“As good as you remembered?”
“Mmm. Better.”
He grinned as she dabbed cherry icing from the corners of her mouth. “What happened to the painting?”
She swallowed and returned her napkin to her lap. “Papa couldn’t bear to see it on the auction block. He shipped it to my grandfather before turning over the gallery to the creditors. He shipped me there too.”
“Alone?”
“He accompanied me as far as Brussels. I met my grandfather there for the first time and I’ve lived with him ever since. The Girl in the Garden is the centerpiece of our gallery, but my father has never seen it hanging there. He won’t step foot in Holland. We meet here in London or in Paris. Anywhere but home.”
“I take it he and his father don’t get along.”
Alison shook her head. “That’s why Papa left the gallery.”
“And dropped the ‘Van’?”
“Yes.” She finished her scone and brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “Now it’s your turn to expose a family skeleton.”
She sounded a little sheepish, and Ian guessed she didn’t often tell strangers about her family’s misfortune. He shifted his weight in the petite chair and placed his napkin beside his plate. “It’s possible—though not proven, mind you—that the Devlin fortune came from piracy and a fair amount of smuggling.”
Alison’s eyes widened in mock horror. “That’s scandalous.”
“To our credit, we eventually turned from our thieving ways and became fine, upstanding citizens, loyal to king and country. Raising sheep may not be as exciting as thievery, but it’s much more reputable.”
“So you’re the son of a country squire.”
“My father is the seventh lord of Kenniston.”
“Making you a lord-to-be?”
“I’m a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Army.”
“But someday?”
Ian shifted uncomfortably and stared at his plate.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
He heard the faint hurt in her voice. No wonder. He had seen the pain in her eyes as she shared her childhood tragedy with him. She deserved to hear about his. “Let’s take a walk, shall we? There’s a small park at the end of this square.”
After Ian paid the bill, they stepped outside and followed the sidewalk to an open wrought-iron gate that led into a well-tended park. Elms, birches, and maples shaded wide paths bordered by late-summer flowers. Fat gray squirrels scampered among the trees, chattering and scolding. Ian gestured toward a weathered bench facing a sun-dappled granite fountain, and they sat beneath the thick branches of a sheltering sycamore.
In the tranquil seclusion of the park, Ian stared along the path to a short hedge bordering a bed of decaying roses, the fragile red and pink petals dotting the mulched ground. Reminders of floral arrangements surrounding a burnished coffin. Reminders of an exuberant life too soon spent.
He took a deep breath. “I was the second son. The title was never supposed to go to me.”
As he watched her face, needing to know that she understood what he had left unsaid, her features softened in sympathy. He tried to clear his throat, but the lump of remembered sorrow didn’t cooperate.
“You don’t need to explain.” Alison slipped her hand into his, and a warmth he’d never before known swept through him. Amid the chilling memory of the death of the older brother he’d worshiped, his father’s rightful heir, a vivid certainty emerged. An ordinary trip to London had turned extraordinary by an immigrant boy with a violin and a young lady with a sketch pad.
And his heart would never be the same again.
* * *
Alison watched Ian’s profile as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. She wished she could read his thoughts as he visibly relaxed and squeezed her hand. The small gesture jolted her with warmth.
“There was an accident.” He faced her and one corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “We were just boys. Daring, foolish boys playing a foolish game.”
She waited for him to continue, but he seemed lost in memory. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Me too.”
The chimes of Big Ben, the great bell of the clock tower at the Parliament building, broke through the silence. Alison braced against the tolling of the hour, each echoing clang a portent of the moment when circumstances would force them in different directions.
“It’s getting late. Your sister will want her letter.”
“Come with me. I’m sure she’d like to meet you.”
Alison stared at the water shooting above the fountain before falling as a misty spray into the shallow basin below. Lit by the late-afternoon sun, the glistening droplets shimmered, miniature rainbows of red, green, and blue. Transitory rays of cheerful color destined to disappear as the sun settled beneath the London skyline.
“We should say good-bye now. Believe me, Ian. It’s for the best.”
“Best for whom?”
“Perhaps for both of us.” She slowly withdrew her hand from his and her fingers turned cold.
“Do something for me first?”
“If I can.”
“A drawing.”
“Of course.” Relief reverberated through the two short words. “Though I don’t know if I can duplicate it exactly since one of my models is well on his way out of London.”
“I want a sketch of you.”
Alison’s eyes widened. “Of me? Why?”
“Because it would be . . . you.” The gold flecks in his hazel eyes deepened as he struggled to explain. “More than just a likeness. Something you did. Of you.”
“I’ll try.” She frowned as she pulled her drawing materials from her bag and opened the pad to a blank page. Closing her eyes, she visualized her features as if she were looking in a mirror. When that didn’t quite work, she thought about the photograph taken of her last Christmas as a gift for her father. With that image clear in her mind, she opened her eyes and began to draw.
“May I watch?”
“No,” she said in mock horror. Shifting so he couldn’t see her work, she concentrated on the drawing. After adding a few final touches, she closed the pad and handed it to him. “You may be disappointed.”
