by Amanda Deed
‘Very pleasant, thank you. Mr Xavier came and joined me.’
Mr King glanced at Mr Xavier and then back at her. ‘My nephew is a good sort.’
‘Yes, he is.’ Serena entwined her fingers in the fabric of her skirt until the twists began to cut her circulation. ‘He told me you enjoy painting.’
‘I do, yes. I paint a great deal. There are so many ideas up here, Miss Bellingham.’ He tapped his head. ‘Why, I have started three pieces today. First, a rose at the end of its life, then I pictured an image of Misty and Storm racing through the surf, so I sketched that out. And then I thought it would be grand to do portraits of my nephews. No sooner do I get an outline drawn for one idea, then another fills my head, and I’m sure each one will be a masterpiece.’
Serena stared at him, wide-eyed. The broody expression he usually wore had vanished. The man before her oozed enthusiasm and energy—and conceit—gesturing with his hands as he spoke, hands that still carried stains from the oils he’d been using. His eyes sparked with zeal for his ideas and the art of painting. Instead of clipped, precise phrases, he was chattering. Whatever she had expected from visiting Mr King, this was not it.
‘Well, Mr Xavier has shown me the art around the house. I didn’t realise most of the work was yours.’
Again, Mr King glanced at his nephew. ‘Thank you, Xavier. You honour me.’
Mr Xavier blushed. ‘You know how much I value your paintings.’
Mr King’s eyes held expectation as he turned back to Serena. ‘And what did you think?’
‘They are wonderful.’
‘Aha.’ He clapped his hands. ‘You see. I knew it.’
‘Knew what?’
‘I knew you’d appreciate my art.’
Serena quirked an eyebrow at him. He’d waited for her to notice, so he could exult in her praises?
‘You are very confident.’ Had he forgotten how much he’d hurt her family? Perhaps he needed a reminder. She pointed to one of his paintings. ‘I don’t like that one so much—it is a little dark for my taste.’
Mr Xavier choked back a laugh and then covered his mouth, but Mr King seemed to not even notice her slight.
‘Come, I must show you some more.’
He grabbed her hand and jerked her to her feet in his enthusiasm, and she let out a startled ‘oh’.
‘Uncle!’ With a single word from Mr Xavier, Mr King dropped her hand.
‘Forgive me.’ The words sounded sincere enough, but immediately Mr King’s enthusiasm returned and he led them, almost dancing, into another room.
Mr Xavier blocked her entry for a moment, turning to whisper to her.
‘Don’t mind my uncle. Sometimes he has trouble controlling his … er … impulses.’
With that, he followed Mr King. What did he mean by that? Mr King acted before thinking? Was that why he’d just grabbed her hand? And was that why he’d taken her in his arms that night? Mr Xavier had implied he acted on whims before.
Serena shook her head. She would have to think about it later. Looking around her, paintings rested on easels and hung on every inch of wall space. Except for one wall, which was an entire mural of its own. Did his pride need feeding so much he had to parade his art in front of her, or was it more than that? Perhaps he relished sharing his enjoyment with another soul. After all, she supposed his family might have become quite inured to it after many years.
Whatever the reason, Serena stood dumbfounded as she encountered one exquisite piece of work after another. The colours, the lines—every detail spoke of beauty. The wall painting portrayed a mermaid perched on dangerous rocks, beckoning to a nearby ship from which a young man stared at her with wistful longing. His imagery spoke to her of a yearning for perfection and its unattainable nature.
‘What do you think?’
What could she say? That she was speechless with amazement? Serena didn’t want him to know his creativity astounded her. He was still her gaoler. She pursed her lips, trying to think of a set-down.
Mr King didn’t wait for her response, but strode over to two of the easels. ‘Some are unfinished. Did you see this?’
No, she hadn’t. Between the stands was a small pedestal, atop which sat a pretty ceramic vase with a delicate ceramic rose hanging over the lip. ‘Oh, it’s perfect,’ Serena breathed before she remembered she was trying to hide her enjoyment. ‘Where did you find that?’
