He turned away, pacing the room. “I didn’t see her—think of her—for six years. One day, I encountered her and her two sisters in the park with her husband and the suitor of one of her sister’s, a man known for having a vicious temperament. My sweetheart was changed—her face drawn and aged beyond her years—and her sisters were timid. I spoke to her husband briefly, watching him treat her and her sisters with deliberate cruelty. I did not interfere, not wishing to do anything that might worsen their lot at home.”
“What happened?” Lena was afraid she knew the end of the story—that the woman died unexpectedly of a fall or something else.
“That night Aidan and I were at the ducal residence working on some accounts, and her youngest sister—not yet twelve—came to the door, begging for my help. My former sweetheart’s husband had in a drunken rage beaten her quite badly, and when her middle sister had tried to intervene, he’d turned—with the help of the fiancé—his rage on her. The youngest, with the help of her mistress’s maid, had been able to steal her sisters from the house, hiding them in a potting shed in the alley behind their house. The child held out a worn piece of paper, its edges frayed, its ink faded. I almost didn’t recognize it.”
“Your letter.”
“My old sweetheart had kept it, hidden, believing that I’d meant every word. She sent it to me, hoping that I would fulfill its promises.”
“And you did, even though her husband had every right to beat her if he wished.”
“We did—Aidan and I. He was the cool-headed one. He collected witnesses: our family solicitor, a magistrate, another peer, and our family doctor. To avoid being intercepted, we left our carriage at the end of the alley on the main street. Aidan even brought a litter, in case she was too injured to walk. I never saw my brother in battle, but I could see something of who he had been as an officer under Wellington.” Clive’s voice trailed off, and Lena waited for him to finish.
He picked up the story several moments later. “We found her, face bruised and bloody, several ribs and one of her arms broken; her sister in no better shape. And we took them. The next day the five of us—Aidan, me, the magistrate, the peer, and the doctor—called on her husband, encouraging him to grant her a separation and a settlement. He refused, saying that if we didn’t return her and her sisters, he would take me to court, accusing me of criminal conversation.”
“What did you do?” Lena watched his expressions, seeing sorrow, betrayal, and resolve in the lines of his face.
“We went to court. Everywhere the newspapers described me as the childhood sweetheart who had been recently reunited with his love . . . with the implication, of course, that we were not only reunited, but lovers.”
“Was there any other way?”
“No. But helping came at a price. When I went to balls, I was largely shunned, except by those who wished to redeem me. Being the brother of a duke might make up for dissecting bodies, but it can’t remove the scandal of a trial. Even worse, I had to tell my childhood sweetheart that in all those years she’d clung to my letter, I hadn’t given her a single thought, though I said it more kindly. I had been a foolish young man who had made foolish promises.”
“That you kept.”
“She’d believed I would love her. Instead, she found only scandal.”
“But she’s alive.”
“Certainly she has come to realize that, but I’d been her one hope during years of abuse. Losing that dream was not easy for her.”
“What happened to her and her sisters?”
“They live on a ducal property, using different names. But we are still cautious. Her husband is a cruel man who was embarrassed publicly when the judge granted the separation, and we must remain vigilant to ensure that he never discovers where she lives.”
Never letting her eyes leave his, she joined him at the fireplace. Wrapping her arms around him, she placed her head against his chest. At first he made no motion, but eventually he conceded, wrapping his arms around her as well.
“You kept a childhood promise,” she told him gently. “You saved a childhood acquaintance and her sisters, and despite great personal cost, you have protected them, supported them, even for years. I find those the actions not of a disreputable man, but of an honorable one.”
“I only did what had to be done.”
“What is that if not honor?” She placed a kiss on his lips. “But if you’d rather be disreputable . . .” She led him back to the bed once more.
* * *
Some time later, Clive rolled onto his side, watching Lena sleep. The tension she carried in her jaw and at the edges of her eyes had disappeared, leaving her looking younger, less worldly-wise, more vulnerable. This Lena would be easy to love, but the other Lena—driven, ambitious, suspicious—had stolen her way into his heart. Yet what did he know of her beyond her name and her employment? She wanted to tell him her secrets—he knew it—knew from the way she twisted the corner of her mouth and paused, staring into the distance for a second before she told him something that was at best half true. If she could only trust him . . . Very gently, he brushed back a stray hair from in front of her face.
“What are you doing?” She didn’t open her eyes, and he was pleased to see that the tension didn’t immediately return on waking.
“I’m watching you sleep.” He traced the line of her nose with his finger.
“I’m not sleeping.” She batted his hand away from her face. “I’m thinking.”
“Your eyes are closed. It looks like sleep.”
“I could be dead.”
“Unlikely, though we both died several times last night.” He placed his fingers on the side of her neck, feeling her pulse strong against his touch. “No, it beats still. ‘We die and rise the same, and prove mysterious by this love.’” He watched for her reaction to the word love, but her only response was to open her eyes and examine his face.
“John Donne? ‘The Canonization.’” She stretched, like a cat on warm, summer grass. “Don’t look surprised: when I’m not painting, I read.”
“I wasn’t surprised, I was pleased. Few people of my acquaintance know Donne as well as I do.”
