Oliver grimaced. “Mama says the fish there are not fit to eat. She says they are not even fit to touch.”
Gareth could well believe it. The boys he’d known—the mudlarks—who’d worked the filthy river had lived in dread of infection and wounds that could end in death.
“It’s not difficult,” Oliver said, breaking into Gareth’s unsavory memories. “You can learn quickly. And I have two fishing poles, one is Mama’s.”
“Your Mama fishes?”
Oliver gave him a variety of smile Gareth would categorize as ‘from-one-man-to-another.’ “She gets impatient and usually gives up and sketches. Girls do not, in the main, care for fishing.”
Gareth felt his lips curve into a smile. “It is a manly activity, then?”
“Oh, yes,” Oliver assured him.
Gareth stood. “Well, I had better give it a go.”
Oliver smiled at him in a way that could not but please him. “I will wait for you in the stables, where Horrocks lets me keep my poles.”
“Wait for me?”
“Yes,” his eyes flickered over Gareth’s clothing. “Don’t you wish to change your clothes?”
Gareth looked down at himself. He wore his usual country rig, which Chalmers had selected, assuring him it was the preferred garb of country gentleman: buckskins, top boots, and a wool coat—green today—over a colored waistcoat, narrow green and brown striped. He looked at the boy, who was dressed similarly, although his clothing looked oft washed and patched.
“I have no other clothes.”
That was good enough for Oliver.
They went first to the stables, where Horrocks, Gareth’s stablemaster, gawked, but quickly recovered and sent a stable lad to fetch the poles from the tack room.
“Goin’ fishin’, aye? In the deep blue hole up the river?”
Oliver nodded.
“You watch out for Old Harry, lad. He’ll steal your bait and the rod along with it if you don’t keep your wits about you.”
Oliver chuckled. “Oh, Mr. Horrocks, you say that every time. But I have never seen such a fish.” He turned to Gareth. “Mr. Horrocks says Old Harry has been there since he was a boy and that he is this big.” He spread his arms as wide as they would go.
Horrocks gave a rusty laugh. “No, he’s this big.” He spread his own arms.
Armed with advice, poles, nine leaping, panting dogs, and an old tin for bait, they made their way on foot toward the east-northeast part of Gareth’s property.
“It’s not a long walk, only a quarter of an hour. We can dig our bait by the water.”
“Tell me about the bait and how one fishes in such a way as to catch a specimen like Old Harry.” Gareth knew worms were used, but he enjoyed listing to the boy talk. His enthusiasm was soothing and made him feel more optimistic. Already he was glad he’d decided to come. The day was clear and warm after such a long streak of rain. The ground was slow to dry up, but he would be able to remove the big rock before too many days were out.
The thought sobered him. He would have to leave after he’d completed that task. After all, what other reason did he have to stay?
***
Foolishly, Serena had stopped worrying and thinking and dreading Etienne Bardot, so when he arrived—unannounced and unexpected—it was a nasty surprise, not unlike finding a fly floating in one’s tea after one had already taken a sip.
He showed up two days after the horrific rains ceased, when the roads were still boggy with mud but no longer impassible for a carriage. He came when she was finally beginning to make some progress on the sculpture.
The muse had slipped in the door not long after Declan McElroy went away.
Something must have happened between the two men the night they’d all played cards, because McElroy was gone the following morning. He’d left on horseback, taking one of the hacks Mr. Lockheart—or Gareth as she’d been calling him, at least in her mind—had brought to Rushton Park. His journey must have been hellish indeed and Serena wondered at his sudden haste. Naturally she did not ask Gareth and he did not volunteer anything. Not that he had appeared any different than usual. At least not during the day. But at night—every night since his friend had left—he went into his odd room and punched his bag until his lean, muscular body ran with sweat.
She did not know if he made any late-night forays to the kitchen because she avoided that part of the house after dark, no matter how strong the pull to venture out and see him. Oh, yes, she wanted more. More of what they’d done all too briefly that night.
Serena was not blind, she knew Gareth Lockheart was intrigued by her. She knew he would consider her an appropriate candidate for a wife, her connections to the Duke of Remington as prestigious and well-regarded as any. She also knew his friend would do everything in his power to stop such a union from happening—not that it ever could. Even if McElroy left the issue alone, she could just imagine the glint in Etienne’s eyes upon discovering he could extort money from one of the wealthiest men in the country. No, she could not immerse Gareth Lockheart in such a dangerous web of lies. He’d been too kind to her, to Oliver. His friend was right about one thing, at least: Gareth Lockheart was a kind, caring man, even if he concealed his true nature behind an impenetrable mask. She would simply need to manage her unfortunate physical reaction to his handsome and intriguing person.
It was to avoid those thoughts and sensations that she’d returned to work. Until the ground dried out, they could not extract the rock and complete the berm. It behooved her to keep on task—or at least to keep busy. She changed into her working clothes and went to the stables. Nobody was around when she made her way to the stall at the rear of the building, but she could hear male voices and the sound of metal being pounded and guessed the men were in the forge.