Mr King’s mouth stretched into the first full smile Serena had seen, and her heart thumped despite her determination to remain indifferent. ‘I made it.’
‘You made it? Is there nothing you can’t do?’
‘Very little.’ Mr Xavier answered for him.
It had to be an exaggeration, but right now, Serena was overwhelmed. It was a bad idea to have come here. As much as she wanted to find more faults with him, the brilliance he accomplished outweighed any social ineptitude. She searched the room again. Sure enough, there were several more pedestals with delightful ceramic sculptures, and even wood carvings on them. ‘You made those too, I expect?’ She rolled her eyes and ran her fingers over the perfectly smooth wood.
‘I did.’
Serena sucked in a deep breath and released it with a loud sigh. ‘Well, Mr King. I never imagined you’d surprise me again, but I confess I am quite astonished.’
That evening at the family dinner table, the cook, as always, brought out covered platters and everyone began serving themselves food. When the door opened and Mr King entered the room, the whole family seemed surprised.
‘Ed, what brings you down here to us mere mortals?’ Mr Jones winked at him.
‘Robert, don’t be a tease.’ Mrs Jones scolded her husband playfully, then turned to her brother. ‘It is nice to see you here, dear.’
‘Yes, I thought I might join you for supper this evening,’ Mr King said as he pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat. ‘What has Becker delivered up tonight? Something delicious I hope. It smells divine at any rate.’ He glanced up and saw that everyone stared at him. ‘What? Cannot a man enjoy a meal in his own dining room?’
‘Of course, dear.’ Mrs Jones sent reproachful glares at her sons and husband, who then returned to dishing up food as if nothing strange had taken place.
Serena watched the entire exchange with piqued interest, whilst forking succulent duck and greens into her mouth. That was definitely one benefit of being stuck at Aleron—exceptional food.
The family seemed unaccustomed to Mr King’s presence in the room. Indeed, Serena had not seen him in the dining room once in the three weeks she’d been here. Clearly it was not a common occurrence. Was it as Mr Jones insinuated—Mr King thought himself so far above the others that he secluded himself? Or did he never have time to leave his work and eat with his family?
‘Have we all had a pleasant day?’ If Mr King noticed his family’s awkwardness, he did not show it.
A round of ‘yes, thank yous’ followed, but only Mr Jones continued. ‘Reverend Phillips gave a stirring sermon this morning. He spoke about the prophet Ezekiel. Did you know he prophesied the destruction of several ruling powers well before they took place? Fascinating stuff.’
‘He was probably an intellect of his time. You would only need to study a nation and how it managed its affairs to figure out its downfall was inevitable. Prophecy is overrated. Pass me the duck, please.’
Mr Simon sent the requested platter along the table.
Mr Jones would not be dissuaded. ‘And yet their destruction was not always from internal mismanagement. Many were decimated when overtaken by foreign nations. How could you predict that? Besides, he would have to be well travelled to study every nation he prophesied against. But he was just an exile living in Babylon.’
‘Nevertheless, Robert, there would be a logical explanation. To say he heard the voice of God is absurd.’ Mr King selected a leg, befo
re spooning greens onto his plate.
‘You are very adamant for someone who has studied almost every work of ancient writing except for the Bible.’
Serena didn’t miss the twinkle in Mr Jones’s eyes. He enjoyed baiting his brother-in-law.
‘And you are rather adamant for one who chose not to take orders, but joined the military instead.’
The twinkle in Mr Jones eyes died, replaced with a flash of regret. Had Mr King just insulted his brother-in-law?
Mr King, ignoring the effect of his words, turned to his nephew, his fork poised near his mouth.
‘What have you been up to this afternoon, Simon?’
‘I worked on my project.’ Although the young gardener brightened with his uncle in the room, he remained somewhat sullen, and kept a suspicious eye on Serena.
