“Whitby is right,” she said, glaring at him with hatred and loathing. “You are a monster.”
She turned to leave, the rain pelting her face as she stepped out from under the overhang.
“Are you going to tell him about us?” he shouted after her. “I hope you do. I only wish I could be there to see his face.”
Because Magnus never hated Whitby more than he did at that moment.
Hearing that, Annabelle stopped. She didn’t care that she was standing ankle deep in a puddle, nor that she hadn’t bothered to pull up her hood and her tiny hat was soaking up the rain. She turned on her heel, marched back to Magnus, and slapped him hard across the face.
He took the punishing strike without flinching, then bowed his head very low.
“I will tell him,” she said, “because I won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing there is a secret between my brother and me, or that you know something he doesn’t. And God help you when he finds out.”
That was the last time she had ever seen or spoken to Magnus, her brother’s enemy.
And from that day forward, he was her enemy, too.
Chapter 8
June 1892
A nnabelle opened her eyes and found herself still lying on her back, staring groggily up at the quiet leaves of the oak tree. The wind had died down and the sun had almost disappeared beyond the horizon. How long had she been asleep?
She sat up and reached for the timepiece in her pocket. The gold hands indicated seven-fifteen.
Annabelle scrambled to her feet, packed up her easel and painting, and started down the hill in a hurry with everything in tow. She didn’t want to miss dinner. If she did, everyone would be worried about her, for she never stayed out this late, unless she was painting a sunset.
But she hadn’t been painting a sunset today, had she? No, she had been remembering the past.
She entered the house at the back and climbed the main staircase to her rooms, then rang for her maid, Josephine. Annabelle had already removed her bodice and overskirts herself when Josephine knocked and entered.
“Thank goodness you’re back, Miss Lawson. I was concerned.”
“No need to be. I fell asleep on the hill under the oak tree while the paint was drying.”
Josephine disappeared into the dressing room and quickly returned with Annabelle’s dark green dinner gown. Annabelle stepped into it and turned, so Josephine could fasten it in the back.
“Your hair,” her maid said, looking flustered.
Annabelle started pulling the pins out herself, while Josephine fastened the last few hooks at the back of her dress.
A minute later Annabelle was sitting in front of her mirror, watching her maid pull her troublesome, frizzy hair into a knot on top of her head.
“The green earrings?” Josephine asked.
“Yes.”
Josephine was passing them to her when the loud dinner gong rang, signaling the family to gather in the drawing room. Annabelle and Josephine exchanged a relieved glance. They had been very fast and efficient.
Rising from the chair, Annabelle smoothed out her skirts, while Josephine picked up Annabelle’s afternoon dress, which was draped over the foot of the bed.
“Wait!” Annabelle said, hurrying to reach into the pocket of the skirt before Josephine took it away. “I need something.” She reached in for the folded letter, then managed to feign a smile. “You can have it now.”
As soon as Josephine was gone, Annabelle took the tiny key out of the locket around her neck and walked to her desk. She sat down and pulled her miniature cedar chest out of the top drawer, set it in front of her on the desktop and inserted the key into the lock. When the box clicked open, she raised the lid and stared at the first letter from Magnus, which she’d received almost two weeks ago.
She touched a finger to her lips.
He had written to tell her he’d returned to London and purchased a gallery, and that he wished to meet with her. Naturally, she had not replied, for she’d been in shock, for one thing. Secondly, she had not wished to meet with him, just as she did not wish to meet with him now.
A knock sounded at her door and she jumped, then slammed the box shut, for she had not told anyone about the letters. Though she certainly should have. She should have informed Whitby. The fact that she had not done so had been troubling her for two weeks. It was not like her to keep things from her brother. But so many things about Magnus were secreted away in her heart. So much of what had happened that summer she would never share with anyone.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“It’s Lily.”
Annabelle quickly shoved the box back into her desk drawer and shut it. “Come in!”
The door swung open and her brother’s wife entered with a hand on her swollen belly, for she was due to deliver her fifth child in the next few weeks. “I saw you coming in late, and wondered if you needed any help preparing for dinner.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Annabelle replied, her hands fidgeting on the desk. “Josephine was very astute. She had my gown ready and waiting for me.”
Lily approached and rested a hand on the corner post of Annabelle’s bed. She appeared hesitant, and her eyes held a hint of concern as she tilted her head to the side.
“Forgive me, Annabelle, but I must ask—are you all right? You’ve not seemed yourself over the past few weeks.”
She should have known she could not hide her feelings from Lily, for they were best friends, and had been for the past eight years, since the day Lily married Whitby. Indeed, she had confided in Lily then, about what occurred with Magnus, but this new development with the letters, she had kept to herself.
Leaning back in her chair, Annabelle sat in silence for a moment, then opened her drawer and reached for the cedar box. Setting it on the desk, she removed the two letters and handed them over.
“What are these?” Lily asked.
“They’re from Magnus.”
Lily gasped in astonishment, then fumbled with the letters, hurrying to read what they said.