“I prefer Shakespeare: ‘I will live in your heart, die in your lap, and be buried in your eyes.’”
“Benedick in Much Ado about Nothing,” Clive added. “But Shakespeare said ‘thy’ instead of ‘your.’”
A broad smile spread across her face. “Yes. We are both readers, it seems.”
“Both readers, but still unequal.” He waited for her reaction.
“How?” She looked into the distance, clearly counting. “No. By my tally, we are delightfully, perfectly even. Me in the carriage, then you in the drawing room, then the two of us together in the bedroom, then . . .”
“You are counting the wrong thing. I confided in you something I’ve never told another person. Yet you haven’t confided anything of the same importance. We are unequal, and there is only one remedy.” He watched her reactions play across her face: surprise, chagrin, acknowledgment, and finally acceptance.
“I’m unused to confiding in others. But I am committed to equality.” She shrugged. “When I first arrived in London, I had the privilege of a letter from a very famous painter to a wealthy English aristocrat. That letter, which I sent ahead for the lord to review, made the mistake of referring to me only by my last name. ‘I commend Frost to you, the best painter between Ireland and St. Petersburg.’”
“Are you?”
“What?”
“The best painter this side of St. Petersburg.”
She smiled. “Why, of course.”
“Then go on with your story.”
“The aristocrat invited me to his country house to demonstrate my skill in painting three of his sons. The invitation included a fortnight’s food and lodging, and travel to and from my rooms in London in his private carriage.”
“Promising.”
“I thought so. But I didn’t realize I was one of four painters
invited, and the aristocrat didn’t realize that Frost was a woman. He would have sent me home before my bag left the coach, but his mother insisted I remain.”
“I apologize on behalf of my sex and class, but sadly I’m not surprised.”
“I had lived in France—my mentor had been a painter to the royal court—I was surprised. The aristocrat had set up four identical easels in the gallery, canvases already prepared. Each day three sons would sit for us. One of the younger boys carried a ring and stick, his favorite game; the other played with his dog. The eldest, however, brought nothing that would indicate his personality or that he will grow up to be one of the most powerful men in the nation. How we presented the heir was part of the test.”
“You aren’t going to tell me who he is, are you?”
“No,” she said. “The aristocrat had hired a judge from the Royal Academy. The prize was a commission to paint the whole family, twelve portraits in all, enough work for a year at least, in addition to the fame of having one’s work displayed in that lord’s open gallery.”
“What happened?”
“We painted. The younger boys came to us in short intervals, playing on the lawn outside our windows in between sittings. One day, one of the younger brothers fell. The oldest boy picked him up, then checked his elbows and knees for scrapes. That tender moment shaped my portrayal of him. I had already sketched him in the center of a triangle between his brothers. After that, I showed him with one hand on each brother’s shoulder. His face looked directly at the viewer, earnest and kind all at once. It was one of the best paintings I’d ever done.”
“And then?”
“The judge came in. We stood next to our easels.”
“The paintings should have been judged without the painters or the aristocrat in the room.”
“Then you already know the end of the story. The judge spent a great deal of time praising the skill, wit, and mastery of the male painters. In both, the younger boys appeared as part of the background, distanced from their brother. One painter put a whip in the heir’s hand and painted him in riding gear. Another had him looking out over the estate, with his hand extended to show the extent of his domain. The last painted him looking sternly at the viewer, a map of England under his right hand.”
“Those are fairly conventional choices. What did the judge say about yours?”
“The judge never looked at mine. He chose the stern-faced boy with the map, and I received ten pounds for my painting.”
“At least they bought the painting.”
“The other painters received thirty-five each. Had my painting been judged unworthy, I could have stomached it. Had he critiqued its strengths and weaknesses, I could have learned something. But he took one look at me—a woman—and turned away. At that moment, I decided that I would have to find another path.”
“The panorama.”
“Yes, I’ve thrown my future on the low entertainments of the middling classes, and I made up a man to run my company, H. Calder and Company.”
Clive stared at her long and hard, his head spinning. “I don’t understand. I’ve been corresponding with Calder. We’ve been searching for him. But he has been you all along?” Some investigator he was turning out to be.
“No, I have a partner who calls himself Horatio Calder. I told you I advertised for an assistant. What I didn’t imagine was an assistant who took to the role quite so enthusiastically.”
“What is Calder’s real name?”
“I have no idea—I made the name up. H. Calder, that is. Out of whole cloth. Famous Scottish painter from some little town that I had no risk of anyone ever being from. It seemed like a good idea. Then he walked into my office—this short, jolly, dapper man, all ‘hale fellow well met.’ I was painting a small commission at my easel. He put his hat and coat on the rack, then seating himself behind the desk, he began to critique my painting. Horatio missed his calling. He should have reviewed paintings for the periodicals.”
“What did he say?”
“Some version of that I’m the most talented painter this side of St. Petersburg, but with more advice.”
“So, you hired him to pretend to be the name.”
“No, he introduced himself as Horatio Calder—and he’s never budged from that position. Suddenly I had a partner. I could do nothing but confess the truth to all of London. I preferred to have a partner.”
