Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery)

by Huber, AnnaLee

  His gaze held mine another moment before sliding away. I took that as my cue to leave, exiting through the doorway just as the surly manservant returned with Will’s dinner. He glared at me as we passed, shutting the door to the bedchamber behind him.

  I stared at the wooden barrier for a moment longer, unable yet to face Gage or Philip. My insides felt scoured and raw, and dark emotions bubbled too close to the surface.

  “Do not take it personally,” Philip said to my back, forcing me to turn. He leaned awkwardly against the back of a Hepplewhite chair, his body still taut from the scene in the bedroom. “Ole Mac is always like that.”

  I wondered if the man even remembered me. After all, if I hadn’t recognized him immediately, how much more must I have changed in the last ten years from age fifteen to twenty-five. “Is he really the best person to be looking after Will?” I questioned, unaccustomed to servants displaying such blatant aversion for those they served.

  “Oh, aye. You won’t find a more loyal man to the Dalmays than Mac, particularly when it comes to William. He was his personal servant during the war,” Philip explained.

  I knew that much, but loyalty wasn’t the only thing to be considered.

  “And he’s not the only one Michael hired to assist his brother.” Gage’s voice was stiff, and I couldn’t tell whether it was because he was angry or merely uncomfortable with what we had just seen. “There’s another man, named Donovan. I met him the other day. He seems to have some kind of medical experience.”

  I nodded. Perhaps a former surgeon’s assistant or an apothecary’s apprentice.

  I worried my fingers and glanced back at the door to the bedchamber. I couldn’t help but wonder how many times similar events had played out in the last nine months since Will’s release. Michael had told us that he was improving, that these . . . lapses . . . were happening less and less often. But how many times had they occurred to begin with?

  The memory of Will crouched in the corner scrabbling away at the wall with a stub of charcoal kept flashing before my eyes and made my chest ache. I wrapped my arms around myself against a sudden chill.

  The bedchamber door opened and Michael reappeared. He was exhausted. Dark circles had formed under his eyes and his face was pale and drawn. How many nights had he lain awake, worrying about his brother? How many times had he been called from his bed to deal with a problem concerning Will?

  He sighed and closed the door, but not before I saw Mac bending over Will, helping him manage the spoonful of soup he was ladling into his mouth. Will’s hand shook from the effort.

  Michael crossed the room to lean over a sideboard that rested against the wall near the hall door. The emotional strain of the last few minutes seemed to tighten the muscles across his back, stretching the fine fabric of his evening coat. I tensed, uncertain if he was angry with me for approaching Will in the manner I had.

  I knew he had every right to be upset with me. I had disregarded his warnings and walked straight into the lion’s den, so to speak. If Will had turned on me and harmed me, I knew neither Michael nor Will would have been able to forgive themselves. And it would have been my fault.

  Michael inhaled deeply, pressing his hands into the smooth slab of oak so hard that it jostled the glasses and decanters lined up along its surface, making them tinkle and clatter. I braced for whatever reprimand was coming.

  “I have never . . . seen Will react that way.” His voice was soft with bafflement. He shook his head. “Not with anyone.” Pushing away from the sideboard, he turned to look at me. “How did you know he wouldn’t hurt you?”

  “I . . . I didn’t,” I admitted. “But . . .” I swallowed around the dryness in my throat. “It seemed logical that as long as I didn’t alarm him or try to force him to stop drawing, he wouldn’t be upset. I’m much the same way, you see.” I offered him a weak smile. “When I’m immersed in a painting, I don’t note the servants coming or going with trays of food—left untouched because I don’t recognize my own hunger or thirst.” I laughed nervously. “Sometimes I don’t think I would notice if my studio caught fire. Only the passing of daylight captures my attention, because once it’s too dark to see I have to light lamps in order to continue.”

  “Are all artists like that?”

  “No,” I admitted, hating to squash his hopes. “I’m a bit . . . eccentric.” That was the word my grandmother had taught me to use many years ago.