“Never.” He began to flip through the pages, but Alison stopped him.
“Please wait. Until after I’m gone.”
“But there are other sketches in here.”
“Keep them. Or not.” She stood. “Just promise me that you won’t look at it until later.”
Ian stood beside her as the quarter-hour notes chimed in the twilight skies above them. Alison took one last look at the gray shadows of the granite fountain, the dim colors of the surrounding blossoms, and imagined the scene as a watercolor painting. She’d create it when she got home and keep it always as a souvenir of the day she lost her heart.
CHAPTER THREE
They shared a taxi, saying little on the drive to the train station. When they arrived, Alison wrote a telegram to her grandfather: All’s well. Still in London. Will arrive tomorrow 4:45 p.m. She retrieved her overnight bag from a locker, and Ian carried it for her to the nearby Wellington Hotel.
After registering and receiving her room key, she turned to face Ian, forcing a smile she didn’t really feel.
He looked down at her. “The offer still stands. Meet my sister. Dig up more family skeletons.”
Alison laughed softly and glanced around the lobby, filling her mind with images of dark wood, muted colors, and upholstered furnishings. How different it had appeared earlier in the day when she had left for the train station, eager to experience the freedom of traveling alone across the North Sea and into Holland. She couldn’t have known that she would be coming back for another night’s stay. All because of a young boy and his violin, and because of the soldier-hero who stood in front of her, willing her to change her mind.
It was a temptation she could not indulge. The indisputable family lore, grounded in factual dates, loomed before her. “Strength and honour . . .” she gr
asped at the familiar phrase from Proverbs 31, her mantra in difficult situations, and smiled brightly at Ian. “Thank you for everything. It was a lovely afternoon.”
“For me, too.”
The elevator door opened with a ding, startling Alison. She glanced at the uniformed operator, who responded with a polite nod.
“I must go.” She took an awkward step toward Ian, then entered the elevator instead, unable to find any parting words, afraid to try.
As the heavy door began to close, Ian lifted a hand. “This isn’t good-bye, Alison. Never good-bye.”
They stared at each other until the door slid shut between them. The elevator car shook, causing Alison’s stomach to lurch as it began its ascent. “I didn’t tell him to be careful,” she murmured.
“Should we return to the lobby, miss?”
She hesitated, then shook her head.
“He’ll know you meant to, miss, if you don’t mind my saying. He’ll come back to you.” The operator’s cheeks reddened in a youthful blush.
Alison gave him a sad smile but shivered at what the future held for her, for Ian, if the elevator operator was right.
* * *
Ian pushed through the doors of the Wellington into the waning heat of the fading August day. The city, this close to Waterloo Station, pulsed with life as departing passengers maneuvered their way into the terminal against the tide of those just arriving in London. Traffic moved forward in orderly spurts with an occasional blare of a horn rising above the late-afternoon din.
The hotel doorman caught Ian’s attention. “Taxi, sir?”
Ian considered for a fraction of a moment, then shook his head and walked in the opposite direction from the bustling station. The visit to Trish could wait a little longer. He wanted to look at Alison’s sketches while the memory of their time together remained new and sharp. After a few blocks, he ducked into a familiar pub, the Black Fox. He settled at a corner table near the window and, while waiting for a pint of ale, relived the afternoon.
He hadn’t planned to create a scene at Waterloo, but the sight of the sad and frightened Kindertransport children, clutching their meager belongings, had disturbed him. Then, when he heard the station official threaten the little refugee, saw the fear in the young boy’s eyes, his blood had boiled. Unto one of the least of these. The phrase had resonated through his mind as he confronted Hargrove. Though he hadn’t prayed, he knew the idea to have Josef play the violin had been divinely inspired.
When Hargrove pointed to Alison, Ian had seen only a brief vision of blonde hair and crimson clothing, sparkling eyes and a fine face. That first glance had shaken him, but he had pushed the feeling aside to do what needed to be done for Josef. Duty always took precedence over feelings in a good soldier. And Ian was a good soldier, even when he was on leave.
At least Hargrove had done him the favor of having the girl introduce herself. Alison Schuyler. Her name fit her loveliness, her spunk. And she had a kind heart, caring enough about Josef to give the boy the sketch.
He remembered her voice, whispering above Josef’s head, “For him.”
They had been strangers, but the moment had brought them together into a tiny trinity.
The ale arrived, foaming in a thick glass mug, and he took a large swallow before settling back in the wooden chair. Flipping open the pad, he studied the sketch on the first page and recognized the looming towers, the gargoyles, the famous rose window of Notre Dame. But the Paris landmark served only as a backdrop for the focal point of the drawing.
In front of the cathedral, Alison had drawn an elderly couple sitting on a bench, heads bent close together in quiet conversation. They were dressed in clothes that may have been elegant at one time, but now showed the lament of shabbiness for people who had known more affluent days. It was there, in the telltale signs of dust on the man’s hat, the shiny patches of the woman’s black dress. The man appeared weary, ready to give in to life’s downward pressing. But the sadness in the woman’s eyes conflicted with her refusal to give up, as indicated by her clenched fist. Alison had captured an entire story in one focused moment.
