Would he see if she dug her nails into her palms around the safety of the book she held in them? She hated war. Hated that she was beginning to care about one captain in particular.
“Of course. Take what you like.”
Wyatt stared back at her, the wind toying with his brown hair similar to the way her emotions toyed with her insides, from the friction-build between them.
“We have books at the base, but . . . it’s not the same as knowing they came from the library—or from you.”
Amelia nodded, the air suddenly feeling warmer than it ought. “There’s no restriction on whether you read from a cot in a ballroom or in a hangar at an airfield. The library doors are open to you and the books freely given as long as you’re here.”
He brightened, his countenance sending a twinge to her heart.
“I returned the last stack in our usual place. I’ll come back by tonight to pick up the new ones before I go.”
“They’ll be waiting.”
The wind kept up its dance, freeing a lock of blonde hair from its barrel roll to whisk about her cheek and fly across her nose. Amelia brushed it away, knowing it was decidedly inelegant but allowing a faint smile anyway, which he seemed to like.
“Good-bye, Amelia.” He beamed a smile back—the first time he’d been so open—and she reciprocated, without needing a clamor of words between them. “And thank you.”
Wyatt walked away this time, his steps sure and shoulders high as he marched through the open gate. He jumped into his military-issue jeep and sailed off down the road, in the direction of the airfield.
It took everything in Amelia to walk the path instead of speeding at a full run through the meadow. Stop. Think clearly. The tension between them was imagined—only a reality because fighting men were, on the worst occasion, dying men, and they could ill afford to form an attachment. It couldn’t be that her heart was awakening after the long sleep of four years.
Amelia hurried into the manor through the doors at the back of the Regency Ballroom and crossed to the library and the antique glass-doored sideboard where a stack of books waited only for her.
The aged volumes of Sherlock Holmes were there, just as she’d hoped, piled atop one another with spines worn to a lovely fade. A note sat on the stack, folded but coming unfurled upon the cover of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Though Amelia hadn’t enough within her to face the reality that she’d come to long for his penned words, she took the paper in hand, unfolded it, and read quickly:
To the lady librarian of the house,
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . . . bold. Intriguing. And every Sherlock Holmes story starts in a remarkably different way. More like Curious George than I expected. Luca may have to read one next so we can discuss it.
Still avoiding Austen, if you please.
Back by Christmas—I promise.
—Wyatt
A long pause followed, Amelia’s heart beating in her throat, and then:
P. S. There’s a USO dance at the base on Christmas Eve. Will I see you there?
Few things in Amelia’s world terrified her more than the sputtering of a plane engine overhead or the whistle of bombs raining from the night sky.
Odd, but in her heart, attending a USO dance with Wyatt Stevens came dangerously close to both.
Fifteen
May 1, 1843
Parham Hill Estate
Framlingham, England
“Ah, Lady Elizabeth. Just the artist I was looking for.” Franz bustled out of the Regency Ballroom, catching Elizabeth as she’d hoped to go unnoticed, and slipped from a drawing room door to the hall.
With his jacket discarded, silk waistcoat undone over a wrinkled linen shirt, and hair in a disarray of odd angles that stuck out about his crown, Franz presented quite disheveled. Not at all the picture he so routinely displayed.
“Mr. Winterhalter,” Elizabeth said, swift to give a practiced curtsey. “Are you quite well, sir?”
“Well indeed.” Franz gave a hurried bow, then looked behind her as if searching for a companion. “I’ve disturbed you in some endeavor?”
Thinking quickly, she held up two books she’d borrowed from the library. “No, sir. Not at all. I’ve been about the library. But it won’t be long before luncheon is served, and my mother will wish me to be on time for it. She can be exacting about such matters of propriety, even if our host is away.”
“But you are not presently engaged?”
“Not presently, no.”
He nodded. “Das ist gut.”
She needn’t tell him the library was a ruse to afford her the opportunity to walk the long hall spanning the back of the manor, off which she’d step into rooms and search about quite without revealing her intentions. That was the plan, anyway. To find the viscount’s private library and search it unobstructed—until Franz had found her there.
“Forgive me, sir. I thought the viscount stated you had a commission in Belgium. I did not expect you’d still be with us. We are delighted, of course, but have you and the viscount returned so quickly?”
“I regret that I was forced to postpone my trip. Something has come up here. But Huxley remains in London—business affairs hold him fast, I’m afraid.”
London. And business affairs . . .
“Oh. I see. And does the viscount . . . frequent London?”
Franz didn’t reply, instead just stood with hands pinned at his hips, surveying her face and morning dress. “You wear yellow often?”
“I suppose. On occasion.” Elizabeth smiled. She couldn’t help herself. My, but he was eccentric.
“I wonder if you would come in here. I have need of your assistance.” He eased the books from her hand and extended his arm for her to join him in the Regency Ballroom. “If you please.”
