When her mother married Milo and he brought her to England, she had become a much sought after artist’s model. Even after her death, Gina and Milo remained loyal to their friends of the demi-world, the shadow world of fellow artists, models, writers, thespians, courtesans and musicians, through which the upper classes wandered, paying for anything they desired. It could be an exciting world, but it had a dark side of despair, poverty, ruin, and untimely death.
At just thirty-six, her mother had died of inflammation of the lungs. She was already ailing when she married Milo. He was fifteen years her elder, but she said he would take care of Gina after she was gone. Even when her health was failing, she would drag Gina to church every Sunday. Her final words still echoed in Gina’s ears. “We have a saying in Italy, sweet child. You never forget your first love. I loved your father and if only he’d lived.... No matter how hard life gets, don’t ever be tempted to sell your body, for that will destroy your soul. Remember you are a good Catholic girl.” She would take Gina by the shoulders and shake her. “Promise me!”
She touched the hair-bracelet on her wrist, made with her mother’s lovely golden hair. When Gina had questioned her about her father, her mother would always turn away. “Better that you don’t know. Her standard reply left Gina wondering what made her so sad and reluctant to reveal the past. She began to doubt that her mother and father were married.
“Bah,” Gina said, swatting at some imaginary speck of dirt. She was sick of being grindingly poor. The struggle to live tore the heart out of you and dragged you down. She hated London, its miles of rat infested, filthy cobblestone alleys and shabby brick and stucco houses, the noise and the smells and the dirt. She hated feeling desperately sad for the tatty, barefoot children. She hated her cheap dresses, and longed to have something store-bought and pretty.
And she hated their ugly, leaky attic rooms that no amount of cleaning could turn into a home, most of all.
A block away, the street prostitutes trolled between the gin shop and the pawnshop, younger than her, some of them. Green from the country, they quickly become addicted to the drink and their gentle eyes turned hard. Lying in bed at night, she’d listen to them out there under the gaslights. Dancing, drinking, and singing into the small hours. The sounds of their hollow laughter made her want to weep and pull a pillow over her head.
As she put away the broom, Gina’s thoughts turned to Milo. How did he produce such beauty in his paintings, in a place like this? She started and put her hand to her mouth. How could she be so ungrateful?
“Did you say something, mio caro?” Milo asked while his brush brought a painted apple to life with a clever highlight. The apple had become his signature and appeared in all of his paintings. His painted apple was so much fresher and redder than the one in the bowl. Perhaps that was his secret, he saw life through rose-colored glasses.
“No, Milo,” she said, going to stir the minestrone soup that with bread and cheese, would have to do them until the end of the week.
“You’re a good daughter, Gina, he said absently.
Chapter Two
Ireland
Blair stood at the rail as the ferry from Holyhead pulled in to Kingstown. The sea had turned molten silver under a cold sun. His tired eyes rested on the shore, the whitewashed, grey-roofed houses nestling into the coastline, a crisp, white church spire highlighted against a pastel-blue sky, and his heart warmed.
Jumping into a hansom cab, he instructed the driver to take him into Dublin to the Shelbourne Hotel in O’Connell Street. As the horse clip-clopped through the streets, Blair ran through the things he wished to discuss with his solicitor. Once his affairs were in order, he planned to call on his mother at Dunleavy Court, the family’s Georgian townhouse overlooking St Stephen’s Green. After that, he would depart for Dunleavy House in Killarney.
Late the next morning, Blair walked through the Green. A fine mist clung in wisps to the bare trees, the moist air soft on his face. Birdsong filled the air and the pungent smell of earth rose from the flowerbeds turned over for the spring planting.
A peel of laughter made him turn to smile at a pair of small children and their nanny throwing bread to the ducks.
He crossed the road and ran up the steps of the tall, narrow terrace with its Doric columns and graceful, arched window over the entry. He seized the brass knocker and rapped on the glossy, black door. It opened almost immediately.
“Hello, Doherty.” Blair handed his coat and hat to the butler. “I trust my mother is doing her best to rescue the servants from boredom?”
The butler smiled. “Good to see you back, sir.”
Blair entered the drawing room. Large urns of hothouse lilies, hyacinths, and carnations in mauve, purple and pink blooms, sent from Dunleavy House, sat around the room, their heady scents blending with the acrid smell of embers.
Maeve reclined on the sofa, a cashmere shawl about her shoulders, the firelight brightening her faded, auburn hair. “Blair,” she cried, stretching out her arms to him. “You’re home.” She kissed him and patted his cheek. “To stay a while?”
“Only a short while, Mother. I have business back in London.”
She raised her delicate brows. “And what business would that be?”
Blair crossed to lean on the mantle, gazing down at her. “None of your business my dear,” he said gently.
“You are your father’s son, Blair,” she said, her green eyes showing disappointment. “Have I not the right to expect my son to take up the reins bequeathed to him by his father?”
“You have the right to express your views, certainly.”
“To no avail.”
“Is that fair? The estate is well run.”
“It was your father’s wish for you to produce an heir. He hated the idea of Dunleavy House falling into a stranger’s hands.”
