The Muse

by Raine Miller

  TWENTY-THREE

  Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

  Of the wide world dreaming on things to come.

  William Shakespeare ~ Sonnet 107, 1605

  …THE monster was trying to kill him again. No amount of pleading and entreaty would dissuade it from its path of destruction and devastation. ‘Please…please leave me in peace to be happy with her! Will you ever cease tormenting me?’

  ‘Never! It is all your fault…all your fault…all your fault—’

  “Graham darling, wake up. You are dreaming again.” She rubbed his shoulder. “You were thrashing about and agitated like you were fighting something off.”

  Her gentle voice greeting him awake from the tortuous dream was almost just as horrifying. He tried to keep his voice level. “Sorry, chérie. I apologize for disturbing you. Go back to sleep.”

  “Enough of this. You must tell me about your nightmares. Why won’t you tell me?” She was no longer soothing but angry with him.

  “Because they are so horrible and I cannot have the filth touch you.”

  “I’ll wait. I am a patient person, Graham. I’ll wait here until you share all with me,” she declared frostily.

  The silence was deafening for long moments. Graham sighed deeply, and then finally he began to talk…

  “Jasper, my brother. There was something wrong with him. Not always though. When we were children he was carefree and witty. He changed as he became a man, becoming something else—a misogynist—an abuser of women. My father tried to beat it out of him. I do not know why he treated women so badly. He held no regard or respect for them; they were objects to be used for his needs only.

  “Father always instilled in us that gentlemen did not dally with the servant girls. It was low manners, beneath our station to do so. Furthermore, it was our duty to protect and preserve those who gave us service and depended upon us for their livelihood. But Jasper disregarded everything Father taught us. I cannot tell you how many times I came upon my brother flagrante delicto with some poor girl. He had no boundaries of decorum; he did it out in the open, blatantly. Dark hallways, haylofts, up against a tree, didn’t matter. They went willingly with him, though, and I know he was depraved but I didn’t think him capable of—” He took a deep breath. “I worried that Colin might follow his example, but he didn’t. Colin is good.”

  He shuddered before continuing as he remembered. “There was a girl, a seamstress. She did the house sewing. It was…Agnes. She was a good girl, intelligent, and she could read. Her father had been a tailor but he died and she had to go into service. Father allowed the servants use of the library if they could read and had the inclination to do so. I got to know her a little when she would come in to exchange a book. I suggested titles I thought she might find enjoyable.”

  “Did you like Agnes?”

  “I did. There was nothing untoward about it though. We were friends. I thought she was a decent person, admiring her efforts to improve her mind by reading. She was very pretty. I asked if I might paint her image after I came across her one day in the library. She was sitting in profile, holding an open book close to her face. It was such a perfect moment. I wanted to capture it. She agreed, and we started with some sittings. That was my great mistake.”

  “Mistake?”

  “Chérie, please know I did not have designs on Agnes. She was not for me. I only wanted to paint a pretty girl for her image, nothing more. But it was poor judgment for me to ask her. Even so, I take responsibility for what happened.” He felt his jaw tighten. “It’s my fault. I should have known he would target Agnes as soon as he saw me give her even the merest look. I put her in harm’s way. For that, I will always bear the guilt.”

  “Guilt for what, Graham?”

  “One day I came upon them. Jasper and Ralph Odeman. Both of them at the same time using her, most cruelly. Rape. The most base, vicious, hurtful—” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I went insane—I—I nearly killed them both. Colin pulled me off or I probably would have finished them. Agnes fled the estate. Later, I found out it wasn’t the first time he had assaulted her. Father banished Jasper and he departed for his final jaunt, the last spiral of descent into his dissipative demise. I left Gavandon for London, living there for months, until Father called me back home. Agnes had arrived on the doorstep, heavy with child.”

  “Oh, Graham…”

  “This was another reason I gave up my painting. Look what it had cost me, cost Agnes? My brother haunts me from his grave and Ralph Odeman does it in life. I cannot seem to get free from the past, Imogene.”

  “Was Jasper ever decent? What was required of him? He must have gone to university, surely.”

  “Father made him go but he didn’t last even a term. They kicked his arse right out. Still remembering his foolery when I got there and it was not easy to overcome his legacy, short though it was. I have always had to bear his legacy. He would raise hell over the entire shire and delighted in giving my name instead of his own. So whenever he got into trouble the magistrates would come looking for Graham Everley. He thought it most hilarious to impinge my good name.”

  “Why was there so much animosity between you?”

  “Jealousy I suppose, but I’m not completely sure. He knew he was weak in character—he had to have known. I was also larger in build than him and he could not best me. It bothered him, but I still had to keep my wits about me for he would try to ambush me whenever he got the chance. I also had to protect Colin, keep him safe, teaching him to fight.” He looked into Imogene’s eyes. “If my brother Jasper still lived, I would not even consider bringing you home to meet him. He would have gone after you just because you were mine. That’s how his demented mind worked.”

  “How appalling to know such a thing about one’s flesh and blood. Graham, I cannot imagine how you’ve suffered with this.”

