Whispers from the Shadows

by Roseanna M. White

  “Well.” He straightened and lifted his chin. “From what you have thus far, I can tell it is a most dashing figure indeed. You have already perfectly captured your subject’s poise and good looks, and the charm he oozes with every—”

  “Oh, stop it.” Laughing, she gave his arm a shove as she would one of her cousins. “I obviously still have quite a bit of work to do to capture his insufferable arrogance.”

  His laugh seemed to wind its way through hers, making it richer, deeper, fuller. Even when it faded to a smile, still it echoed within her. He tilted his head to the side. “Over the mantel, do you think?”

  Over the mantel—a place of honor. She wrapped her hands around her mug and took another happy sip. “It ought to fit well there.”

  “Of course, once we start adorning my walls, we must make an honest go of it. The others will look all the barer, so I suppose you had better paint portraits of Mother and Father. And Philly, if you can convince her to keep her nose out of a beaker long enough.” He shot her that lopsided grin. “Or perhaps one of her with her nose in the beaker, since it is her natural state.”

  She attempted a haughty look, but her smile no doubt ruined it. “If you intend to keep me so busy, Mr. Lane, I may have to start charging you a commission.”

  “We can negotiate terms later.” His gaze, as he said it, swept down to her mouth and lingered there.

  Which set that frisson of heat skittering over her again. And made her wonder, again, if he had somehow caught a whiff of her thoughts when he first arrived.

  Well. She had learned to flirt in the drawing rooms of London. She could manage his lingering gaze in an isolated garden. “Why do I get the feeling your idea of negotiation wouldn’t be entirely proper, sir?”

  “Me?” Merriment sparked in his eyes. “You are the one setting the terms, my lady.”

  And hers the thoughts not entirely proper. She cleared her throat and turned back to the painting, hoping that if she raised her cup to her mouth again, he would think her flush a result of the hot tea. “But I am a gentlewoman, sir, unaccustomed to such base matters as trade. And certainly I have no idea what the going rate is for a masterpiece in such a savage land as this.”

  “Careful, Miss Fairchild. Call this land savage often enough, and it may decide to show you how right you are. Though at least you can be sure that I am a gentleman.” He sent her a smile that no doubt deepened her cheeks from rose to scarlet. “Most of the time.”

  Her throat went dry, and the drink she took did nothing to help her. Gracious—she had been bad enough at flirting in the staid and chaperoned London drawing rooms. What was she thinking, attempting it in an isolated garden? She swallowed another gulp of tea and faced forward. “You will need one with Jack too, and his father. And perhaps…” She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing, even as the words formed, that she ought not say them. Especially not now. “Perhaps one of Peggy. If you have a likeness of her, or could describe her for me…”

  He sighed, but it sounded more resigned than pained. “Perhaps someday, Gwyn. But not for my walls. This was never where she wanted to be.”

  “What? But…” She turned to him, ready to probe further and make sense of that. He had never said anything to make her think his marriage had been unhappy, but for its ending. Granted, he spoke of Peggy only rarely, even less than Captain Arnaud spoke of his Marguerite.

  But Thad’s eyes were narrowed, not at her but at the painting. He traced it with his gaze as he had the one of her father, as if following her brush strokes one by one. Then he loosed a surprised breath. “There are no shadows in this one.”

  Of all the inane—Gwyneth pivoted back to the canvas. “Of course there are. The shadow of the hull on the water, of the sails, and within the clouds. The only one I have not put in yet is yours.”

  “No, that is not what I mean. Down here.” He motioned to the edge. “There are no unexplained ones.”

  “What in the world are you talking about, Thad?”

  “I am talking about—I shall show you.” In one smooth movement, he spun toward the door and grabbed her free hand, pulling her along beside him. He tugged her through the door, into the drawing room, and over to the secretaire where all her drawings were, along with the painting of Papa that Winter had asked her to move back downstairs.