The stall she was using was the largest in the stables and the one kept for foaling. It had been constructed with huge double doors that opened out into a small enclosure. With the doors open the light was perfect; the doorway was also large enough that there had been no problem bringing in the stone, which meant—in theory, at least—taking the statue out would be equally simple. Not that transporting a block of stone and finished sculpture were anything the same. She would not finish it completely but would leave in a few sections of rock that supported the more delicate parts of the statue.
This was her most ambitious project to date. While she’d worked on statues of this dimension and complexity for Monsieur Favel, she’d not designed one from its inception. But she was a skilled sculptor and knew this was not beyond her ability.
She’d made several wax figures, not stopping until she’d produced exactly what she wanted. Her samples were perhaps a foot and a half high, just large enough to provide her with a ready reference while she worked. Because she could not use a pointing machine, which she had used often for Favel when he wished to make multiple copies of a popular statute, she had divided the block of marble into a grid. She’d also copied grids onto paper, and from each angle, and had reduced the sculpture to one-eighth its size. These were not methods Favel had used but she’d seen other sculptors employ a variety of tricks to work on projects that were larger than life.
She’d been teasing Mr. McElroy about the classical theme she’d chosen to carve. She was not sculpting Judith and her notorious trophy—not that the notion had no appeal. Instead, she’d chosen something that would suit the parterre, in which the statute was destined to be on display. She’d thought about Mr. Lockheart and his unusual house, about the man himself, and what it was he represented. She’d chosen, after much consideration, the under-represented Greek Titan Coeus, a son of Uranus and Gaia, one of the four pillars that held Earth separate from the heavens. Coeus was often associated with inquisitive minds and intellect.
Among the Titans he was best remembered for having been banished to the underworld, breaking his chains, but remaining in Hades as the eternal companion of Cerebus. Serena had decided to represent him in
his “pre-fall” state.
She’d spread out her drawings and was examining the placement of his right foot when a loathsome voice penetrated her concentration.
“Ah, here you are, sweet cousin!”
Serena swung around, even though she knew who the voice belonged to.
Etienne Bardot stepped out of the shadowy corridor into the big stall, his eyes darting about her person. “What is that? Are you going to hit me and dump my body down a hole?”
Serena glanced down, surprised to see her hand has seized the bigger of her mallets from the table.
“I must admit your idea is not without a certain appeal.” She spoke to him in French, as she always did. It was the only thing she could do to protect herself from eavesdropping servants, not that it would protect her from members of her husband’s family, who all spoke French. Serena tossed the heavy hide mallet onto the workbench where it landed with a dull clatter. “What do you want?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. So rude. I’ve been looking for you for weeks, my dearest Serena.”
“For what, Etienne? I told you I would receive my pay at the end of the quarter. I have nothing now.” She held out her empty hands, hatred that threatened to choke her pulsing through her body.
“You would reduce our relationship to nothing but pounds and pence?”
“I would rather reduce it to nothing at all,” she shot back.
He merely laughed at her heated words and hate-filled glare. “We are bound by ties that are much stronger than money. I have come to see how my son goes on.”
Serena let out a string of curses in three languages.
He came toward her, his fashionable Hessians and expensive, but somehow tawdry, clothing enflaming her even more.
“Don’t act like you care about him.” She raked him with a look that held every ounce of loathing she felt. “If you did, you would not be dressed like a peacock while your own flesh and blood wears patched and too-small rags.”
He reached out a hand to caress her chin and she jerked back. His mouth hardened and he moved with the lightning speed she recalled from all those years ago, knocking her against the workbench and pinning her against the wall.
“You’ve forgotten who holds the whip hand, Serena. Do you need me to remind you?” He lowered his mouth over hers, stabbing into her cruelly and repeatedly. She did what she’d always done and remained still and limp.
He pulled away and grabbed her jaw in a crippling grip. “Serena the Statue, eh?” He squeezed her until her eyes watered, but she refused to make even a whimper. His dark gray-blue eyes, so like Oliver’s, glared down at her. He wanted to hit her, but love of his own hide and comfort held him back. After all, how could she go about fashionable society and get the work she needed to pay his crushing blackmail if she looked like a battered serving wench?
“Bah!” He shoved her away, slamming the back of her head against the wall and leaving her ears ringing. “I want nothing from you—you are old and haggard.” He spat, but she could not see where it landed as her vision danced with black spots. “Women love me here. All kinds, rich, poor, beautiful . . .”
Serena didn’t care, as long as he kept well away from her. Not that he would. No, she was the goose who laid golden eggs, and he took them without remorse and without ceasing.
She heard his boots on the wood planking and blinked rapidly, until she could see his shadow flickering as he paced.
“You flatter yourself that I came here to see you. I’m on my way to Dover, where I have business.”
Serena knew what that meant: smuggling. Etienne Bardot was a criminal from a long line of criminals and she rued the day that misfortune had led him to her little corner of the world. A Parisian by birth, he’d run from the city after an unfortunate incident that left an influential member of the local government dead.