Elizabeth gazed past him into the depths of the room. The floor-to-ceiling windows had been laid open along the back, spanning the wall where white wainscoting met the rich robin’s-egg wallpaper. She thought she remembered there had once been gold brocade curtains hung along them, but he’d had them taken down? Elizabeth didn’t doubt Franz might have yanked them down himself, one by one, if it improved the light. He did appear to be working on something—an easel and canvas were set up in the center of the room with a beech pochade box standing beside it, the wood grain bespeckled with all manner of paint hues. A long brush was angled over the wooden top, its coarse bristles loaded with paint in a rich azure.
“I could come in for a moment, I suppose. But what is all this?” She followed him inside.
Franz moved about, lines furrowed across his brow and cognac eyes serious as his gaze penetrated the space between then. “This is the innate predicament when an image must come to life—it needs a spark for the fire to begin its slow burn. Paint alone cannot tell the story. It must first be born within the artist in order for him to put that life to canvas. And to be born there must be the spark.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she wasn’t entirely certain what he was referring to. “A spark, you say?”
“Ja.” He clapped his hands together. “A spark—exactly.”
Fresh air enveloped Elizabeth when she crossed the dance floor to the easel, the open windows welcoming the cool spring breeze, and the melody of birdsong brought the outdoors inside. How did a celebrated portrait maker craft his masterpieces? Elation coursed through her as she turned behind the painting, imagining the richness of the forms taking shape from the artistry of Franz’s brush.
Finding nothing but blank canvas, she turned back. “You have not begun?”
The rolled linen of his shirtsleeves appeared to be in his way, so Franz shoved them back off his wrists and crossed his arms over his chest. “Nein. I do not sketch first. The image—” A measure of agitation seemed to weigh his shoulders as he paced a few steps back and forth. He tapped two fingers to his temple. “It lives here until it is born. But it is being difficult.”
“I see. And you need me to do what exactly?”
“Sketch for me
.”
A slow smile built within her—interest coupled with disbelief. “You wish me to sketch upon your canvas . . . ?”
Franz tipped his head toward the opposite side of the room. “Nein. On yours.”
For the first time, Elizabeth saw a second setup nearly identical to the first. Franz moved to the fireplace and deposited her books upon the mantel as she approached behind.
Another easel and pochade box—this one appeared new—and a blank canvas waited opposite the fireplace. She walked over to it and ran her fingertips over metal tubes tucked in neat little rows—oil paints in fiery titian and deep crimson, an array of sea blues and the luxury of creamy neutrals. She tapped her fingertips against the pencils and brush heads sticking up from a wooden cup in the corner of the tray, smiling as the boar’s hair tickled her skin, then ran her palm over an ivory canvas smock draped across its top.
It was a miraculous setup—an artist’s dream. And this man was inviting her into it. “What is all this?”
“You prefer to sketch outside? It is not en plein air but close to it with the windows open. It will have to do, as I must remain indoors for this painting.” Franz ignored her question as if his own thoughts raced about and he couldn’t notice anything outside of his own head.
“What am I to do? Mr. Winterhalter, you’re being quite mysterious, even for you.”
It was then Elizabeth noticed the tea table next to the fireplace. Upon it, a black leather-bound sketchbook lay bare, open to the last quarter of its pages. She recognized the splay of images from Parham Hill: flower studies of marigolds, camellias, and tea roses. Horses and willows. Castle spires cutting lines against the clouds. And a few sketches she’d done from memories of home in Yorkshire . . .
She sucked in a desperate breath.
One of the most famous artists in the world had stepped into the privacy of her childish imaginings. With horror she slid her glance from him to the images, wishing she’d never sketched them. “Where did you find that?”
“Oh, this—ja.” Franz moved to retrieve the sketchbook from the table. He thumbed through the pages like he was in a hurry about something. With a sudden slap of his palm to a page, he flipped the book around and presented it to her. “Here. I was quite taken with this one. You have used oil paints before?”
“I have.”
“And can you duplicate this?” He pointed to a drawing Elizabeth had done days before, of a honeybee drinking nectar from an apple blossom branch.
Elizabeth reached for the book, begging to take it back. But he resisted, slipping it out of her reach.
“I don’t know where you found this, sir, but I am not in the habit of sharing my work with anyone.”
“The viscount fetched it from the bridge—before he left.”
“Oh,” she breathed out, half relieved to have found it but half terrified the sketch hidden in the back might have been discovered by prying eyes. “My drawings may be a trifle, but they are important to me. And private.”
“A trifle? Is that what you think?” Franz shook his head, a coy smile upon his lips, and pressed an index finger to them as if to shush her out of such talk. “Nein. They are not.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Winterhalter, but I do not believe the viscount would approve of this. If you please, I should like to have my book back and not speak of it again. And then I shall go. It is almost luncheon and I will be missed if I do not appear presently.”
Franz returned the book, which she battled not to take with an intentional swipe from his hands. She curled her palm around the binding, intent upon fleeing, but he held her at bay with a booming laugh that echoed off the high ceilings.
“Approve? Who do you think requested that I work with you?”
The reality arrested her, and Elizabeth turned back.
He smiled wide. “Though I’d have twisted Huxley’s arm on my own in seeing this. Yours is a rare talent, Fräulein. Has no one told you how gifted you are?”