“And it is my intention also, have no fear.” He knelt down to take her hand, kissing it. “It may not sound like I do at times. I appreciate your wise counsel.”
She laughed and withdrew her hand. “Steel in a velvet glove. As I said, just like your father. I just hope I live to see it.” She rang the bell on the table at her side. “Tea, or a whiskey?”
He sat beside her on the sofa. “Tea, thank you.”
Her gaze roamed his face. “I shall continue to ask questions undaunted, Blair. The business in London, is it a woman?”
Blair laughed and shook his head. “And I shall continue to evade your questions, Mamma.” He used his childhood name for her, softening the harsh message in the words.
“Very well,” she held her finger to her lips as the door opened. “Here’s Bridget with the tea.”
After the maid had left the room, Maeve poured the tea into delicate, floral patterned cups. “I trust Siobhan’s marriage to Sir John Fitzgerald didn’t upset you?”
“No. There have been women other than Siobhan to fill my senses.”
“Your bed, perhaps. But not your heart.”
“Mother! You put me to blush.”
She shook her head. “I’m not one to mince words, Blair. You won’t find me whispering behind a fan in stuffy drawing rooms, and fainting away at the slightest impropriety. I know you have been a man about town. Both here in Ireland and in England too, no doubt. But you are past thirty and have yet to find a woman you wish to marry.”
“As I said,” he answered coolly, “You must not concern yourself.”
“The last thing I’ll say on this, Blair. Yes, the very last,” she repeated, responding to his exaggerated look of surprise, “is that I wish you to find a suitable wife, but also one with a passionate heart. One who will love you as your father loved me. Siobhan loved all that Sir John had to offer. She was lovely, I’m not denying it, but a cool woman and not for you.”
“Doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“No, for she is soon to give Sir John an heir.” She patted his knee. “What about Cathleen O’Brien, you’re not considering...?”
“Enough, Moth
er.”
Maeve tilted her head. “You usually get what you set your heart on, do you not? But life has a way of teaching us lessons, Blair.”
Blair turned down the offer of his mother’s barouche, and hired a carriage to take him home to Killarney. As the horses galloped through the narrow lanes, past farmhouses and emerald green fields dotted with livestock, he thought about his mother. His conservative father had adored her, but she’d caused him more than a little worry, riding fearlessly about the countryside unaccompanied, attending the sick, and visiting the tenant farmers. She had never cared to live in the manner of high society, even though a baron’s daughter. Blair remembered his parent’s quarrels. His father had loved pomp and ceremony, perhaps because he hadn’t been born to it. There would often be tension in the air as his mother swept out the door with a rustle of silk, her hand resting on his father’s arm. If they often fought, they never remained angry with each other for long. Blair would hear the murmuring and his mother’s soft laughter in their bedchamber after they returned, as he drifted off to sleep.
At Blair’s direction, the driver directed the horses into the tree-lined avenue of Paisley Manor, the home of Lady Cathleen O’Brien. Perhaps because his mother’s mention of Cathleen had irked him, he’d failed to reveal his intention to ask Cathleen to be his wife. As he approached the entrance, he still waged a war with himself. He had decided to have a mistress in England and a wife here in Ireland. That way, it would be easy to keep the two women in his life separate.
Despite his cool-headed plan, Blair’s passionate nature seemed to constantly thwart his intentions. But he could not afford to delay. He knew that Cathleen liked him, but she had many suitors and would not wait forever.
The driver drew the carriage up in front of the pretty, gingerbread manor house of warm brick and stone, set in forty acres of fine land.
A maid showed him into the drawing room. Cathleen crossed the floor to greet him. A slender woman, she carried herself with regal bearing. Her blue-grey gown with its fetching bustle, added curves and complimented her fair hair and pale complexion.
“Blair,” she said in her quiet voice, taking his hand. “I didn’t know you were in Ireland. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’ve just arrived and am on my way home. I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time.”
“Of course not,” she said. “We are always pleased to see you. My parents will be sorry to have missed you. They’re away until tomorrow.”
“I regret to have missed them.”
“May I offer you a libation?”
“No, thank you. I can’t stay above a minute, Cathleen. The carriage is waiting. Have you all been well?”
“Father’s gout has been troubling him.” She settled on the sofa, tucking her skirts neatly about her, and picked up her embroidery. “No need to ask you, Blair, for you look fit as a fiddle.
How is your mother?
“In fighting spirit. I’ve just left her.”
She raised her brows. “You two always did knock heads.”
“And we always will, I imagine. What have you been doing while I’ve been away?” he asked, suddenly curious.
Cathleen cut a thread with a small pair of scissors. “Reading, visiting, writing letters.
The usual things. Why do you ask?”
“Don’t you … find it dull?”
Surprise registered in her grey eyes as they met his. “It’s a woman’s lot, is it not?
“I wondered if you rail against it…that you might want something more from life.”
“Heavens no. What on earth more might I want?”
“More freedom to express yourself, perhaps.”
She shook her head. “What most women want is marriage.” She put down her embroidery and tilted her head. “Why these questions? My aim is to take my place in society as a supportive wife to a respectable man.”
“Ah.”