“He’s in London!” she blurted out. “He can’t do that. The allowance from Whitby requires that—”
“I know,” Annabelle cut in. “I don’t understand it. I don’t know what he’s trying to accomplish.”
Lily considered it, then moved toward an upholstered chair. With one hand on her belly, the other reaching behind her, she lowered herself onto the cushioned seat. “Have you replied?”
“Of course not. I was in shock, and I certainly don’t wish to see him, or have any contact with him whatsoever.”
Lily’s cheeks paled as she considered the broader ramifications of this.
“Honestly, I can’t believe this is happening,” Annabelle said. “I’d thought he was gone forever. For the past eight years it was almost as if he didn’t exist. I’ve been content living here with you and Whitby and the children, and thought all that was behind me, but now he’s come back and…” She didn’t quite know how to say it. She didn’t even fully understand it herself. “I’m afraid he’s stirring up old feelings.”
Lily’s eyes clouded with worry. “What kinds of feelings?”
Annabelle thought about how she’d just spent an entire afternoon reliving the past, feeling the excitement, the joys, and the overwhelming pain of the heartbreak.
“Mostly my anger toward him,” she replied. “Today I was recalling that summer we spent together, and I…” She hesitated, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I was so in love with him, Lily.”
Lily gave her a consoling look. “I know you were.”
Annabelle felt tears threaten, but forcibly crushed them. She stood and walked to the window. “Of course that was before I knew the truth about him—that he was lying to me and using me to satisfy his vindictiveness. He was so cruel that day at the bank. It’s remarkable how quickly love can change to hate.”
Lily was still holding onto the letters. She flipped through them again. “What do you think he really want
s? He can’t just be here to open a gallery. There must be a more personal motivation.”
Annabelle raised an incredulous eyebrow. “He’s a tyrant. He’s probably here to enact another ruthless scheme.”
Lily ran a hand over her belly. “I met him once in the village, remember? Eight years ago, just before he left for America. It was five years after he’d jilted you, and I know you and Whitby thought I was naive, but I didn’t find him tyrannical.”
“That’s his talent,” Annabelle explained. “He knows how to charm when he needs to, but he can knock you onto your back the very next instant. And are you forgetting that your coach overturned immediately after you encountered him?”
“There was no proof he was involved,” Lily argued. “And he denied it to Whitby. It could have been a coincidence.”
“Just like there was no proof about how Whitby’s brother John ended up with his skull cracked open on a rock when he was sixteen?”
Lily dropped her gaze. “Oh, Annabelle. Must you.”
Annabelle closed her eyes, feeling ashamed for saying such harsh things. She faced her sister-in-law. “I’m sorry, Lily. That was my anger spouting out of me.”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
Annabelle went to sit across from Lily on the sofa. She rubbed the back of her neck to ease the tension she was feeling.
Lily handed the letters back. “Have you considered,” she said, “that no matter what Magnus’s motives are, this is an opportunity for you to be included in an art exhibition? It’s something you’ve always wanted, and at least this time you would know who you’re dealing with.”
For some unknown reason, Annabelle laughed. “But of all the paintings I’ve done, he wants to show the one I never wanted to see again.”
“Which one is that?”
Though Annabelle had confided in Lily about many things, she never told her—or anyone—that she had painted Magnus that summer. She supposed she had not wanted to talk about it because, unlike the painful memories, it was something she could not erase.
“It’s a painting I did of him that summer, while he was in the boat, fishing. But I hate that painting, Lily. It’s not representative of my work. It’s artificial because I was painting a lie, and what I really want is to get it back and destroy it. Perhaps I could buy it back from him, or even give him another in exchange.”
Lily pursed her lips. “That’s a possibility.”
For a long moment Annabelle thought about everything, then she spoke in a gentle tone. “Do you know why I’ve never married? Because I have never been able to trust a man who was trying to be charming.”
Lily’s lips curled up in a grin. “All men try to be charming when they wish to impress you.”
“I know that, but I believe I will always be suspicious and skeptical regardless. When a man is attentive or looks at me with interest, I feel immediately contemptuous of him. It’s my downfall. My weakness. It’s why I’m thirty-four and gathering dust on a shelf.”
“In that case,” Lily said, “you should definitely go. You’re older and wiser now, and skeptical, as you say. This time, you know who and what you’re dealing with. You’ll be able to tell whether Magnus is sincere or seeking further vengeance. You’ll see it in his eyes.”
Annabelle leaned back on the sofa. “I don’t know. I can’t conceive of it—actually seeing him again, discussing an art exhibition, of all things.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Lily said, “ask if he’ll show another one of your paintings, but at least go and find out his true purpose.”
It was difficult to imagine walking into a gallery and seeing Magnus face-to-face again after all these years. What would he look like? Annabelle wondered. Perhaps his hair would be speckled with gray. Perhaps he’d grown fat. She could only hope.
Either way, Lily was right. She was older and wiser now. She would see through his charm this time, and most assuredly the love she once felt for him no longer existed. For thirteen years she had felt nothing for him but hatred.