Searching his face in earnest, Elizabeth waited for him to reveal the jest that never came. Though Franz’s manners were flamboyant at best, there was one thing he did not appear to take lightly—ever.
That was his art.
The maturity with which he stood before her—open, serious, and without an ounce of arrogance—made the words ring as truth. Elizabeth had never considered herself any kind of talent, let alone a rare bird. Nor that the viscount would see it in her and request that Franz take her under some sort of wing because of it.
She shook her head. “I’ve never shown my drawings to anyone, save for my father many years ago. It is just a memory of home—the orchards and honeybees on our Yorkshire estate. Perhaps I remember the way things used to be.”
“You have had no formal training?”
“None at all, sir. You cannot mean to judge me any kind of proficient because of a few simple drawings.”
Franz paused, then crossed the dance floor with slow steps and eased the sketchbook from her hands.
The drawings were nothing particularly special, not compared to those of an accomplished artist of his stature. But he flipped through page after page, exclaiming over Elizabeth’s use of light and shadow, the deep expression she was able to bring to inanimate objects, and the way her eye was able to extract exquisite beauty from even the most mundane of subjects.
“You are correct. I cannot assess the scale of your talent based on a mere book. I must see more in order to judge more.”
Elizabeth gazed around through indecision, the sun catching in a cascade of light against the rows of colored tubes. She looked to the open windows, birdsong providing a backdrop of peace to the vast space in a cheerful melody that carried through the frames. The breeze moved about again, toying with the edge of the smock draped over the pochade box.
“Did you tear down the drapes in here?”
“Of course. An artist must remove whatever obstructs his view from seeing the world through the lens of light.” He began to button his waistcoat, as if buttoned-up meant back to the business of masterful creation in his mind.
“The viscount really requested this of you?”
“Not the drapes, nein. But the rest—he did. In quite determined a manner, I might add, requesting I provide him with the list of items you’d need in order to begin.”
Elizabeth’s heart triggered in her chest. “Whyever would he do such a thing?”
Franz’s demeanor shifted from serious back to humored, and he chuckled as if the answer should have been plainly known. “I suspect it is because our dear viscount is attempting to woo you, clever wolf that he is. Though he would never admit it, not even to himself. But that is no concern of ours at the moment. We have much work to do.”
He smiled and reached for the smock, pulling it free from her pochade box. He held it out to her, bowing as he waited. “So what’s it to be, Lady Elizabeth? Will you but help a struggling artist with his craft?”
“Struggling you are not, Mr. Winterhalter.” She eyed the smock in front of him with conjecture. “I once thought you to be penniless. Much the fool me.”
“Ach, but that is where you are wrong. Artists only starve if they do not feed the fire within them. Every master must begin somewhere on the road to greatness. May she be bold enough to step out in pursuit.”
Elizabeth gauged his sincerity with a measured glance.
The temptation proved too wild to ignore, and she eased the smock from his outstretched hand, slipped it over her dress, and tied the canvas strips tight around her waist. She exhaled low, unbuttoned the festoon sleeves of her dress, and tucked satin pleats back off her wrists while she challenged him with a direct stare.
Franz stepped back to his own easel, paused to look over the top of empty canvas, and nodded to her from across the room. “Gut. Let us begin.” He picked up his brush.
Ma-ma would come searching sooner or later, likely when Elizabeth did not appear in the dining hall within the hour. But she hadn’t the ability to stop herself from drowning
once in the perfect rhythm of creating light, color, and shadow on a blank canvas . . .
All the while she sketched, painted, and fell deeper into her first glorious taste of the artist’s world, somehow the bitterness of her early memories diminished.
No more Piccadilly . . .
No more falling snow and broken dreams . . .
The memory of steel gray entered her mind, but this time she would not see the eyes as she once had. Instead they’d softened, and what had been jagged and sharp was now cut by a hopeful line of gold.
Sixteen
Present day
19 Pembroke Place
London W8, England
“He knows how to work a crowd like Houdini on a stage. I’ll give him that,” M. J. whispered at Keira’s side as they stood on the fringes of the reception room in Carter’s London flat.
Their host mingled about, weaving through the clusters of guests he seemed to have wrangled from all corners of London, sipping champagne with a practiced air and cutting a suave profile against the crème of British society. Every now and then he’d look up and scan the diamond tiaras across the space until he spotted the two Irish girls in a corner. And then he’d give a nod in their direction to show he hadn’t forgotten them completely.
“See?” M. J. practically melted at the latest wink. “He’s even workin’ us.”
“He’s trying to.” Keira watched M. J., who was fast falling under their dear viscount’s spell. “There’s a difference.”
“Tryin’ to? Would ye look around? I’ve never seen anythin’ like this. Art historians are used to books an’ musty old ledgers—but stately manors an’ old money too. We assistants don’ get out into the real world to see the likes o’ this very often. I come from a tiny flat in County Wicklow. How am I supposed to compare anythin’ like that to all this?”
“Oh, this isn’t the real world. They think it is, but it’s their world. They only let us in so far. We might be invited to the party, but we’re still not one of the club. Not really.”
The Painted Castle Page 17