by Brenda Hiatt
Decision made, she headed for her cottage. First she would sort and package the sketches, so they were ready to forward to Mr. Murray. Then she would arrange for the use of Mr. Reeves’s gig. She had a standing invitation to borrow it whenever she needed to go into town. And it would not hurt to discuss the situation with Julius. He could help convince Anne that there was no other choice. Staying would thrust the vicar into the middle of whatever battle erupted. He could easily lose the support of both sides.
The morning mist had nearly burned away, leaving only bright sunshine that lightened her heart. The Treselyan gates opened onto a twisting lane flanked by ancient hedgerows rife with birds, all in full song. Passing Mr. Beringer’s now-empty cottage, she pulled a key from her reticule, then turned in at her own gate.
The front garden needed work, she noted, shaking her head. It was amazing how unkempt it had got after only a week of neglect. Weeds had sprouted everywhere, faded flowers needed to be removed, and Anne had not finished the pruning before they’d moved to the Manor.
She pushed the key into the lock and gasped. The door was already open. Had Anne come down?
It was possible, of course. Elaine had not mentioned her own plans. Or perhaps she had sent Lucy to retrieve something.
“Who is here?” she called, pushing open the door.
There was no answer, but a footstep echoed from upstairs.
“Anne? Is that you?”
Still no response. Elaine ran lightly up the steps. The only open door led to her studio. She frowned. Neither Anne nor Lucy had any reason to be in there. They never entered without an invitation.
“Who is here?” she repeated, voice now sharp with annoyance. She strode briskly into the room and froze.
The Earl of Bridgeport stood red-faced before the window, holding a copy of Beauty and the Beast and one of the illustrations she had produced for it.
“What gives you the right to break into people’s houses?” she demanded, fury swelling until she feared her head might explode. But fear was nearly as strong.
“Miss Becklin knew I had an errand in the village and asked if I would collect a sampler she wishes to show Helen.”
Elaine glared, though that explained how he had come by the key. “You will hardly find it in here.”
His jaw worked a moment before he managed to speak. “No.”
“My question still stands.”
He turned to stare out the window, the silence stretching until Elaine wanted to scream. “I knew you were Merriweather. I was curious.”
“Curious?” she repeated scathingly. “It wasn’t enough that you searched my room at the Manor. You must also break into my home. That goes far beyond curiosity, my lord. You should be locked in Newgate! This campaign to avenge an eight-year-old slight has grown out of all proportion. Must you destroy me?”
He glanced over his shoulder, shuddering to note the tears in her eyes. “You cannot believe that.”
“Why not? Somehow you suspected that I illustrate books. Helen, I suppose; she has a remarkable eye for style. You have gone to great—and illegal—lengths to prove it. The only possible use you have for the information is to tell my publisher who I am so that he will cease offering me work. That fits your character. Your first reaction on seeing me again was to expose my whereabouts to my father. Your second was to announce my past to the community. But your cousin did that for you, so you derived no personal satisfaction from it. All that is left is to steal my means of support. Dear God! Why did fate have to throw me into the path of so despicable a creature?”
Horror kept Mark frozen at the window. Horror at the portrait she painted of his character. Horror at how true it had been even a week before. Horror at the pain she could not hide and the answering pain that stabbed his heart. “You are wrong, Elaine, about both Murray and me. Even if he learned the truth, he could hardly deny your talent.”
“You are incredibly naïve, my lord,” she scoffed, but her voice revealed how near she was to collapse. “No matter how much he admires my skill, he could not ignore his own and society’s prejudices. Oh, he might continue to offer me work—his business acumen is sharp enough for that—but the pittance he would pay would never support me.” She was crying openly by now, her life in shards around her feet.
Mark felt as though he had been milled down by a dozen Jacksons. His pique over being jilted had long since dissipated. He was left with nothing but admiration—for her skill as an artist, for the way she had taken control of her life without the help of either family or husband, and for the witty intelligence she brought to conversations.
“Elaine—” He gently pulled her into his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder to muffle her sobs. The embrace offered comfort. No more. He was determined not to repeat his previous errors.
One hand softly stroked her head.
How could he repair the damage? He would never reveal her identity, of course, for she had a valid point. Despite his many exposés of other injustices, he had always kept women firmly in their place. His own ideas had undergone a change when he wasn’t looking, but the world remained the same.
Yet she had little reason to trust his word. Fear of losing everything would cast a pall over her spirits for years. Not even at his most vindictive had he wished to inflict that kind of punishment.
Her tears finally ceased, and she pulled away to stare unseeingly down at the garden. Her shoulders slumped, every bone and muscle in her body shouting that she had surrendered to hopeless despair.
There was but one way to convince her of his sincerity, decided Mark with a pang. “I will never expose you to Murray or anyone else,” he declared softly. “It is true that I entered your room the other day, but for the same reason I am here today—overweening curiosity. I had caught a glimpse of the sketch you were making that day on Lookout Peak. Once I recognized the style, I couldn’t help myself. It was disappointing to find none of the finished illustrations at the Manor.”