  He released her hand, set his mug down, and strode to the windows. A few stiff tugs opened all the drapes and sent morning light onto her work. Then he was back at her side, pointing. “See? Here. And here, and here.” He shuffled from page to page. Then he pulled forward the sketch of Papa’s study and tapped a finger to the bottom. “And especially here. Which is the same one you put into the painting. Your uncle’s sword, yes? That one I figured out.”

  She could only blink at the evidence—so clear, yet she scarcely remembered putting it there. She would never have identified it, had anyone asked, as a blade. But obviously it was. The shadow of Uncle Gates’s sword, visible where he wasn’t. “I did not…”

  “But these.” He indicated the other shadows. A scalloped edge, darting on and off the paper. “What are these?”

  “They are…” She felt like a lazy pupil, unable to solve the simplest equations. Her eyes burned as she shook her head. “I do not know what or why. They are just there. When the images come, they are there in them.”

  “In all of them.” He shuffled the papers again. “Your father’s study, the garden, this country scene, your mother. The same shadows in all.”

  “But not in the Masquerade.” She set her cup onto a table before she dropped it and rubbed at her temples. “I…I wish I understood. But you saw the blade when I did not. Surely you will make sense of this too. If it even matters.”

  “It matters.” When he framed her face in his hands and tilted it up, his gaze left no room for disagreement. “You have information yet trapped inside you, sweet. Still locked behind the pain and grief. This is how you work it out, through your art. Like the painting of your father.”

  A shudder coursed through her. Secrets—those things she had always hated when she spotted them surrounding her—were trapped within her own mind, and she couldn’t lure them out. She didn’t even know they were there until a memory surfaced that ought never have been sunken to begin with.

  “What is wrong with me, Thad? I am broken.”

  He pulled her close so she could press her face into the sandalwood-scented fabric of his shirt, so that she could wrap her arms around him and hold on while the earth rocked beneath her like the sea.

  But even while she held on, she was ready to reject whatever assurances he would offer. He would try to tell her she was well, she was fine, there was nothing wrong with her. But there was. She knew it. She could feel that fracture within her. That missing piece. Visible only in those displaced shadows.

  “Ah, sweet.” He sighed, shuddered with her, and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “We are all broken.”

  The light had turned red-gold as the sun drifted toward the horizon, bathing the clouds in a rainbow and the Arnaud lawn in a soft warmth. Thad relaxed against the weathered wood of the chair he had claimed and smiled when Jack tossed the ball wide with admirable vigor.

  Arnaud praised the boy’s strength…and heaved a sigh as he ran, yet again, to fetch the toy. Thad hooked his hands behind his head and made sure he looked more relaxed than ever when his friend came huffing back. “So how did the flotilla look, then?”

  Arnaud tossed the ball to his son, gently and precisely. “Good catch, Jacques!” He glanced at the sky and then at Thad. “In well enough order, I suppose. Though when one examines the state of things, really examines it, it is a wonder this war has not already ended in our defeat. Have we won any battles whose victory gained us an advantage?”

  Thad ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “In the Chesapeake? No. But that is not the kind of war being waged, is it?”

  Arnaud jumped high to snatch the ball. “Good one!”

  The boy grinned, ran in
a circle, and then pointed wildly at a bush. “Look, Papa, the fireflies are out! Can we catch them? Can we?”

  “An excellent idea. You look over there and I will look over here.” Arnaud let the ball fall to the ground and leaned against a tree trunk. “I cannot say what kind of war is being waged. We are not a Napoleon, trying to take over the entire world. We are not a rebellious colony that must be subdued. What, then, is their goal? To defend their Canadian territories against us, yes—that I understand. But here? If they are trying to conquer us again—”

  “Then they must first weaken us.” Thad rubbed his hands over his face. “Divide us against ourselves. Send a portion of us running in fear and let another portion wax into complacency and so forget we are even fighting a war.”

  “Papa, you are not looking for them!”