Mr Jones nodded toward Serena. ‘He works with wood as a hobby. He’s building a roosting box for the local birds at present, and he’s got other projects in motion, too.’
‘Oh.’ Serena nodded. So, the creativity didn’t stop with Mr King.
‘He made me a brilliant rocker last year.’ Mr Xavier beamed with pride.
‘And I received a lovely carved trinket box for my last birthday,’ said Mrs Jones.
Did Mr King teach his nephew how to carve the wood, or to design his projects? Mr Simon turned crimson after the flood of compliments. ‘It was nothing. Not like Uncle Ed’s work, anyhow.’ He tried to divert the attention away from himself.
‘It is not nothing. And you should not compare yourself to Eddie,’ Mrs Jones chided.
‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Mr King agreed.
Because he was unmatched? Mr King didn’t show humility, or even false humility.
By the time supper finished, Serena had a stronger understanding of the dynamics between Mr King and the family members who lived at Aleron House. There was much affection between them, although there was a slight undercurrent of tension. Mr King didn’t belittle his family, but neither did he act as though he were their equal. It was rather condescending, in fact. But Serena did not doubt that he cared for them.
Mr King had gone off to play cards and smoke with the menfolk, which was sociable of him, leaving Serena to keep company with Mrs Jones. Mrs Jones, however, had letters to write, so Serena had to fend for herself. She remembered the vast library Mr King kept. She should ask him for permission before borrowing any volumes. How would he react to yet another imposition? He’d been receptive this afternoon, but he had been alone then and now he was with his nephews. She shrugged to herself. There was no harm in trying.
Serena hurried after the gentlemen, hoping to catch Mr King before they settled in the drawing room. She rounded a corner in time to see them filing through the doorway.
‘Excuse me, Mr King.’
They all looked back at her, questions written on their faces. She approached hesitantly. ‘I wanted to speak to Mr King.’
He nodded to her and stepped aside, leaving the others to continue. ‘Yes, Miss Bellingham?’
‘I was wondering if I might borrow a book from your library.’
‘By all means.’ He seemed pleased at the request. ‘Although, if you’re looking for one of those three volume travesties by Jane Austen or the like, you will be disappointed. I keep only quality reading in my library.’
‘Oh,’ Serena swallowed her embarrassment. She had hoped for something romantic. ‘Do you have any recommendations?’
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘There are several wonderful histories in there. But, if you prefer something more fictional, I have the complete works of Shakespeare. And, of course, there’s poetry. You may try Lord Byron if you prefer.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Serena offered him a light curtsy.
For a moment, she thought he might follow her, but after a slight hesitation, he turned back to the gentlemen and re-joined them as they lit pipes and laughed. Serena paused and looked through the gap as she pulled the door closed. Mr King lifted a small silver box from his pocket and flicked it open. He took a pinch of powder from it and put it to his nose, sniffing hard and loud. Ah, he didn’t smoke like the others, he took snuff instead. Thoughtful, she shut the door and headed for the library.
Strange, the difference between Mr King and Mr Xavier. While the latter was comfortable company and easy to talk to, she was more drawn to the unsettling presence of Mr King. Mr Xavier made a good companion, but her thoughts turned to Mr King more often. Serena let out a groan. She shouldn’t be thinking in this direction. Mr King only saw her as a prisoner and Mr Xavier, well, who knew if he saw her as anything else, either? She needed to get a book and busy herself with reading it. That would keep her runaway mind in check. She hoped.
10
Monday 2nd May, 1842
Simon calls me a fool. Why did I bring her here? Can I not see she is my ruin? And if she doesn’t ruin me by her machinations, Xavier will with his chatter. Xavier must be warned.
But no! He cannot see. She is the cure for this curse.
The fig mocks me also. It will have me yet, it says. But it no longer draws me, instead Serena does.