  “But is it possible . . .”

  I shook my head, cutting him off. “Will was never like that before.”

  He nodded and turned his face toward the wall.

  “How does he usually come out of these trances?” Philip asked.

  “Sometimes he just all of a sudden stops and blinks his eyes, like he’s waking up from a deep slumber. Other times he tires himself out and falls asleep. But he’s never come out of it with the help of someone else before.”

  I looked up from my examination of the rug below my feet to find Michael studying me in silent contemplation. I didn’t have to glance at my brother-in-law or Gage to know they were scrutinizing me in much the same way.

  “It’s not really so surprising,” I said defensively, wrapping my arms tighter around me. “He wasn’t likely to feel threatened by a female. And I didn’t demand anything of him.” I ran the toe of my slipper over a burr in the rug. “I was just letting him know I was there.”

  “We know, Kiera.” Philip rested a hand on my shoulder in a gesture meant to reassure me. “Ye did well.”

  But I could tell that something I had said had bothered Michael. Had I not been looking him in the eyes as I spoke I might have missed it, but I had seen the flicker of emotion, the flinch that had tightened his shoulders before being masked. His gaze had slid away from mine and fixed on the point where the rug met the floorboards. I frowned, confused by his reaction.

  “It’s late,” Philip declared, seemingly unaware of the change in his friend’s demeanor. “If there’s nothin’ else pressing, perhaps we should continue this conversation in the morn.”

  Michael cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  Philip rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw wearily. “I’ll speak to my aunt and Caroline then, and we’ll try to sort everything out. But I canna promise ye anything. Ye did lie to them, Dalmay. And it might be best for all involved if there was some distance between ye for the time bein’. The engagement need not be so hastily broken, but a little space and reflection are not unwarranted.”

  Michael nodded, having not raised his gaze through this entire speech. “I understand. My thanks, Cromarty.”

  Philip joined me in my study of our friend’s down-turned head, but did not comment further. “Come along, Kiera.” He pressed a firm hand to the small of my back, guiding me toward the door.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Michael, and then Gage, just before Philip steered me through the door and out of sight. The taut expression Gage aimed at my back did little to reassure me.

  * * *

  I was surprised to find my lady’s maid waiting for me in my bedchamber. I eyed her suspiciously as she rose from her perch on the edge of the vanity seat, hands folded before her, wondering what had brought on this sudden change in routine. Normally I was forced to ring for the girl, sometimes several times, in order to get her to attend to me. Which suited me just fine. Nothing annoyed me more than to have someone flitting about me, forever fussing with my appearance.

  But, then again, Lucy had been acting strangely ever since we’d left Gairloch Castle. I suspected she missed her rather large family and found the uncertainty of each new location more of a trial than she wished to admit. So I decided to overlook the oddity of her prompt presence and crossed the room to allow her to begin unfastening my dress.

  However, after enduring several minutes of her sharp movements, jerking and jostling me as she unhooked my garments, it became apparen
t I was not going to be able to ignore her unusual behavior or the evidence from her overwrought sighs that she had something to say. “Out with it,” I ordered her, reaching out to steady myself on the bed pole. “What’s got you in such a dither?”

  “I dinna like it here, m’lady.” Her thick brogue was heavy with condemnation. “Ye said we’d be stayin’ in Edinburgh t’night.”

  “We were supposed to.” My voice wavered with each of Lucy’s tugs. “But unforeseen circumstances have impelled us to stop here, and we shall likely remain for a few more days.”

  Lucy fell silent, but I could tell from the continued roughness of her movements that she was far from mollified. “Why don’t you like it here?” I persisted.

  “It’s no’ for me to say,” she replied crisply.

  I stifled a sigh. “I can’t do anything to make it better if you don’t tell me what the problem is,” I reminded her, feeling as if I were talking to my five-year-old niece.

  “There’s naught ye can do, m’lady.” She pulled the dress up over my head without warning, smothering me in fabric.

