by Nia Farrell
Excitement thrummed in my veins. I knew that I needed more exercise than ambling half a mile at a time. I needed to be in top shape when I started carving. I’d be working on scaffolding for hours each day, wielding chisel and hammer, removing what didn’t belong to reveal the figures hidden in the stone.
“Oh, Edward! Yes, yes! Please, count me in. I’m presuming that mornings would work best for you?” Evenings were filled with massages and a dozen other things. Mostly I drew while the men played cards, or read while Daniel practiced carving and Edward worked on his book, keeping myself readily available to quote whatever reference he might need. Then there were the evenings when Daniel played his fiddle while Edward and I listened and servants danced in the hall. The rarer treats were concerts, the opera (to which Daniel dragged his feet, then swore he’d never go again), plays (the comedic ones were much more to Paddy’s liking), races (horses and rowing), fencing matches, and museums and galleries (my favorites of all). We had yet to go to one of Edward’s private clubs. He intended to take us. It was occasionally mentioned, but between Edward’s work, our work, and the building renovations, we simply had not made time for it.
I had not dressed as Lane in far too long. The new year felt ripe with potential.
“Yes,” said Edward. “As schedules go, mornings will work best for us, I think. We’ll try it, anyway. See how it goes and adjust accordingly.”
“Male attire?” I asked, a throaty suggestion that struck its mark.
“Ngh,” Daniel grated in response to Edward’s hands, wrapped around his shaft and clutching his testicles. “Jaysus. Christ.”
Edward started stroking him, his grip firm, a long, oil-slickened slide with a twist near the end that had Daniel fully hard in seconds. He fondled his sac, then slid his fingers down, past his taint to the tight, ruched ring that was Daniel’s last bastion, the portal that had been tested but not yet fully breached by him.
He worked in one finger, then two, then three, pushing with one hand, pumping with the other. Leaning down, he caught one of Daniel’s nipples between his teeth and lashed it with his tongue. His arm moved more forcefully, stretching Daniel, preparing him for Edward’s ultimate possession.
I was torn between wanting to watch and wanting to join them. Edward read my face and offered a smile. “You can always observe,” he said. “But this first time, Daniel will want you here with us, won’t you, my boy? Clothes off, Elena.”
I stripped down to my skin and climbed into bed beside Daniel.
“Ride him, pet. Climb on top. Straddle him, and sink yourself down on his shaft. He’s nice and hard for you, aren’t you, my boy?”
I was wet from watching them. Bracketing Daniel’s hips with my shins, I leaned forward, presenting myself, letting Edward slicken the velvet tip, part my folds, and hold him steady while I lowered myself onto Daniel, working my way down until I could take no more, not until he’d stretched me out.
I started moving, up and down, rocking against the cradle of Daniel’s hips, pressing down, taking him in by degrees. When I’d nearly taken him all, Edward began playing with my ass, applying oil outside and in. I kept fucking Daniel, every sense heightened, anticipating Edward’s possession of us.
“Lift,” Edward growled in my ear, grasping my hips. “And down,” he said, guiding me back onto Daniel’s cock, except it was now stretching out my other hole. “I want him to share my experience. Do you feel her, my boy? Warm, tight, like a silk glove fisting your cock.”
Edward positioned Daniel’s legs with his knees bent, his feet apart. I kept my gaze on Daniel’s face. “Feel me,” I said. “That’s what he wants. What he’ll feel inside you. Just relax, and remember to push back against him when it starts to go in.”
Behind me, Edward was preparing them, oiling himself and Daniel. The oil was set aside. The mattress dipped as Edward came behind me. Daniel tensed, then huffed. He expelled his breath in a series of puffs, then held it, grimacing at the initial pinch, forcing himself to relax and let it happen.
“Fuck,” Edward grunted, leaning over me, over us, his chest rubbing against my back as he tunneled inside. Wrapping his arms around me, he pulled me upright, biting the back of my neck and claiming my breasts with his hands while he claimed Daniel’s ass with his cock. His breath was hot and heavy as he nudged in deeper, pinching and twisting my nipples hard enough to make me whimper.