  “On his deathbed, I asked Jasper how he could have done that to Agnes and not take responsibility for the child. He laughed in my face. Said I made him sick, the good son, the perfect, saintly son, who never did wrong. Sanctimonious, he called me. He said he hoped I’d enjoy inheriting what was his by birth. Said he’d haunt me from the grave. Then, in front of my parents, he gifted me with the perfect revenge. He told them the child could have been any of ours. Could be Odeman’s, or…could be mine. He said that I had bedded Agnes many times, that I was painting a portrait of her in secret.”

  Graham’s voice broke. “Jasper lied, chérie—it was a lie. I told my parents that he lied. I was never with her in that way. Not once! But he planted the seed of doubt for them. I could tell by the way my mother and father both looked at me, there was some small niggling part in their minds that thought I might have fathered Agnes’s child because I had started the portrait of her. They never accused me, but I know they considered the possibility. For that, I cannot forgive…my brother, Jasper. And the child has green eyes like me. I told you before that Jasper’s eyes were not green. Anyone who ever knows of Clara will always believe she is my child. Jasper is dead, forgotten. I am alive, and people will always assume the very worst. It tarnished me to our parents, and then they died.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, chérie, that’s all of it. Now you know everything.” He rested his forehead in the palms of his hands. “She is of my blood, but she is not my child.”

  “Look at me. Graham, will you look at me?”

  He turned away. “I am afraid, chérie. Afraid for what I might see in your eyes.”

  “Only love…love is all you will see in my eyes.”

  A cry came out of him—from deep inside his soul—a cry of relief, of thankfulness, and healing, before turning to face the woman he loved, and who loved him in return.

  In the shelter of her loving arms, some of the pain of the past began to melt away.

  HE was already up and off somewhere when she woke alone the next morning. Imogene wasn’t surprised. It was rare for Graham to laze in the bed, being he was a habitual early riser. Indulging
in a latent thought lounging in bed would be nice, she readily shelved it. As hostess to this house party, there would be no breakfasts in her sitting room for quite some time. Gingerly she got up, always anticipating the nausea, which usually didn’t show its effects until she was mobile. Reaching for her wrapper, she saw that he had left her a note upon his pillow.

  Chérie,

  I could not leave you this morning without telling you what a generous, loving, and affectionate wife you are. Your gift of the portrait means more to me than words could ever convey, more than you will ever know. But your greatest gift is accepting me with my many flaws and burdens in your compassionate way. You are all that is goodness and light. The perfect partner. You have filled me up with joy and happiness. I am forever in your debt for giving to me such a life as this, with you, my beloved wife.

  Ever in your devotion,

  G

  P.S. I am in my studio and would like to show it to you if you are of a mind. Upper east wing, end of the hall.

  That he was so touched by the portrait made her jubilant. He was always giving to her. Always. She knew she was blessed beyond all imagining in her husband, and she took great satisfaction in bestowing something back to him. His invitation to join him in his studio was intriguing. To her knowledge, he had not used it since their marriage and though she was vaguely aware of its existence, she had never heard him mention it directly until last night when he went there to retrieve the easel.

  She rang for Hester and proceeded to her new bathing room for washing. The baths were very restorative especially when her stomach was so fickle. She blushed at the sight of the love bites on her breasts acquired last night, recalling that Graham, too, would be sporting some on his own skin.

  Their loving had been all consuming, both one for the other. She sighed as she remembered him touching her body in ways that made her tremble with the pleasure he forced from her. Her brooding lover was so different in the throes of passion, and she loved that aspect of him, too.

  Imogene left her room in search of Graham’s studio feeling quite triumphant, for she had managed to bathe, dress, and have her tea and toast without bringing it right back up. Thinking what a treat it would be if she could avoid being sick for a day, she wove her way to the east wing with Zuly at her side who faithfully waited for her mistress to emerge each morning.

  She knocked and heard him call, “Come.”

  When she entered, she could see that the room was large and open, with many windows. One whole wall was a work area with shelves and a long table where he’d been apparently working.

  “Thank you for the invitation to your sanctum, my darling. I am very honored.”

  “Thank you for coming.” He held out a hand to her.

  She drew up, clasping his hand with hers, greeting him with a kiss. “Is that a frame you’re making?”

  “Yes. For your dishabille portrait. Due to its subject matter I will not be sending it to the framer.” He smiled. “I get to do it myself, and I must say it feels good to get my hands in this again.”

  “Will you show me?”

  Graham spent the next minutes showing her how a picture frame was built, his manner quiet and pensive. “It is unsigned…”

  “True. He was willing to paint it, but said he couldn’t put his name to it. Tristan said you would understand.”

  “Imogene, I am so overcome, still. The image of you is beauty personified.” He put a hand to her hair. “So special and very inspiring. Your gift has stirred me.” He stroked over her hair. “I am feeling the desire to paint again.” Looking into her eyes deeply, he said, “I want to paint you.”

  “Really?”

  “More than you could know.”

  She thought she detected he wanted to ask her but was hesitant to do so. “I would love to help you to paint again. I’ll sit for you if you want. It will be something we can do together, just us.”