A tiny frown marred her brow and she searched his eyes. “Women are not like men, you know, Blair. We don’t have the violence in our souls. It wouldn’t do to become like men, now would it? The world would be in a terrible mess.”
With the subject raised, it was the perfect time to ask her for her hand. But he faltered, disconcerted by the conversation. He suspected he’d disconcerted her as well. He left without committing himself. As the carriage continued toward Killarney, Blair realized it was unfair of him to have expected a show of passion from Cathleen.
He had never exhibited any such emotion toward her. It was as it should be. He intended to keep sexual desire and marriage apart, for if combined, it proved too explosive and difficult to control. Still, he hadn’t asked Cathleen to marry him had he? He removed his hat and ran his hand through his dark locks.
Contrary to what his mother thought, Siobhan, had only even been a brief flirtation. The strength of his feelings for any woman had never equaled his love for the Dunleavy acres.
He directed his passion into the vision he had for his country. During his trip to London, he had attended Parliament to discuss the state of Irish farms bought by English absentee landlords whose only concern was for what rent they might get. When the farmers couldn’t pay, they threw them out penniless onto the street.
Dunleavy House had escaped this upheaval, because Blair’s father had treated his tenant farmers with fairness. He had them plant wheat and corn and they had prospered where those who planted potatoes had failed. No farmers on Dunleavy lands would be thrown into the street like the million émigrés who had deserted Ireland in coffin ships. With the shocking potato famine behind them, and home rule promising change, Blair felt more confident of the coming new Century, when Ireland would rise above its appalling poverty.
The carriage entered the gates of the Dunleavy acres. Some fifteen minutes later, the stunning vista of the rambling, brick house with its grey slate roof appeared, overlooking Lough Leane. Smoke threaded into the sky from four of its eight chimneys. The steeply sloping face of Torc Mountain formed a majestic backdrop, towering above them, its foothills covered in a carpet of crimson, pink and white rhododendrons.
The carriage stopped and Blair alighted in front of the old house, the walls thick with flowering ivy. Creamy-white crocus and deep-pink wildflowers grew wild over the ground.
Blair’s great-grandfather, Gaffney Dunleavy, built the house. A self-made man, he enlarged the small farmhouse in 1650 to a grand mansion of fourteen bedrooms, library, dining room, drawing room, study, and anteroom. It now provided employment for more than a dozen servants. It was a comfortable home, furnished in patterned sofas and turkey rugs with heavy velvet curtains at the small-paned windows. The rooms featured deep fireplaces and cozy, low beamed ceilings. Each generation had added something to the estate. Blair’s father created the charming terraced gardens and arched yew walk. Blair had built the icehouse, the hothouses that supplied exotic fruits and vegetables for the table, and improved the outbuildings of the home farm.
The housemaid, Fiona, bobbed. She took his hat, coat, and gloves. Blair sent a houseboy to find his steward, James Donnelly, then went upstairs to change. The thought of spending long, lazy days hunting and fishing had somehow lost its appeal. He wanted to sort through the business at hand and be back on the boat for London before the month was out. When he paused to consider this, he was astounded. Had a painted face on a canvas bewitched him? It seemed Horace was right.
Chapter Three
Caithness, Scotland
Lord Ogilvie strode back and forth across the floor of his bedchamber. He had sent his servants scurrying away with threats to dismiss anyone whose face appeared before him until he wished it.
A pile of bills sat on his dresser that he had no way of paying. His trip to London had failed on all counts. He had lost heavily at the betting tables while his pursuit of a wealthy wife had come to naught. He was tired as death. He had kept the debtors at bay with a number of promises, but now time and their patience had run out. If not debtor’s prison, he woul
d lose his home and be destitute. Unbelievable to think that this should happen to him, the Sixth Earl of Douglass. In truth, it had been a downhill slide for several generations. Scots were reputed to be a parsimonious lot, but not his family, self-indulgent spenders, the lot of them.
Not his fault there was too many blood feuds in his sad history. Could he help his ancestry?
The fire crackled and a log fell onto the grate sending out sparks. Where was that servant? Oh. He’d sent him away. Scottish weather could be hell when it chose. Icy rain beat at the windows. A fierce wind howled around the castle walls, creeping into all the cracks to blow down stone stairways and along corridors, chilling everything it touched. All the servants were hacking and sniffing, not that he cared, but it made it difficult to keep staff here. Particularly now that he couldn’t pay them. Only the desperate with nowhere else to go remained, he caught their surly glances when they thought his back was turned. It occurred to him that one of them might murder him in his bed and steal the few things left of any value.
He poured a whiskey and took several large gulps. The liquid burning its way down his cold body. Cradling the glass in his hands, he decided that tomorrow, if the bad weather had eased, he would take the carriage and go out. But go where? He had no friends here. The people in the village now spurned him.
Several whiskies later, Ogilvie’s mind turned to Blair Dunleavy. It was his fault. Dunleavy had spoiled his chances of marrying the heiress. He might have Elizabeth here with him now. A plain wench and rather stupid, but it wouldn’t have mattered, she was a flesh and blood woman. His forays into the London fleshpots could have continued after his marriage, funded by her inheritance.
Diary of a Painted Lady Page 2