Edward flexed his hips and began to move, short, small strokes that eventually grew longer and more demanding. I kept myself hard against Daniel, relishing the feel of him inside me, that meaty girth, that impressive length, sounding my depths. I was mesmerized, watching him, so many emotions, so much expression in his eyes, on his face, in the lines of his body as he gave himself to us.
I fingered myself, rubbing my clitoris, shoving my hand between my legs, filling my emptiness. Breath hissed between my teeth, cheeks puffing as the tension wound tighter and tighter, until it broke like an over-coiled spring. I flew apart with the force of it, coming so hard and so long that I scarcely felt Daniel emptying himself inside me.
Behind me, Edward grunted his own release, shuddering to a finish. The three of us stayed there, an erotic tableau that made me long for mirrors.
Edward pulled out first, leaving us only long enough to wash himself and return with wet washcloths and towels. He cleaned us both, then lay down beside Daniel, pulling him into the cradle of his arms and kissing the top of his head.
Daniel shivered. I didn’t wish to intrude on their moment, but my Irishman reached for me and I scooted over, pressing my length against him so that he was fully embraced.
“I love you,” I whispered. Brushing a kiss across his lips, I met Edward’s gaze over Daniel’s freckled shoulder. “And you. Both of you. If I don’t think to say it often enough, it’s because, well, I trust that you feel it, the same way that I feel your love for me.”
And they did love me. They showed me every day that I was loved, and honored, and cherished. Regardless of what society might say, what we shared between us was right for us, and yet we might never be free to make our commitment known. The success of my studio depended upon patrons with means who were willing to buy. Scandalous behavior was like a two-edged sword, with the potential to harm as well as forward my career, repelling some and attracting others.
But Edward? For him, revealing the relationship we shared with Daniel would be disastrous. It would certainly jeopardize his teaching position, and would perhaps threaten his literary endeavors as well. No matter how much I might wish otherwise, for now, we three must continue as we had been, appearing in public as stepsister and stepbrother, with Daniel as valued associate and friend.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Early Saturday morning, Young Frank went down to the studio to stoke the fires and keep them going, warming up the space in advance of the afternoon’s grand opening. His mother had packed his lunch but he’d left it in his haste. Daniel, having grown fond of the lad, offered to go down early and take it to him, leaving Edward and me to follow.
It was only half a mile, but I’d just been bedridden with a severe cold, and Edward was taking no chances with my health. He arranged for a hackney carriage to take us to and from the studio for the afternoon’s opening and this evening’s reception, and I was grateful. Dr. Wainwright had offered to share his and Masey’s conveyance with us, but we felt it would be better to arrive independently, in case the doctor was called away, or Masey was needed at home and had to leave early.
As it happened, they were the first to arrive after us, disembarking at the wide flagstone walk that led to the entrance, where a recently installed sign over the heavy wooden door read “Lane Davenport Art.” Standing underneath the decorative lettering, I said a silent prayer for my twin’s soul and dedicated this day to him, pledging to make him proud.
Daniel watched the door while Edward and I gave his father and my sister the grand tour. I took Masey’s hand and led the way. Edward and Dr. Wainwright followed, quietly d
iscussing the subjects or composition and comparing my work favorably to that of other artists. Masey was equally free with her opinions, if a bit more brutally honest. She preferred oils to sketches, color to shades of gray, on subjects that aligned with her personal tastes. The sculptures were less impressive to her, until she saw Belle.
“Lanie,” she breathed, tears pricking her eyes. “Oh, Lanie! She’s beautiful! And it looks just like her!”
Our brother’s first and only love, taken by a fever when she was sixteen years of age, poised on the brink of womanhood. This was how I wished to remember her, vibrant, full of life, an unfurled bloom filled with promises of a future she would not live to see.
“Thank you.” I sighed. “She was a pretty thing, and so sweet. No wonder Lane was smitten with her.” This was how she looked the day that I came upon her and Lane in Father’s rose garden, after their first kiss (or so he’d said). “I like to think that they are together now, rewarded in death what they were denied in life.”
