by Nia Farrell
He gave me an odd look but said nothing, just nodded and proffered his arm. I placed my gloved hand upon it, black on black, but different shades that I could have replicated on paper because of what he’d taught me. Years ago, when I’d wanted him to see me as more than a student, I would have been thrilled with his attention. But several years and another lifetime lay between us. To think that he might reciprocate the feelings I once had was equally flattering and disturbing. I was not free. I had Edward and Daniel and my art. I’d learned all that I could from Adam Roth, but my style was no longer a copy of his. It was my own, as unique as a writer’s voice. Seeing it, one could say, “That looks like a Lane Davenport” even before they read the signature.
Adam’s time had come and gone. Somehow I must make him see that.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The carriage ride was all too short yet painfully long, seated by Adam, across from Edward and Daniel, the two of them putting off that magical male scent of theirs, so strong, I could have entered my maze while wearing a blindfold and found my way straight to them. Just the thought of tonight, knowing that they’d be staking their claim, made my secrets swell and my inner folds slicken.
Adam basically sang for his supper, regaling us all with tales of his travels, the students he’d had, the pieces that had won prizes or received critical acclaim. Over dessert, he let it slip that he’d come early, ahead of a group from the National Gallery, where I’d left my cards. “I couldn’t believe it was you…Lane,” he said. “Here, in England. Then I remembered your mother, and the war, and I wondered if your family had fled the South.”
“Mother did,” I said, no longer hating her for it. “After Father was killed at Pittsburgh Landing, the doctors advised a restorative trip to Europe and she stayed. She remarried—Edward’s father, Dr. Wainwright—and died this past June of injuries received in an accident. Where did you spend the war?” I asked. “In America or abroad?”
“France, early on. Italy, then England. Not quite a Grand Tour. Did you stay in Richmond during the war?”
“At first,” I said, sliding a look at Daniel. “Eventually I went north. After the war, I moved to Chicago. Daniel was my studio assistant there as well as here. When Edward came with news of Mother’s death, I returned with him and Daniel followed.”
“So…you live here? With your stepbrother?” He cast a glance at Edward, trying to figure out the nature of our relationship. It was as if he felt the energy between us and recognized that it did not fit our labels.
“Yes, Daniel and I both live here, with Edward. I have a home studio upstairs, on the third floor. In my spare time, I serve as Edward’s research assistant while he writes his new book. My Greek is proving especially useful.”
“The three of you.” He looked again at Edward, contemplative. “Yes, I could see the benefits,” he said, his lips tilting upward in a wry smile.
“I am certain that you do,” Edward rumbled, his baritone voice commanding my attention. “Elena has everything that she needs, between her home studio and the new art studio. Daniel escorts her to and from work, and assists her in both places. I don’t know what we would do without him.”
I smiled at Daniel. “I don’t either,” I added. “He is invaluable.”
“I see,” said Adam, sounding as if he did.
Oh, dear.
I kept the conversation focused on his art, after that.
We left him in the library while we dressed for the evening. Edward had ordered a suit tailored for Daniel, evening wear that made my Irishman look like one of the elitists that he abhorred. Edward was equally dashing, but comfortably so, whereas Daniel fidgeted in his new clothes.
The four of us took one carriage back to the art studio. Lucy and her gypsy Princes followed close behind in a second with food and drink to be served with the cups, glasses, plates, flatware, and serving pieces on loan from Edward’s sister Constance, who had accumulated them over the years for entertaining.
Lucy was dressed as Catherine. One of her gypsy twins, Tobar (more commonly called Toby), came as Heathcliff, the other twin, Tamás (or Tommy) dressed as Captain Jack Rackham, adding a literary and historical flair to the event. A framed sketch of Wuthering Heights was displayed on an easel near the banquet tables where Lucy would be serving our guests. Toby would assist her; Tamás would be at the north transept by the study for Oi Treis Erastés, where Patroclus wore his brother’s face.
I knew that Adam would wish to see it as soon as we arrived. I’d said as much to Edward and Daniel when we went upstairs to dress for the evening, and my stomach still pinched at the prospect. Young Frank took our coats (his job for the evening, since most patrons would not trust a gypsy with their things, although we had never had anything turn up missing).
Edward was first to offer his arm. I took it gratefully, thankful that he would remain with me, my knight errant, with Daniel playing squire, both men sworn to protect me, even if it was from myself. God help me, I still found Adam Roth sinfully, deliciously attractive. Perhaps it was the allure of the taboo—the lines drawn by virtue of our teacher/student relationship, or the disparity in our ages when we’d met, an experienced man and a young ingénue. Lines that I had longed to cross, once upon a time.
Lines that I could still feel ten years later, damn it all to hell.