  Arnaud grinned at his son. “Of course I am, Jacques. There is one right here, and I do not want to startle it.” He made a lazy swipe at an even lazier bug and scooped it into his palm. Jack let out a whoop and dashed over to look.

  “How do they make their bottoms light up, Papa? I have tried, and mine will not do it.”

  Thad snorted a laugh. “That sounds like a question for Grandpapa.”

  “Most assuredly.” Arnaud stretched his hand flat to release the insect. “One more minute, mon fils, and we must ready for bed.”

  With the expected groan, Jack took off after another slow wink of yellow light. Arnaud turned back to Thad. “Something else is bothering you, oui?”

  “Gates.” He heaved out a breath and leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “He must have something invested in this war. I cannot think what, not with so little knowledge of him, but it is the only thing that makes sense with all Gwyn has said. Her father’s accusation of his greed, his determination to blame Fairchild’s death on us Americans.”

  Arnaud quirked a single brow. “Not just us Americans, Thad. Us. The Culpers.”

  “He does not know who we are.”

  “We do though, non? The only organized American espionage ring.”

  Thad closed his eyes. “I wish I knew what we were up against.”

  “That famed intuition of yours will decipher it.” Arnaud pushed off the tree and made a waving motion at Jack. “Come, Jacques. Time to go inside.”

  “Do you want me to go or stay?” Thad asked in an undertone.

  Arnaud’s sigh spoke of exhaustion. “You had better stay. It being his first night back at home, we both know how this is likely to go.”

  All too well.

  “But, Papa!” From his spot across the lawn, Jack stomped a foot and scrunched up his face. “It is still daytime.”

  “It is still light out,” Arnaud said, the epitome of patience. Thus far. “But the clock says it is bedtime. You know it stays light later in the summer, but we still must go to bed.”

  Jack’s lower lip made its appearance, and he folded his arms across his chest. “No. I want to go back to Uncle Thad’s.”

  “No, you don’t.” Thad put on a grin. “I would have put you to bed half an hour ago.”

  With a huff, the boy stomped toward the door.

  Arnaud made a show of loosening his shoulders, as if in preparation for a brawl. “If I require reinforcements, I will shout.”

  “Alain.” When his friend paused a step away, Thad sighed and passed a hand over his hair. “Have I made it worse by being always here these last two years?”

  For a long moment, Arnaud simply held his gaze, his own a surprisingly calm sea of sienna. Then he gave him a small smile. “It matters not whether it has made it better or worse, Thad. You are my brother in all the ways that matter. You were the steady presence in his life when I could not be here. You are our family. And so you will be here, always. I would never wish it otherwise.”

  Thad nodded and let him stride after his son. But his gaze remained for a long time where Arnaud had stood. And he wondered. Wondered if it would have been better for this little family had he gone to sea once Arnaud came home, gone away and stayed away until Jack forgot that Thad’s house had once been home. That for those six bleak months, Thad had been the only parent he had.

  No, Gwyneth was not the only broken one. Perhaps her memory had not yet fought its way back from the fracture that sudden trauma and months of sleep deprivation had caused. But it had only been a few months.

  Thad had had four years to deal with his best friend’s presumed death and all its consequences, and sometimes he still looked at his life and saw only the fragments that had been left by that news. Shards that would never quite fit perfectly together again, even now that Arnaud was home.

  And he would just have to wait and see what kind of mosaic the Lord would make from the pieces.

  Twenty

  How about now?”

  Gwyneth took a step back and tilted her head, surveying the placement of the frame on both its horizontal and vertical planes. And not—most assuredly not—the long, well-muscled arm that held it there. “A pinch to the right and it will be perfect.”

  “A pinch?” Thad sent her a patronizing grin over his shoulder. “Since when is ‘pinch’ a unit of measure anywhere but in the kitchen? I am my father’s son, Gwyn. I need precision. An inch more? Half of one?”

  “I don’t know.” She raised her hand and pressed her fingers together. “This much.”