“I hope so,” she breathed and swiped at her eyes. “It was sad. So sad. They should have had a happy ending.”
“They can if you give them one,” I said. “Think about it, Masey. What if she hadn’t died? What if he’d gone on to critical success and fame, after years of struggle, thanks to the unwavering support of the woman who loved him? That’s the story that should have been theirs. It’s exactly the kind of novel that women love to buy. When you’re looking for your next project, write Lane and Belle a happily ever after and just see if it doesn’t bless you both.”
“She was your brother’s sweetheart?” Edward’s voice sounded behind me.
“Yes. Belledora Viola Davison. Belle for short. In Chicago, I’d just asked her to look after Lane for me when you came in.” God, now I was starting to tear up. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid that I need to go cry now. Masey, can you play hostess until I’m passably pretty again?”
I didn’t wait for an answer, just headed for the loft. Edward found Daniel, explained my situation when he took Masey to him, and followed me upstairs to find me huddled on the sofa, my face buried in a handkerchief, crying copious tears that had been bottled for years and had finally reached the age to be opened. There was no stopping them now, once the cork had been pulled. I didn’t even try, just let them pour out of me while I told Edward the story of the statue.
“She should have taken a year to carve,” I blubbered. “Eight months. Eight months and she was done. I saw her so clearly in the stone, and it almost felt as if Lane was with me, guiding my hand so that each strike was done to perfection. I can’t explain it, but there it is.”
Edward handed me his handkerchief, seeing how I’d ruined mine for more. “Does she need to come home with us?” he asked quietly. “I knew that you were connected to the piece. I assumed it was as an artist to your creation, but this—it is more than that, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I hiccupped, starting to settle down now. “I feel her, and feel Lane through her. But you’re right. She deserves to be admired by others. We should share her with the public, if only for a time. She’ll likely shake her head when she comes to live with us…except she’s seen us already, hasn’t she? I suppose I’ve shocked her. Shocked them both, actually. But perhaps they’re in a place beyond judgment, able to view things more clearly, now that they’re free of the strictures that religion and society place upon us.”
“I would like to believe that,” he murmured, his voice solemn, his expression wistful. Meeting his gemstone gaze, I could tell that Edward was thinking of his mother, what she would say about him. About us.
Touching his cheek, I cradled his face and sought to reassure him. “I think that they understand, and accept, and are content that we are happy. Granted, I might not feel a rainbow of blessings from the other side, but I’ve never felt a frown of disapproval, either, if that makes sense to you.”
One side of his mouth curled upward. “Oddly, it does. Now, your adoring public awaits you, my dear, as soon as you feel ready to share yourself with them.”
Fifteen minutes more, and I was downstairs, greeting new arrivals, shepherding them through the maze of walls, sharing stories, pointing out that my assistant had served in The Fighting 69th and was the subject of most of the sketches on display from that series. My work seemed to be favorably received, and as four o’clock approached, Daniel whispered in my ear that I’d sold three pieces already.
The emotions of the day had drained me. As thrilled as I was by the sales, I longed to lie down and empty my mind, regroup and get ready for the reception tonight.
Throughout the day, Edward had an odd energy. The way his gaze was continually drawn to the entrance, I wondered if he was expecting a special guest, perhaps the curator from the National Gallery? I refused to ask him, of course. My stomach was pinched enough with my nerves. Still, I could not help but speculate.
At four o’clock, I had given up hope for an afternoon appearance by the National Gallery when someone came in the front. Daniel and I were finishing in the back, but Edward had stayed by the door, waiting for us. He greeted the late arrival. A man’s voice responded, his words funneling along the walls to reach me.
He said that he was looking for Lane Davenport.
I felt my heart sink under the weight of disappointment, that we would be forced to stay for God knew how long. Still, the sooner I dealt with him, the sooner we could leave.
Skirting the side of the building, I rounded the corner to see the back of a man, nearly Edward’s height. He was dressed in a greatcoat, protection against the December cold, with a scarf around his neck and a tall hat covering his head.