  He pulled her into his arms and held her. “Thank you, chérie. I would so dearly love to paint you. I was afraid to ask. Are you sure you do not mind? You said the dishabille was a challenge and I don’t want you to submit yourself to it if you don’t want it.”

  “I don’t mind at all, and we could enjoy the time together. The dishabille was a challenge only because it was new and strange, and it was Tristan painting me, and we had to keep it a secret. It was only a challenge at first, because the sittings became much easier, and by the end, no hardship at all. Having you paint me would never be strange—it would be special. How many women have an artist for a husband who could paint them?”

  “You make me so happy, chérie.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Mon trésor précieux…my precious treasure.”

  THEIR house party lasted a good ten days. Some members leaving and returning as was necessary. There were ample opportunities to ride for the ladies. Imogene loved it and made a point to thoroughly enjoy herself while it lasted for she knew her riding would be restricted soon enough as her pregnancy advanced. Philippa and Mina did not ride, but it was no matter as the two connected instantly, taking pleasure in the other’s company. Mr. Gravelle brought more horses from his estate at Kelldale, only five miles away. This insured enough horses for everybody to have proper mounts to select from.

  The gentlemen enjoyed the usual manly pursuits, small game shooting, hours of billiards and cards laced with port and brandy, and to the delight of Imogene, many opportunities to fence in Graham’s specially appointed studio. She was glad he could take up his sport again. Mostly she enjoyed seeing him bond with friends and family in a way he had not allowed himself for years. At her urging and request he agreed to a fencing display for the ladies benefit to finish out their house party.

  The fencing match was to be held outside. Generally Graham participated in assaults, friendly combat between two fencers without attention to scoring. But this was a small tournament of sorts and each bout would be scored. Four judges would be needed—two judges per fencer—at all times to determine whether legitimate hits were made. The match would be played on a marked narrow strip of grass called the piste. They were to use foils specially fitted with a leather safety tip, or bouton. Each participant wore a metal mesh mask to protect the face and a special one-armed, heavily padded jacket called a plastron, which buttoned high up the neck, leaving the sword arm free of a confining sleeve. In foil fencing, the target area being the torso, excluding arms, legs and head, with the object to score a set number of hits in order to win. Hits must be made with the point of the sword, thus the need for safety measures. The first to score five hits would win the bout and advance.

  Since Imogene was the most eager for the fencing display, Graham playfully made her the president. This honor allowed her to give the order to ‘play’ and ‘halt’ as needed. She could also outvote a tie between the judges. He had been schooling her on the rules and moves for she dearly wanted to learn. She would have begged him for lessons in using a sword if she weren’t pregnant, just as she also knew that someday he’d succumb to teaching her. She loved sport and competitiveness made her yearn to try her hand.

  “Take your place, Lady President.” Graham indicated to her chair, set along the middle of the sidelines. He leaned in behind her, brushing a kiss at her cheek.

  “Wish me luck,” she whispered. “I am nervous I’ll make a blundering mistake.”

  “Chérie, you’re the perfect president. Just relax and remember what I’ve showed you and keep your eyes trained on them at all times.” He grinned naughtily then. “Good luuuuck!” She watched him walk away to take his place, feeling both, immensely proud of him and the thrill of the impending fight.

  “Play!” she ordered, and it was begun.

  The men were ranked prior by their expertise and were eliminated in the best of three bouts between opponents. John surprised them by eliminating both Tristan and James Burleigh in turn, but was bested by Colonel Hargreave during their match. Colin won out against the colonel, and then Jules as well, which was unexpe
cted. Elle’s face was riveted in tension as she watched her beloved cousin and brother battle it out. She cheered wildly when Colin was declared the winner, much to the chagrin of Jules and the rowdy comments being shouted about.

  Colin faced his brother. “Let’s see what they’ve been teaching you at that school I pay so dearly for,” Graham growled.

  “Let’s see how you hold against youth, old man,” Colin retorted. They gave their bows and at Imogene’s command, began their match. It went slow at first and dragged out over time for they were very evenly skilled, but Colin had been battling steadily as Graham was his third opponent. Colin won the first bout, but then lost the next two, eliminating him and advancing Graham.

  GRAVELLE knew he was the highest ranked fencer of the group. He had worked very hard for his skills and would use them with no apology. Maybe he didn’t possess as much natural talent as Rothvale, but he was consistent in his practice and training, while his friend had been away from it for more than a year while he was attending to family business in Ireland.

  Feeling the eyes of the others on them as they battled was a thrill for Gravelle. The thrill of competition that he craved. Rothvale was a large man and he moved well—with finesse—but Gravelle was bigger, and the added height gave him a longer reach, and thus a slight advantage.

  Advance, retreat, lunge, parry, envelopment, this last being the act of sweeping the opponents blade through a full circle, was, in his opinion, a kind of clashing beauty. Gravelle won the first bout and Rothvale the second. For the final bout, whoever won it would be the champion of the tournament and winner of the purse. They had all contributed to the pot of winnings in good-hearted fun. But Gravelle did not care a whit about winning the purse. He had more of an affecting motivation to carry him, that being the art of performing well in the presence of a certain young lady.