I am filled with ideas, plans for the future—buildings to design, paintings to draw, sculptures, words—the list is endless and continues to grow with every waking minute. I can’t sleep for the excitement. Need forces me to write them down before they vanish into the ether. I write and sketch until my fingers cramp, but still they come. The next thing I know, the sun is sending its rays through my window.
And rising with the sun is Serena. Soon she will be in the yard, hanging washing. I can watch her from the second-floor parlour.
When Serena worries, or is concentrating, she has an endearing way of clamping her lip between her teeth. It makes me wish to puzzle her, just to see it.
Stay away. Stay away. Stay away.
She must not learn of the curse. I must speak with Xavier.
11
Serena strolled along the colonnade that spanned the length of the south wing. Another colonnade mirrored the covered walkway on the north wing, giving the mansion its symmetry. Her heels clicked on the pavers and she allowed her hand to brush the smooth stone pillars that reached up to form pointed arches above her head. Mr King was in the elegant detail of every part of this building. Everywhere she looked, fastidious design met her gaze.
She released a sigh as she leaned up against a column. The house held her in an enchantment, she could no longer deny it. It always had. But, perhaps it was not just the house that had gripped her. Mr King. How she yearned to know him more—the intricate ways of his mind. Serena was still unsure whether his exhibition of art the other day was a display of self-importance, or a simple sharing of interests. Did he mean to convince her of his exceeding craftsmanship by overwhelming her with it? Or did his passion for art overflow to any who might lend him a willing ear?
And then there was the matter of those sudden and strange impulses, which the family hinted at, but which she had experienced as well. Did Mr King really have trouble with self-control or was it simply ill-mannered behaviour? She had never encountered anyone like him before.
Serena was not certain of anything at Aleron. The seeming changeable nature of Mr King—at first irritable and rude and then open and cordial, even at times charming. The protectiveness of his family. It sat at odds with her experience of a normal household. But then, normal in a house this size might be quite different.
Oh, but she missed her family near the docks. She never imagined she would pine for the smell of brine and fish—or the noise of city living, with its constant stream of carts grating in the laneways, the ‘hoy’ of warning shouted here and there. And the people. On top of missing her father and sisters, she yearned for her morning visits to the baker, or the butcher, if they had extra coins that week. There was much colour in her old routine that sadly lacked here at Aleron house. And at
home, her family needed her. She served only one purpose at Aleron.
For several weeks now it had been breakfast, then washing—wringing, hanging, starching, folding, ironing—and dusting and polishing all day with only a few breaks to eat and drink. At the end of the day, she fell exhausted into bed. After supper, Serena was free to do as she wished, but too often she was so depleted, she could only read a page or two of Lord Byron before falling asleep.
The only change to this routine came with the occasional visit from Mr King, or a walk on the beach with Mr Xavier. The two men caused such opposing emotions in her. Whenever Mr King intercepted her, her heart fluttered and the familiar attraction drew her, but then he always left her baffled. When she strolled on the sand with Mr Xavier, she was at peace, but apart from his well-looking face, he aroused little more in her than friendly affection.
With another sigh, Serena straightened from the pillar and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The late afternoon breeze became chillier by the day. Footsteps scuffed on the stone flagging to her right, causing her to turn to greet whomever came her way.
‘Mr King. What brings you out here?’
He approached in a manner that Serena could only describe as jogging, or was it skipping? Perhaps a cross between the two.
‘I might ask you the same, Miss Bellingham.’ Mr King drew her attention to the fading light with a sweep of his hand. ‘It is getting cold out.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind the cold so much, and I wanted fresh air before supper.’ She fell into step beside him as they walked back toward the entrance. ‘I’m used to a draughty house and thin garments, you know.’
He appeared to study her shawl for a moment with an intense gaze. Did he think her lack of the finer things made her lesser somehow? Even her austere circumstances were only a recent happening. Once, she’d been wealthy, with many prospects for the future.
Serena swallowed those dashed dreams of the past and reached out to run a hand over one of the smooth columns. ‘I must confess I was out here admiring your architecture.’ She released a wistful sigh for effect.