“I’m Lane,” I said, approaching him with my hand extended in greeting.
He whipped around, and I nearly tripped on my skirt. “Lanie?”
“Adam?” It was him. Adam Roth, my first unrequited love. He was older—but then we both were. Even with the addition of wire-rimmed spectacles, he was as handsome as he’d been when he was my teacher and I was an awkward, hopelessly infatuated fourteen-year-old. “I’m sorry. Yes. Lanie. Elena. I’m afraid that Lane’s been gone six years now, but professionally, I go by his name. You look well.”
Well enough that Daniel’s hackles were raised when he saw him, and recognized him from the sketchbooks that I’d filled with his visage.
A fleeting look of pain clouded Adam’s features, and he shook his tawny head. “I’m so sorry. I heard about your father. You have my heartfelt condolences. How are you, Lanie? And your mother? Sad to say, I lost touch when I left.”
We had years to catch up on, but I preferred to do it in comfort, and in the company of others who could be called upon to turn the corner on our conversation if needed. “I’m afraid that Mother is gone, too. Excuse me, Adam, for just one moment. Edward, might I speak with you, please?”
Edward seemed a bit off, but when I asked to invite Adam to the house, he was agreeable.
“Adam, if you have no plans, you are welcome to come home with us. Supper will be early tonight, since we have this evening’s reception yet to go. You’re welcome to dine with us, but for now, please, let me give you the tour while daylight yet reigns. Tonight will be all candlelight, but the ambiance can hardly make up for the small details that will be lost with the sun.”
I saw that he was in evening wear when he shed his coat. He took off his scarf but left on his hat and followed me into the maze. “Clever,” he commented on Daniel’s design that allowed us to configure, move, and re-configure the walls. He nodded approvingly at my oils. Smiled when he saw my sketches. Momentarily lost the ability to speak when he saw Belle.
“My God,” he breathed. “You captured her perfectly, Lanie. I only saw her a few times, but Lane had a miniature of her that he treasured.”
“I know,” I said, eyes stinging, damn it. “It’s buried with him, over his heart. Please, let’s go home where we can speak in comfort. It’s not that far to walk, but Edward has arranged for livery service. You may ride
with us, if you like.”
Young Frank was staying, to keep the heat going and set up for tonight. The front door would be locked, but the back door was bolted, allowing him access to the coal bin outside, as well as the water pump and privy. He and Daniel had just set up tables for the refreshments that Lucy was bringing to serve. Now Young Frank was uncrating the borrowed linens and table service stored in the sacristy.
Adam looked toward the north transept and the study for Oi Treis Erastés displayed there. He swung his head toward the door, where Edward and Daniel were waiting, then back to the statue.
The statue with the figure of Achilles, with Edward’s body and Adam’s face.
Holy mother of pearl.
“I am sorry, but our driver expects punctuality,” I said lightly, though my heart was beating with frantic wings, desperate to fly away and take him with me. “Any more, and I’m afraid you’ll have to come back.”
He would, of course. And Sydney would be at the reception. She’d recognize him and God only knew what she’d say. The evening that had been so promising now held the potential for epic disaster.
He growled, sounding so much like Edward that gooseflesh rippled my skin. “You don’t play fair.”
“Fair?” I repeated dumbly, shaking my head to clear the sudden fog that I found myself mired in, as all those old feeling resurfaced, clinging to the landscape of my soul. “Would you rather have seen nothing?” I asked. “Should I have made you wait?”
“I think ten years is long enough,” he rumbled, stepping closer. “Lanie…I….”
I stopped him. I had to. “Seven years and ten months,” I managed. Ten years ago, I was his student, but he’d visited regularly after that, until he’d simply disappeared from our lives. “I haven’t seen you since the Valentine’s party when I was sixteen.” Nearly seventeen. The next year, I’d hoped that he might dance with me, but our annual party came and went without him. “Now, not another word about me until I’ve heard about you. Please, sir. Let’s go home. I want to hear your story, beginning with the last time that you were in Richmond.”