The second sketch featured a portrait of the conductor on a ferry boat. Alison must have drawn him when she crossed the English Channel from France. The man’s rounded cheeks and bright eyes seemed to hold the secret of happiness as he posed against the boat’s railing.
Ian stared intently at the next sketch, leaning forward and tilting it beneath the pub’s dismal lighting to get a better look. Smeaton’s Tower. Ian and his family had stayed at Plymouth Sound every summer of his childhood. The story of John Smeaton and his innovative lighthouse had always fascinated him. Built in the mid-1700s, the lighthouse had withstood harsh winds and crashing waves, but not the weakness of its own foundation. In 1882, the old lighthouse had been moved to the shore and made into a memorial, replaced by the lighthouse that now stood on a neighboring rock out at sea.
He found it incredible that Alison had sketched one of his favorite places. This couldn’t be the commission she used as an excuse for her roundabout trip from Paris to Rotterdam, or else she wouldn’t have left it with him. It was a mystery, one he might never solve unless he figured out a way to see her again.
The next page showed the sketch he had requested. Unlike the other three, which had been oriented as landscapes, this one was oriented as a portrait. She had drawn a good likeness, but she had omitted the spark that drew him to her. Perhaps an artist’s humility had kept her from capturing her own essence.
“Another pint?” The deep, scratchy voice broke through Ian’s thoughts.
He shook his head and dropped a few coins on the table.
A gentleman never accepted a lady’s gift without giving her something in return. He knew the perfect present for Alison, and he planned to give it to her tomorrow morning before she boarded her train.
CHAPTER FOUR
The morning sun hid behind heavy gray clouds that spit rain on the city’s early risers. Alison heavily tipped a hotel employee to drive her the short distance from the Wellington to Waterloo Station. Once inside, she headed for the Dover platform, settling at a tiny table with a cup of hot coffee and checking her tickets against her itinerary. From Dover, a steamship carried passengers across the North Sea to The Hague, arriving about an hour before a commuter train departed for Rotterdam. Then the short drive to the tall canal house that had been her home for the past decade.
Perhaps by the time she unpacked her belongings, the few hours spent with Ian would be no more than a faded memory instead of an emotionally charged dream.
She dug out her drawing pencil and, almost absentmindedly, outlined Ian’s face on a paper napkin. The noise of the station receded as she concentrated on the shape of his eyes, the jut of his chin.
“Is that me?”
She looked up, startled, and felt her cheeks warm. Scrunching the napkin, she hurriedly stuffed it in her bag. “What are you doing here?” she asked with feigned indifference.
Ian chuckled and sat down across from her. “I don’t suppose you’d believe I was in the neighborhood.”
“You didn’t go home?”
“I stayed with Trish. So I could see you again.” He slid a thin, oblong box across the table to her. “And to give you this. A thank-you for the sketches.”
“You didn’t need to—”
“I wanted to. Please. Open it.”
Alison lifted the lid and pulled back layers of tissue paper to reveal a miniature lighthouse. She held it in the palm of her hand, assessing the weight and the workmanship. “It’s exquisite. Pewter?”
“Yes. Look at the base.”
Alison peered at the recessed bottom and pressed the button she found there. The melodic tones of “Greensleeves” played and the beacon sparkled. Her mouth formed a delighted O.
“It’s a replica of the original Smeaton’s Tower. At Plymouth Sound.”
A slight smile crossed Alison’s face. “The drawing.”
“When were yo
u there?”
“Two or three days ago,” she said as offhandedly as possible. Not that the Sound had anything to do with her grandfather’s secret mission. Her detour to Plymouth had been little more than a whim. But the less Ian knew about her time in England, the better. And she didn’t want him to know anything about her side trip to Wales.
He looked at her curiously, but then leaned back in his chair with a contented smile. “I’ve been there countless times. The tower always fascinated me. It seems so symbolic.”
“Of what?”
“Faith.” He shrugged. “Knowing where one’s strength comes from.”
Alison set the lighthouse upright on the table and ran her finger along the miniature’s length. “A foundation built on solid rock instead of a cave weakened by tides.”
“Yes.” Their eyes met and an understanding passed between them that both thrilled and unnerved her.
But decorum had its rules.
“I can’t accept such a valuable gift.”
“It’s important to me that you do.”
“Why?” She whispered the question and waited, eyes lowered, shoulders tense, for his answer.
Ian leaned forward and lifted her chin so he could see into her eyes. When he spoke, he appeared to choose his words with care, as if they were fragile things. “I look at you and see the girl I’ve spent my life dreaming about. And thought I’d never find. You probably think I’m crazy. But it’s the truth.” He reached for her hand. “And I think you feel the same about me.”
Alison held his gaze and took a deep breath. “There are . . . circumstances.”
His eyes darkened and his hand slid from hers. She watched, stunned, as conflicting emotions appeared and then disappeared beneath a forced smile. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”
A spontaneous smile lifted her cheeks and she shook her head. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“Some dreams just can’t come true.”
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