  I sputtered and turned to glare at her, but she had turned away to lay the costly gown over a chair. “Lucy, if you don’t tell me what has made you so determined to maim me . . .” I threatened.

  She flushed and dropped her gaze to the floor. “Sorry, m’lady. It’s just . . .” She began to worry her hands, darting a look at me. “I ken I shouldn’ be listenin’ to the gossip. ’Tis likely just the maids flappin’ their tongues. But . . .” She glanced about her as if worried someone might be listening and then leaned toward me to murmur in an exaggerated whisper, “They say a madman lives here.” Her eyes were wide with fright. “And I dinna think my mum would like it if’n he murdered me in my sleep.”

  I frowned. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Lucy had heard about Will from the Dalmay servants, but I was. Especially when he was spoken of in such terrifying terms. I wondered if Michael knew what rumors his staff were spreading. If he hoped to keep the truth about Will’s whereabouts during the last ten years a secret, he had best look to getting his servants in line first.

  “There are no madmen living here,” I answered in a calm voice, unwilling to classify Will as such no matter what had been said. “And you are not going to be murdered in your sleep.” Of all the nonsense . . .

  Lucy’s brow puckered doubtfully.

  “William Dalmay is just . . . ill. He’s quite incapable of hurting you.”

  She considered my words, as if trying to decide if I was telling her the truth. “So . . . they was just feedin’ me gammon? The other servants?”

  I hesitated, not certain precisely what had been said belowstairs. “It’s likely.”

  Lucy scowled, evidently not liking the idea of being manipulated for someone else’s amusement. At Gairloch Castle she had been related to half of the staff and had grown up with the rest. A bit of teasing there was all in good fun. Among strangers it was not so kind.

  She helped me out of my corset and petticoats and then set about straightening the garments while I sat down to remove my stockings and slippers.

  “That Mr. Gage is here, isna he?” she surprised me by asking when she returned to begin removing the pins from my hair. “His valet was at dinner.” From her fierce expression in the reflection of the mirror, I could tell she didn’t like the man.

  “Was he the one who told you Mr. Dalmay was mad?”

  “Nay. But he dinna correct them.”

  “Then what is so distasteful about him?” I pressed.

  Her mouth screwed up. “He’s a might too high in the instep.”

  I smiled. “I’m afraid that’s how most valets are.”

  “Barnes isna,” she said, referring to Philip’s manservant. “And neither are the men who serve the Dalmays.” She uncoiled my rope of hair and began dividing it into three sections to braid it.

  “So you’ve met Mac,” I asked, curious to get her opinion on the ill-tempered man.

  “Nay. They be Clark and Donovan.”

  I perked up at the mention of Will’s other manservant. “What did you think of Donovan?”

  A coy smile brightened her face. “Oh, he’s a bit o’ all right.”

  “Lucy,” I scolded, blushing at the admiring tone of her voice.

  “What? A big, strappin’ lad like that. I couldna help but notice.”

  “And do the other maids notice him as well?” I asked, interested despite myself.

  “Oh, aye.”

  I watched her in the mirror as she tied a ribbon around the end of my braid, not having failed to miss the telltale flush of attraction cresting her cheeks. “Well, just be careful there,” I felt compelled to warn her. At Gairloch Castle she was relatively safe from men with dishonorable intentions, surrounded as she was by three brothers and a handful of female relatives to look after her. At Dalmay House, she had only me.

  “I will, m’lady. But no worries. He’s no’ likely to fancy me.”

  I wasn’t so certain about that. With her creamy skin and buxom figure, Lucy was attractive enough to draw most men’s attention. I wondered if her sheltered existence had made her blind to that.

  “Did Donovan mention anything about his former employment?” I asked, thinking back to what Gage had told me about him having some kind of medical experience.

  Lucy helped me pull my nightdress over my head. “Nay, m’lady. Did ye want me to ask?”

  She seemed far too eager to have any excuse to talk to the man. “Only if it seems natural to do so,” I told her, not wanting the girl to seem too keen.

