her breath, searching for the wanton, lazy, wicked ways that were sure to breed true.” He shrugged. “She tried to hide it, especially at first, but when her prayers were answered and she at last bore a child of her own . . . it became less important.”
Her heart broke at the image he conjured.
“Even so small, I treasured Hestia’s visits. So beautiful, she was, and always bearing gifts—sweets, toys, soft embraces and kind words. But she stopped calling on us. She stopped sitting for my grand-père. I didn’t understand. I waited for her. I asked after her. I cried for her. But she never came.”
Francis swallowed against a rush of tears.
“Hestia had forgotten me, my foster mother insisted. Abandoned my grandfather. After they had been good enough to take me in when she chose not to keep herself.”
“She never forgot you. Never,” Francis insisted.
“Certainly, no one forgot her,” he spat. “If Hestia missed me, she found ways to console herself. Even in our small village her exploits were talked of. Her extravagant, debauched lifestyle. The pranks, the jewels, the rich and powerful men. No one knew of the connection but my family—and their eyes narrowed at me as they whispered to each other, each time another story came along from the village gossips. But the worst—”
He bit off the words and she waited, breath held, while he reached for calm.
“The worst was what her desertion did to my grandfather. He’d made a name for himself, immortalizing the famous Hestia Wright. His portraits and sculptures of her were highly sought after. But when she stopped coming, refused to sit for him any longer—then fashionable French society followed her lead. The commissions dried up. The money stopped coming in. His reputation disappeared, along with any chance of finding a more permanent patron. But Hestia’s repute shot as high as the stars.” His brow furrowed. “It hurt him. Deeply. I think it injured something bright inside of him.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Oh, he still sold pieces here and there, but he never reached the level of appreciation and recognition that every artist dreams of. It affected everything. His work turned darker, he suffered moods. He felt like a burden, dependent on his daughter and her husband—and she felt much the same. Resentment fostered on both sides and it all turned on an ugly, vicious wheel.”
She could imagine how he’d been caught up in the middle of so much ill feeling, how it must have hurt him, too. She didn’t dare say it out loud, though. “It was not easy for Hestia, either. You must understand that much, at least. We never knew, those of us who live and work with her, just what her private hurt was. We knew something profound pained her. There were signs, although she fought not to let it show. But we never understood—not unt
il Marstoke unveiled that sculpture. Your sculpture—the depiction of the child and the woman reaching for him from the painting. The marquess made sure to announce your name loudly to the room—and Hestia nearly fainted away.”
“There! You see why I don’t wish to see or hear of either of them? I won’t be a pawn in their game or a weapon they use against each other.”
“She feels your loss deeply.”
In the dark, she just caught the motion of his shrug. “I’ve never seen any sign of it.”
“I have. Not until after Marstoke’s stunt, but then I understood why she would get wistful and sad when she met with young, blonde gentlemen. Why she was so very tender with mothers who left or lost their infants. And now I know why she looks so very lost when she stands over that sculpture, when she thinks no one is watching.”
“She has it, still?” he asked. A quiet question. An infinitesimal and fragile break in his wall.
“She took it from the hostess of that ball, who knew better than to raise a peep over it. It is her only link to you.” Francis would be careful not to push too hard at that crack.
She gathered herself a moment, then moved closer to him. “Rhys, Hestia is strong. She gives so much, to anyone who asks, anyone in need. And to no one more than myself. In the work we’ve done, I’ve seen things—things that shredded me. Things that struck like a blow until I had to cry. We all cry sometimes. Except Hestia. She never cries. She takes the blow and soldiers on, always adapting, always making things happen. Except for one time—once I’ve seen her shed tears, when she thought herself alone. It was over your sculpture.”
He stood and walked away to stand by the tree again. “I’m glad that she’s done so much good with all that she’s gained,” he said, speaking outward into the kirkyard. “It helps a bit.”
She hopped up onto her feet. “Rhys, come with me. Come back to London and meet Hestia.”
He took a step back and fetched up against the tree again. “No.”
Francis would not give up. “She’s away on business now, but will return soon and I know she longs for you. It would make her so happy to see you, to get to know you.”