  Thad rolled his eyes. “And you pinch your fingers, as if this is salt going into a bowl. Very well.” He made a show of raising his pressed fingers and moving the frame that amount.

  A smile tickled her mouth, but she held her lips together against it. “No, no, not your pinch. Your fingers are too large. My pinch.”

  The glower he aimed her way was so exaggerated she had to put a hand to her mouth to hold back the laughter. Without taking his eyes from her, he scooted the frame back to the left a wee bit. “Better, my Lady of Exactitude?”

  “Much.” She batted her lashes and heaped sugar into her smile. “That will do quite nicely, my Lord of Facetiousness.”

  “That would be Mr. Facetiousness, thank you. No pesky titles in my fair land.” He had turned back to the wall again, but she heard his smile. With a few quick motions, he picked up the pencil from the mantel and made several faint marks on the wall.

  Gwyneth nestled a little deeper into the eastern-style couch directly across from the dormant fireplace. The ottoman, she had learned, was directly from the empire after which it derived its name, brought back on the same nearly catastrophic voyage as the rugs Thad so adored. “Are you certain you do not need my assistance?”

  “You ask as you stretch out like a cat ready to nap in the sun.”

  “One can hardly help but do so on such a comfortable chaise.” She stretched a bit more for show. “Still, I would get up if it meant seeing my masterpiece properly hung.”

  “No need for such a sacrifice, my lady. I daresay I can manage to get it square.” Laughter colored his voice, and he sent her a warm look over his shoulder. One that made her infinitely aware of the fact that her stretch had brought her skirts up an inch too far and put her figure on rather prominent display.

  She all but leaped to her feet. “So you say, sir. But I have no evidence of that, have I? For all I know, your walls are bare because you have never managed to hang anything straight upon them.”

  “You have found me out.” Ruler in hand, he measured something against the back of the frame, and then held the wooden strip up to the wall and made another mark. “I have proven myself utterly incapable of nudging a frame along its wire until it is straight. ’Tis a curse that plagues me daily.”

  Gwyneth chuckled and eased across the space between them because…because unless she had a purpose for being elsewhere in a room, she always seemed to end up at his side. A realization that did indeed plague her daily. “I see no other reason for your dreadfully stark walls.”

  The glance he sent her this time was far too serious for their banter. “I used to have a few decorations. I sent them all
to Alain’s new house when he escaped the Turks. To help Jack make the transition from my home to his.”

  Her feet came to an abrupt halt with half the room still between them. She frowned. Was this another fact that had slipped through the cracks in her mind, or had it never been mentioned? “Jack lived here?”

  “Hmm.” He scratched one more mark. “Before Alain returned home. Which was six months after Jack’s mother passed away. Alain had hoped to return from his trip in time for his birth, but instead we got the news of his death. When Jack’s mother died too, I was the closest thing he had to family.”

  A shiver overtook her, despite the evening’s heat. That explained much. “You said it was Barbary pirates who captured him?”

  “First they left him for dead, and the sole crewman to escape brought back word that he had been killed with the rest. ’Twasn’t for another two years that we realized he had survived it, and that when they saw he lived, they sold him into slavery. We had no idea until he returned one day, out of the proverbial blue.”

  Slavery. Another quake coursed through her. “What horrors he must have faced.”

  “He has spoken to me of it only once, which was all he could bear.” Thad picked up the nail he had waiting on the mantel, and the hammer along with it. With one solid whack, he had driven it in just enough.

  Poor Captain Arnaud. Gwyneth forced her feet back into action so that she could lift the painting and put it in his waiting hands. “There you are.”

  “There I am indeed. And my first love with me.” He lowered it until the wire across the frame’s backing caught on the nail and then nudged it to the right. “Is she level?”

  Gwyneth retreated a few steps to better see. “Tap the left side once more.” Latching onto levity again with both hands, she grinned. “Or is ‘tap’ too imprecise?”

  He narrowed his eyes and tapped once upon the frame. “You tell me.”