  “Aye, m’lady.” Her eyes twinkled. “He willna ken why I’m askin’,” she promised, misunderstanding my reason for concern.

  I didn’t correct her, figuring the maid would take more care if she thought concealing my interest was the reason I requested her discretion. She helped me into my warm, midnight-blue wrapper, and then I dismissed her to seek her own bed.

  I wandered the room restlessly, my mind too busy yet for sleep. The chamber assigned to me was swathed in shades of pale pink and warm chocolate brown in the most sumptuous of fabrics—velvet and silk and satin. The walls were hung with ivory silk speckled with pink flowers, which matched nearly perfectly the pearlescent pink marble of the fireplace. I did not know whether Michael and Laura had elected to place me in a premier chamber, or if all the bedrooms were decorated so lavishly.

  A handsome landscape held pride of place over the hearth, depicting the sweep of a bay and the softly lapping waves of the sea. The tumbled rocks of the cliffs were shaded with sweeps of palest pink, tying the piece to the room’s color palette. I studied the painting, wishing momentarily that I was as skilled at bringing to life earth and sea and sky as I was at capturing it in the human face and form. Then I brushed the thought away, reminding myself to be grateful for the gifts I had been given instead of wasting my time longing for the things I couldn’t change.

  Will tried to teach me that—the summer he spent as my drawing master.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and moved to the window, lifting aside the heavy velvet drapes to peer out at the moonlit countryside beyond. A wide swath of lawn stretched before me, ending in the thick shadows of forest that extended inland toward Dalmay village, and then farther on to Queensferry. Will would have liked such a setting.

  During that summer, which seemed so long ago now, Will had enjoyed teaching my lessons outdoors whenever he could. On warm, dry days, whether the sky was clear and blue or piled with towering clouds, he had escorted me out to one of the neighboring hillsides. Sometimes we carried easels and canvases, and sometimes merely sketchbooks, but without fail, on fair weather days we trudged across the countryside to capture one scene or another with brushes or charcoal.

  At first I had hated those excursions, wanting to remain inside engrossed in my latest effort at portraitu
re. Painting people was safe, comfortable, and I felt relatively competent in the task. Landscapes were a different matter. They left me feeling frustrated, overwhelmed, and wholly inadequate. After a day spent sketching the River Tweed as it rambled past St. Cuthbert’s Church or painting the towering oaks of Dunstan Wood, I was left certain I had as little talent as my past tutor, Signor Riotta, claimed.

  Then one afternoon in late June, after yet another failure to capture any sense of light or movement or life in the landscape before me, I threw my paintbrush down with a cry of exasperation. I was tempted to tear the canvas from the easel, throw it to the ground, and stomp on it, but for the fact that it took time and effort to prepare new canvases, and I had no desire to waste the ones already stretched and coated with noxious gesso.

  “Why do you make me do this?” I demanded, pacing back and forth in a tight circle before our easels. “You know I’m incompetent at landscapes.”

  Will continued to focus on his own efforts, leaning toward his canvas as he applied the paint on his brush to some detail. “Because you have skills yet to learn.”

  “But I don’t want to paint landscapes,” I insisted, growing angrier in the face of his calm. “I don’t care if I know how.”

  He sat back to study his efforts. “Perhaps. But there are still elements that can be learned from painting a landscape that apply to a portrait or a still life.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “Such as?”

  He glanced up at me for the first time since my outburst and I felt my cheeks heat under his regard. “Light and shadow. The tone and depth of your hues. Texture.”

  I frowned. “I can learn those just as easily on a portrait.”

  He shook his head. “How will you learn the way sunlight affects your subjects? The way it saturates color or distorts texture?” I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued on before I could speak, lifting his eyebrows in silent chastisement. “And don’t tell me that all of your portraits will be composed inside. What if one day you are asked to paint a subject on a terrace or beside a window?” I snapped my mouth shut, angry that I had to concede this point. He turned back toward his canvas. “All of the skills you will study while painting landscapes will translate to your portraits.”