“All right, I’ll go,” she said. “Under one condition. You can’t tell Whitby.”
Lily sucked in a breath. “I beg your pardon? I can’t keep a secret from him. We share everything.”
“Please, Lily. Just this once, because if he knows Magnus is in London, he’ll try to talk me out of going, and he’ll go straight to Magnus himself. And you know what happened the last time, when I told him what Magnus had done.”
“Yes.”
Of course Lily knew. Years ago, Annabelle had told her sister-in-law how Whitby had taken his coach out in the dead of night and gone to Magnus’s home. He’d pounded on the door, and when Magnus answered, Whitby grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him across the entryway, up against the opposite wall. Heated words were exchanged, threats delivered, and Whitby had punched Magnus.
From what Annabelle had been told, Magnus took the blow and did not fight back, and after a second persuasive punch in the stomach, he doubled over, fell to his hands and knees on the floor and said simply to Whitby, “There. Now get out.”
Even now, when Annabelle imagined that row, she cringed. Perhaps it was the unsettling idea of her brother conducting himself with brutality, because there was no man in the world more kind and loving than he. She knew that without a doubt. His fury must have been exceedingly potent that day.
Aside from that, she could not deny she disliked the image of Magnus being beaten, despite his appalling treatment of her. It made her feel slightly ill.
“Please don’t tell Whitby yet,” she said to Lily again. “Just wait until I see Magnus, then I’ll tell him immediately afterward. You have my word.”
Lily shifted her posture, her expression strained with misgivings. “I’ll try not to say anything, but I can’t promise it. Now let’s go to dinner. I could eat a team of horses, harness and all.”
Lily pushed herself out of the chair and made for the door, but Annabelle went to her desk. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. First, I want to send a note to Magnus and tell him I will meet him, before I change my mind.”
Lily left the room, and Annabelle put both his letters back into the box, dipped her pen in ink and began to write.
Mr. Wallis,
I received your letters, but have one request. I would like to offer another painting to you in exchange for The Fisherman, as I would like to have it back. I will bring, for your perusal, a selection of my other works to your gallery on Tuesday. I hope you will find one of them suitable for your exhibition.
Sincerely,
Annabelle Lawson
Two days later Annabelle’s letter arrived at the Grand Hotel in London and was delivered up the stairs on a gold-trimmed salver—to the largest, most luxurious suite in the building.
Magnus Wallis answered the door and accepted the letter, then carried it toward the roaring fire in the marble hearth, where he stood for a moment, staring at the penmanship.
At last he tore it open, his heart pounding violently with curiosity and anticipation as his eyes scanned over it.
She was coming. Tomorrow.
Exhilaration flooded through his veins at the mere thought of seeing her again, after all these years. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, and labored to slow his breathing.
A moment later he set the letter on the red cushioned chair and crossed to the sideboard, where he poured himself a brandy. He swirled it around in his glass a few times before taking a sip, wondering what the hell he would say to her when she first walked into his gallery. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but he knew he would have to tread carefully.
He supposed, since she was coming to discuss the exhibition, he would have to address that particular issue first and convince her to let him show The Fisherman, because he knew it would garner a superb response. He’d been waiting a long time to show it to the public.
He was disappointed, however, that she wanted it back. What did she mean to do with it? he wondered uneas
ily. Did she have a plan for it, or did she simply not wish him to have it?
Sweeping that notion away—for it would do him no good tonight—Magnus continued to stand over the sideboard, staring at the wall. He took another sip of his drink. A log dropped in the grate, but he barely noticed because he was thinking only of one thing—Annabelle’s pain and anger outside the bank that horrific day thirteen years ago, and his own unbearable agony.
He had wronged her and he knew that, but he’d wronged himself as well, for he had not believed himself worthy of her.
Downing the rest of his drink, he reminded himself that everything was different now. He had made something of himself in America, and finally put the misery and indignity of his old life behind him.
But most importantly, he had crossed an ocean for Annabelle, and this time nothing was going to stand in his way.
She didn’t know it yet, but this time, no matter what it took, no matter how long, he was going to fight for her. And he would be relentless in that fight—forever—until the glorious, blessed day she was his.
Chapter 9
W hen Tuesday finally came, Annabelle rode the train to London for her dreaded meeting with Magnus, and spent the entire trip rehearsing what she was going to say and how she would say it.
She had already decided she would speak of nothing but the exhibition, and she would be aloof, indifferent, somewhat cool—so he would know she did not trust him—but not to the point of rudeness, for he was a gallery owner, after all, and possibly her entrée to the exclusive London art world.
She hoped she could convey those things, and not let him see that she was nervous. Or tense. Or still affected by what had happened in the past.
Glancing down at the fashionable heeled boots she’d borrowed from Lily, which were unreasonably tight and uncomfortable, she wondered with a frown who she was trying to delude. She was beyond nervous or tense or affected. She was terrified. Terrified that she would take one look at Magnus and remember the inescapable attraction and the forbidden pleasures, and feel the heartbreaking, devastating loss of those wonders all over again.
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