I’d felt what it was like to have two men inside me. The prospect of three made me weak at the knees. It hadn’t helped when Edward whispered in my ear, reminding me of his pledge to help me expand my horizons and broaden my experience. Edward believed in giving and sharing.
To him, sexual experimentation was as natural as breathing.
He’d kissed my forehead and cupped my chin. “Whatever you choose,” he had rumbled. “I’ve told you before. I say it again. I only want to set you free….”
It wasn’t a line to be crossed; it was an open door that I could choose to step through, with his blessing. Daniel, on the other hand….
I furrowed my brow and sharpened my focus, determined not to think on it for now. There’d be time later, when distraction didn’t endanger me. One misstep, and I’d trip on my skirts and go sprawling onto the hard, stone floor.
The banquet tables were set up beyond the altar, close to the sacristy, where everything needing kept nearby was stored behind a closed door, neatly hidden from view but readily accessible. More food and drinks. Clean plates and glassware. A stack of framed sketches, waiting to be hung as spaces opened up. Hopefully there would be a number of deliveries to be made.
We turned short of the altar and stopped before the study of Achilles, Briseis, and Patroclus. Past it, gleaming in the candlelight, was the four-ton block of marble that I would carve to match.
I let Adam look his fill, holding my breath, wondering what he would say. His lips pursed. He rubbed a hand across his face, then blinked and shook himself, as if chiding himself for imagining what he was seeing, and I realized what I’d done. He had Edward’s eyes and hair. He did not see himself, thank God.
I exhaled the breath that I’d been holding and beamed a smile at him. “My next project,” I said, pointing to the untouched marble. “On Monday, we’ll put up scaffolding so that I can get started. It’s been hard, waiting.”
“Yes,” said Adam, his silken voice amplified, echoing off the transept’s three stone walls. “Waiting isn’t easy, but worth it in the end, don’t you think?”
Edward hummed. Daniel bristled. Adam kept his gaze locked on me, angling his head, seeking answers to questions that I wasn’t ready to hear. But Adam lived in London. He was an artist. He was associated with the National Gallery. We would see each other again, that much was certain. In what context remained under my control, and I wasn’t ready to surrender it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Edward was my Sir now.
“I believe that it can be. It will be. Unfortunately, waiting can be quite the opposite. Have Daniel tell you about Fredericksburg, what it was like to lie wounded on a frozen field, waiting
for help. Waiting for a surgeon to look at the leg that he wanted to amputate, refusing to let him take it, then waiting to see if he’d lose it anyway. He didn’t, of course. Daniel was fortunate. He’s here, and standing on his own two feet, independent of a crutch. No,” I told him softly, firmly, praying that he understood what I was really saying. “Sometimes waiting means an opportunity lost, a connection missed, damage done. Sometimes, it simply makes it too late.”
Adam smiled at me then, sadly, sweetly, and nodded his head, acquiescing. “As you say.”
“Daniel, why don’t you show Adam The Fighting 69th again? I’m certain he has questions on your war experience.”
It was the coward’s way out, I knew, but I needed to put some distance between us and it was the only thing that I could think of that sounded plausible.
“Aye,” Daniel chirped. “Mr. Roth, if ye please.”
I placed a hand on my stomach and pressed against the pinch.
“Are you well?” Edward asked, his brow creased with concern, his sharp-eyed gaze missing nothing. “Do you need to sit? Or lie down?”
“No,” I managed a smile for him. “It’s just…I’m still processing, that he’s here. That the Gallery is coming. That the studio is a reality, thanks to you, Sir.”
The honorific was not lost on him. “Ten,” he rumbled, “when we get home, because I want it.”
Just like that, my knickers were drenched.
The door bell tinkled, alerting us to the first arrivals. Masey and Dr. Wainwright joined us with fifteen minutes to spare, allowing them to circumscribe the room now lit by candlelight, viewing my sculpted pieces in the golden glow before heading into the maze. Sydney came next, scandalously alone, not that she gave a fig about being an unaccompanied female. She too saved the maze for later, heading straight to the transept to see again how I’d carved her face.
Unfortunately, Adam was already there, standing alone, studying the figures, the faces. I could almost feel his mind at work, wondering, discarding theories as quickly as they were formed.
“Introduce us,” Sydney stage whispered. “Mary Margaret would love for me to bring that home.”
Surprisingly, the thought amused rather than disturbed me. Adam preferred to be in charge. I already knew it, on some level. My other teachers, I’d addressed as Mister or Madame. He had insisted on being called Sir. But tonight, I recognized him for who he was.
What he was.
Like Edward, Adam had a dominant personality that would clash, rather than mesh, with Sydney’s. However, she might just keep him engaged and entertained until the rest of the Gallery members arrived.