“Recognized the style?” she repeated incredulously, jerking her eyes away from the garden to glare at him. “Do not try to convince me that you are a devotee of fairy tales, my lord.”
“Not until recently.” He picked up Beauty and the Beast. “You are very good. It wasn’t until after I made the connection, that I remembered your full name. I should have realized it sooner.”
“You are not making sense, Lord Bridgeport, but it doesn’t matter. Thank you for your promise—not that I believe it. The truth will undoubtedly come out the next time you are miffed at something. Now will you kindly remove yourself from my house?”
“It makes perfect sense,” he countered, turning away from her angry eyes to absently run his fingers over the letter opener that sat atop her desk. “I had seen the samples you sent to Murray for Thornton’s next book.”
“What?” she croaked, spots swirling before her eyes.
“You can be sure that I will never betray you, my dear, for you will have equal power over me. You are only the third person to learn that I am Thornton.”
Groping her way to a chair, Elaine plopped down with an inelegant thump. “You are Thornton?” Her voice seemed to echo from a great distance.
“You are white as a sheet,” he noted. “Put your head down. I don’t suppose you have any brandy.”
“In the parlor.” She dropped her head between her knees, hardly aware that he was gone.
Thornton was the Earl of Bridgeport? She still could not take it in. Why would a peer of the realm feel it necessary to dabble in poetry? And why would he hide his authorship? His work was marvelous, worthy of the acclaim it reportedly attracted. Lord Byron had made no attempt to hide his own literary efforts and was already lionized by society, so Bridgeport could hardly believe that social censure would result if his identity became known.
“Drink this,” Bridgeport ordered, returning with a glass.
She reluctantly complied, the burning spirits shocking her system into working again. The room quit spinning.
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br /> “Why?” she asked when the silence had stretched.
“Why do I write poetry, or why do I hide it?”
“Both, I suppose.”
He wandered toward the window, more comfortable talking when he could not see her. “I have always written things, from the moment I learned to form letters. It was an outlet for the anger I could not show to the world.”
“Because men are not supposed to admit their feelings?”
“In part, but it had more to do with my mother. Having met her, you should understand. I suspect she was more responsible for your decision to jilt me than my own behavior.”
Elaine nodded agreement, though he could not see.
Mark thrust aside shock at what he was revealing and continued. “She demanded absolute, unquestioning obedience. No one was allowed to think for themselves. I soon learned that fighting her edicts resulted in painful punishments, so I became adept at staying out of her way, going through the motions of acquiescing, hiding my unacceptable activities, and pouring out my rage on paper.”
“I suppose that is why you never told me anything in London.”
He shrugged. “I did not know you. After a lifetime of hiding all the ways I had found to circumvent her demands, I could not chance you telling her what I had done.”
She heard it then, the note of excitement in his voice that declared louder than words that he had won a decisive battle, but had never been able to talk about it. Until now. “Just what had you done?”
“I blackmailed my weak-willed father into deeding over all the unentailed property and giving me virtually every guinea he had. Besides ordering people’s lives, Mother insisted on running the Abbey. But she was not very good at it. It was the only way I could protect my inheritance and protect my wife from her tyranny.”
“I see. The gamester image was false, I suppose. It must have been, now that I consider it, for true gamesters never change.”
“Clever girl. I had been diverting much of my allowance into investments since Eton and needed a way to disguise that fact lest she cut me off.”
“So hiding your writing is part of a lifetime of secrecy.”
“True. And I am trusting you to keep it that way. I have been publishing articles and essays for fifteen years now, under a variety of names. But that is hardly compatible with my reputation.”
“As a rakish Corinthian? I should think not!” Elaine suddenly found herself laughing. “I should have made the connection when you quoted from ‘The Wind.’ ”
“Yes, that was stupid of me. Why didn’t you call me on it?”
“I was too upset to place the poem in volume three until after I left, for it is not one of those I had been working on. When I did, it seemed obvious that whoever had searched my room had seen it—there was a copy in my bag. That was why I was sure it had been you.”
“I didn’t notice it, for I was only looking at your sketchbook. I wonder now if my mind was playing tricks on me, trying reveal my identity. I had considered calling on Merriweather as Thornton when I spoke with Mr. Holyoke that day, but he claimed Merriweather was away, so I discarded the idea.”
“So that was you.”
He nodded. “I did not know Beringer had lived here until the squire’s dinner. Even then, I had no intention of looking up Beringer’s assistant until I spotted Holyoke’s office in Bodmin. I recognized the name, of course, for it was he who informed me of Beringer’s death. My condolences, Miss Thompson. You must have been close.”
“Thank you. He was more of a father to me than my own, and I miss him more than I can ever say. He made me what I am today. But as to your earlier observation, you may well have tried to reveal your secret with that quote. Your mind seems to work on multiple levels.”
“Perhaps, though you are the only one to discern that. There is something very special about you.”