“What’s so wrong with the truth?”
“A woman of no background or standing masquerades as a man, at least in name. No, I know how that story ends. Think of Chatterton and his poems. The ton would demand I be punished for deceiving them so. For all Horatio’s odd ways, I have found life easier with a partner. There you have it. Does the story of my reasons for starting the panorama make us equal?”
“Did you learn nothing about me from spending time with my family?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her answer. When she said nothing, he added, “Then we are not yet even. I deserve another story.”
Lena threw a pillow at his head.
“Ah, my prickly darling, you don’t yet trust me.”
“I told you: I don’t trust anyone.”
“But why? Who hurt you so deeply that you reject all tokens of esteem and friendship?”
“I suppose, if anyone hurt me, I did it to myself. Early on, I learned that those you should be able to call upon for succor or aid often refuse to help you. The greater the protestations of love or affection, the more likely those protestations are a lie, a deception.”
Clive grew silent, and when he spoke, his voice was resigned. “When I was young, my eldest brother was still alive. He was cruel, vindictive, and mean spirited. His only motivations were pleasure and control. When we were young, he would trick us into doing as he wished us to do. He would always claim it was a test, of our strength, our cleverness, our dedication to the family, but it was never any of those things. It was always a test of how much he could deceive us, of how much we wished to believe that someday he would treat us like brothers. One time he had Edmund and me climb the turret walk. We didn’t fall, but if we had, he would have blamed the whole idea on us. I was ten when I realized that I would never measure up to whatever standard he had made up at the moment.”
“That sort of betrayal takes a long time to heal.” She paused. “And mine hasn’t. I don’t know if it ever will. I trusted someone to have my best interest at heart, to understand my concerns, and I was banished for my pains.”
“Banished is a strong word.”
“But apt.”
“Who is this person who thwarted your expectations and desires?”
She was about to answer when a tap at the sitting-room door drew him away. When he returned to the bedroom, Lena had begun to dress.
“While you took your bath last night, I sent Fletcher and the postilions to gather intelligence at various taverns.”
“Was that wise? Whoever damaged the canvas could have seen Horatio’s map as well as we did.”
“Fletcher served with Aidan in the wars, and he’s as savvy an investigator as any of us. If anyone can find a fact without revealing his interest, it’s Fletcher. But even so, we will still be better off with a directed search than a haphazard one.”
“How many church cemeteries can there be in one town?” She folded her arms over her chest.
“The Anglicans have five parishes. The dissenters another four: two Baptists, one Methodist, and one Quaker. The men have spent the morning searching for an ornate gate between two tall trees. But they’ve found nothing.”
“Then why are we here?” Lena groaned.
“To discover what is behind Horatio’s disappearance and your other troubles.” Clive pulled her into his arms. “I’ve sent the men out to examine the churchyards in the nearby villages, in case Horatio didn’t mean Derby.”
“Lord Somerville?” The innkeeper’s voice called to them from outside the door. “My wife sent up some victuals.”
Lena pulled out of Clive’s arms and
returned to the bedroom to finish dressing.
“One moment, Mr. Burrell.” Clive crossed the room in four long strides. Outside the door, the innkeeper held a heavily laden tray.
“I can set it on the table there.” The innkeeper hurried to place the tray down and return to the hall. “If you and the missus need anything . . .”
Clive held up a finger. “One moment, my good sir.” He picked up Horatio’s scribbled map. “We’re looking for a cemetery with an elaborate gate, perhaps of wrought iron, between tall trees. My wife wishes to visit the grave of her great-grandfather, but we seem to have gotten the name of the town wrong.”
“A wrought iron gate in a churchyard old enough to hold her ladyship’s distant relations.” The innkeeper scratched his head. “If you’ve tried all the Derby churchyards, you might consider looking in Denby. If I remember right, the Church of the Virgin Mary there dates to the fifteenth century, and it has an iron gate. It’s about seven miles away, but the road is good, and in a coach like yours, it shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
Clive clapped the innkeeper on the back. “We will do that, Mr. Burrell, this morning.”
With the innkeeper gone, Clive looked at Horatio’s scribbled map once more. The A could easily be an E, and the R an N. He hurried into the bedroom. But Lena looked sullen rather than excited.
“You heard?” Clive questioned.
She nodded, hugging her shawl tight around her shoulders.
“I can go alone.”
“No. I should go, but do you think we could ride?” She pulled a riding dress out of her luggage. “I can’t stand another hour in the coach.”
“It’s a cold day to ride, but if you wish, I’ll arrange it.”
She picked up her clothes, then stared at him until he made his retreat to the coach yard.
* * *
Mr. Burrell had a fine pair of horses, steady and reliable, available for rent, and, by the time Fletcher gave his approval of their quality, Lena had joined them in the yard. Mrs. Burrell offered Lena a heavy cloak and fur-lined gloves and Clive a knapsack filled with food. Lena did her own inspection, running her hand down the horse’s back, withers, and legs, all the while talking to him in low, calm tones. Once she mounted, Mr. Burrell gave them directions for a shortcut using an ancient right of way through the property of an absent landlord, but Clive assured him they would keep to the road.
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