He’d joined the army and quickly found his level, assembling a group of like-minded criminals and deserting at the first opportunity. They’d gone from village to village, until they found one so ill-defended, so lacking in men—men who were either dead from the endless fighting or off preparing to become cannon fodder—they could set up a private fiefdom.
Her vision cleared enough to see he was not looking at her, but at the block of marble. He shook his head and gestured to it before turning to her. “Why do you do this? You could live off the duke; he would care for you and the boy.” He snorted, “Oliver is the only child of his dead, beloved son.”
Serena pushed back her hair, which had shaken loose at his manhandling. “What? And live with you always lurking about? Do you think these people are stupid just because they are wealthy? And now that the War is over, do you think you will not see people who will know who you really are? What you really are?”
He waved a hand, dismissing her worries. “People of that class rarely travel.”
“You did.”
He’d returned to his usual, unflappable mood and merely smiled at her rude baiting. “Yes, but I am the odd one. I am, eh, how do you say it? On my way up the social ranks?”
He was filth, and lower than pond scum, but he was smart enough to know that. Which made him even more dangerous.
“Well, I have just come to pay my respects. It is unfortunate I do not have time to stay—meet your employer, see the boy. But perhaps on the return journey?”
Serena hoped he was run over by a wagon or shot by his criminal conspirators, but his type was hard to kill.
He gave her a mocking bow, tipping his hat, and then left, his footsteps echoing in the empty building.
She collapsed back against the wall when she could no longer hear him, her entire body shaking, her teeth chattering. She wrapped her arms around her body and tightened them, hugging herself as she would Oliver if he woke from a nightmare.
Oliver. What if Bardot hadn’t really left, but had gone to find him?
She ran from the room before the thought was even fully formed, her mind like a crazed animal, trapped in a snare.
Oliver. Where was he?
Stop. Think.
She obeyed the voice that had guided her out of France and away from Bardot and dozens of others who would have killed her for what she’d carried with her.
Fishing. He’d come to her room this morning to tell her Nounou had agreed to let him fish, in reward for being so good during the days when he’d not been able to step foot outside.
She returned to her impromptu work room and took her cloak, hat, and satchel from the peg where she’d hung them. In addition to her ever-present sketchbook, the satchel contained all her money, a miniature painting of Oliver in a leather case—an item she’d traded a piece of sculpture for with another artist—her marriage lines, and Robert’s signet ring, gold and emerald with his initials graven in the stone.
Serena took the satchel with her everywhere—a lesson she’d learned to her detriment over a decade ago, when she’d been caught and forced to flee and leave behind the information that had led Etienne Bardot to her door.
Oliver favored a bend in the stream where the water collected in a deep pool. They’d walked there together and she’d promised to come and bathe with him when the weather was warmer. There was a particularly alluring rock that hung over the stream and she’d told him—under no circumstances, was he to dive or swim alone. He was a boy who honored his word, so she was not concerned.
She half-ran, half-walked the distance to the stream, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps—especially after she saw the impression of far larger boots beside Oliver’s familiar footprints.
Oh God, she begged, please let her be mistaken. Even Etienne would not do such a thing—he would then have to care for the boy and she knew he had no regard for anyone other than himself.
But then she recalled his threat of six months past, when she’d refused to pay him—chiefly because she’d had almost no money: “I’ll take him from you, Serena, and I wager you’ll find the money to get him back, won’t you?�
��
She crested the rise that overlooked the small river and skidded to a halt. Two figures were down below, and neither of them was Etienne Bardot.
Serena quickly moved into the shade of a nearby grove of Scots Pines.
Oliver was down below and laughing, his skinny little body clad only in wet drawers. He was on top of the big rock and Gareth Lockheart, hip-deep in the pool and bare-chested, was calling out something in an unmistakably taunting masculine tone.
Oliver responded by leaping off the rock and clasping his knees with his arms, sending a great gout of water over his spectator.
Serena clutched her throat, where her breath had become stuck, her eyes flickering wildly.
But Oliver burst out of the water like some manner of fish, his characteristic, “Huzzah!” clearly audible.
The two males consulted one another, shook hands, as if completing some deal, and her almost nude employer turned in her direction and waded toward shore.
She swallowed as he emerged from the water, the fine linen he favored as translucent as a dragonfly’s wing.
“Oh. My.”
Serena had learned her art at the foot of a country sculptor who had no patience for the delicate sensibilities of his city equivalents. When he’d trained her in anatomy, he’d had every kind of body type as a model. Women, men, young, old—she’d seen dozens of bodies. But never had she seen one quite like Gareth Lockheart’s. She’d seen his torso in the window night after night, but she’d not seen the rest of him.
Narrow, powerful hips attached to legs that would have done a statue of Atlas proud. He moved with the athletic grace she’d admired in him more than once but could now fully appreciate. He slid a hand down the front of his drawers to pull the clinging fabric from his private parts, whose dimensions were quite impressive even considering the effect of the cold water.
He climbed the big rock, his actions affording her an excellent view of his backside, which her hands had so briefly caressed.
He strode to the end of the rock, said something to Oliver that made him laugh, and then launched himself into the air, making a splash that caused her son to hoot with joy.
A Figure of Love Page 15