“Nonsense. I am just an artist who happens to like poetry.”
“What you are is remarkable. May I see the illustrations, Elaine? I had only been here ten minutes and had not yet found them.” His hand trembled, betraying his tension.
“Curiosity. Now I understand. Patience was never one of your virtues.” She pulled out the folder, inserted the last sketch, then hesitated. Opening another drawer, she extracted two more sheets, laying them face down on the desktop. “I came here to package everything for mailing, but I had not yet decided which of these—if either—to include.” She tapped the loose pages. “Look at the folder first. The one on top is in the same style as the others, but I have always suspected that the bottom image is closer to what was in your mind when you wrote that particular verse. I will be working in the garden.” Without waiting for a response, she left.
Mark picked up the folder and slowly moved to the window, where the light was better. His hands were shaking so much he feared he would drop everything on the floor. Below, he saw Elaine don a heavy pair of gloves and set resolutely to work pruning a rose bush.
“My God!” he breathed, staring at the first drawing. He was looking out of a cave at the power and majesty of the sea. His chest swelled in awe, as if he were gazing upon the world for the first time.
Two hours later, he closed the folder. Goose bumps tickled his arms and raced down his spine. Her work was better than he had ever dreamed possible, and far better than the poems themselves.
Returning to the desk, he turned over the top sheet. ‘The Siege.’ Greedy waves crashed against a rocky shore, desperately clawing at a tree to draw it into a killing embrace.
Elaine was right. It would fit perfectly into the book, and it was so obvious a rendering of the poem that he could not believe there was any other interpretation. Certainly he had not considered anything else when he was writing it.
But he knew she was right the moment he picked up the second page. The witch! How could she have deduced something even he was not aware of? And how could she possibly have put so much meaning into it when she was still an innocent?
In a glittering ballroom an Exquisite held out his arm to lead a lady into the dance. But this man was no gentleman. His expression revealed lust and a diabolical determination to seduce her. He would draw her into an embrace that would ultimately destroy her… without a qualm. But despite the lady’s obvious innocence, her eyes held knowledge, amusement, and pity. Any observer could see that she would win. No matter how much energy the gentleman expended, she was out of his reach.
Mark shivered. He had penned that particular verse a year earlier and only now realized that he had been infatuated with Lady Collins at the time. But she had proven to be one of his few failures, a woman who was in love with, and faithful to, her husband.
Your mind seems to work on multiple levels. She had to be a witch.
Elaine held her breath when she heard Bridgeport approaching. Despite all evidence, she was afraid that he would not like the work.
“You are remarkable,” he breathed.
“The drawings are acceptable then?”
“Acceptable? They are more than that. I have lived in awe of your talent ever since Murray forwarded your earlier sketches, but these surpass anything you’ve ever done. They will sell far more copies of this edition than my poor verse. I swear you must have lived inside my head for weeks—and uncovered more there than I ever have.”
“Which ‘Siege’ do you wish to include?”
“The first. It fits the mood of the book, though you were right—not that the thought consciously crossed my mind.”
“Of course not. You are so accustomed to concealment that even your mind works in allegories.”
“How could you capture so knowing an expression?” he had to ask.
“I’ve seen it before—on Devereaux and Wroxleigh, though ironically that particular one I first noticed on you.”
“My God!” His tongue froze. Mrs. Hazelwood. Another of his failures. Eight years ago. “Multiple levels. How do you do it?”
She shrugged. “I have always had a strange affinity for Thornt
on’s work, but I told you that once before.”
“We make a marvelous team, Elaine,” he murmured, laying a hand on her arm. “Please marry me, my dear.”
She flinched away from his touch. “I’m glad you like the illustrations, but don’t let euphoria go to your head.”
“I mean it. I had never considered allowing a wife to participate in my life, lest she decide to run it. But we work together so well, I cannot imagine that happening.”
“No, my lord.” She shook her head sadly. “I cannot exist in your world. That was true eight years ago, and this house party has proven beyond all doubt that it is still true.”
“But you were born to that world, Elaine.”
“What has that to do with anything?” Annoyance filled her voice. “I despise the shallow posturing that characterizes society. Living in London is nothing but penance, even without the insipid conversation and judgmental harridans. You, on the other hand, thrive there. It would never work.”
“At least consider it,” he begged, hating himself for doing so. “There are as many intelligent people in the ton as in any other class, if you look for them.”
“It would be a waste of time. If you wish to publish another illustrated volume, I would be honored to participate. Beyond that, we have nothing in common. Now, enough of this. I would appreciate it if you would send the sketches on to Murray. It would save me a trip into Bodmin. For now, I have some work to finish and do not wish to be late for luncheon.”
Bowing to the inevitable, Mark took his leave. But his heart was heavier than it had ever felt before.
“There is a stark beauty to the moor that I never expected to find,” observed Carrington as he and Mark walked back to the house after a brisk ride.
“It touches a chord of loneliness,” agreed Mark. “But not everyone enjoys a bout of melancholy.”