“Miss Sydney Blevins, this is Adam Roth, the artist who taught me to sketch. Adam, this is Sydney Blevins, a photographer and friend who was kind enough to let me use her face for The Three Lovers.”
“And his,” she cooed, beaming with delight, keeping her voice an intimate whisper for our ears only. “Yours. Yes. Yes. I’m pleased to say, that perfect ocular memory of Lane’s and those talented hands did you justice, sir.”
I dropped my gaze to the floor, blushing furiously.
“What—?
I lifted my head and jerked it, willing Sydney to go away. Thankfully, she did so.
“Edward’s eyes,” I whispered, trapped into confessing now that my secret was out. “Your face. Edward’s eyes. And his body,” I added. Perhaps it was better this way. Surely he’d see how things were without having to spell everything out. “And Daniel’s. And mine.”
He blew out a hot, harsh breath and locked his gaze on my marble form. Now he knew what I looked like nude. Unfortunately, that only made things worse.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“How?” the artist in him wanted to know.
“Mirrors. Photographs. Intimate ones. Sydney caters to a certain clientele.” I caught Sydney’s gaze as she pretended to look at the large block of virgin marble. Smirking, she pursed her lips in our direction but thankfully stayed by the stone. “Edward knew her work. She set up a darkroom at the house. Developed the plates. Did some prints. I carved what we saw, except for the faces. Those I added last. Toby, one of Lucy’s gypsies, as Patroclus, Sydney as Briseis, and you as Achilles. But the eyes are ours. I needed to portray the connection between the three of them. It may seem a bit Shelley, stitching other heads onto bodies, then adding different eyes, but it worked as well as I’d hoped. The faces are close but not exact, preserving anonymity for those who wish it. Please don’t worry that Sydney will say anything. She’s made a career of recording and keeping people’s secrets.”
His gaze was worldly, knowing, understanding. “Including yours. The three of you. I did wonder.”
“Yes. Well. It’s complicated.” Having revealed our relationship, it was all I could do not to fidget beneath his regard. “I trust your discretion. No one knows, not even my sister.”
Adam stiffened. His breath escaped in a rush. “What did you say?”
“In Richmond, she was Father’s secret. Here, Mother is gone and the pretense with her.”
Shock shaped his features, then dawning realization. “Masey?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
The color drained slightly from his face. “Masey is your sister.” The words seem wrenched from his depths. “God damn him!”
The anger in his voice took me aback. It occurred to me that I’d never seen him upset, not like this. “Please, Adam. If Mother could forgive him, surely you can too.”
He shook himself and blew out harshly. “Of course. You’re right. What’s done is done.”
“Exactly,” I said. “She is blameless. And as beautiful as ever. I’m surprised you have not seen her. She and Dr. Wainwright arrived shortly after we did. Ah, but you were with Daniel, and this maze makes it possible, I suppose, to go the entire evening without seeing someone. I suggest that we make our way to the front, if you wish to connect with the others who are coming. Or you can go to the loft.” The high vantage point would allow him to see them, even if they’d started the tour. “You’ll be able to see them all from there. Come, I’ll show you.”
He cocked a brow, very Edward-like. “They won’t mind?”
I smiled softly. “If they do, they still respect me enough to allow it. I’ll see you settled, then it’s back to the floor for me, make myself available for questions and all that. You can perch up there as long as you like. Young Frank will be up and down with coats, but other than that, the loft should be yours.”
We skirted the side, passing small sculpted pieces and climbed the stairs as was the custom: ladies first, skirts lifted to keep from tripping, and gentlemen behind to break our falls if we did. Other than Young Frank having to wait for us to pass, the ascent was uneventful. I placed one of my dining chairs at the balcony rail and motioned for Adam to take a seat.
“You can see more from up here than anywhere,” I pointed out the obvious. “There’s Sydney, with Calico Jack Rackham, probably trying to talk Tommy into posing for her. And Daniel, telling tales about The Fighting 69th to someone I’ve not seen before. Edward is making his way to the entrance.” The bell had just rung, announcing a new arrival. “And here comes Edward’s father and Masey.”
His fingers gripped the banister as he leaned forward, his gaze finding and fastening on her as she glided to the front, a vision of loveliness. Until tonight, she’d worn first mourning out of respect for my mother. Tonight she wore gold silk that complimented her honey skin and hazel eyes. She approached Edward, smiling, until suddenly she stopped, spun on her heel and raced toward the far end of the building, disappearing into the sacristy.
The door slammed, cracking sharp as a gunshot, and I fell on my knees, trembling.
“What the hell?” Adam’s gaze caromed between downstairs and up, full of questions.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was the sudden noise. My soldier’s heart.”
He took my hand, a bit awkwardly, and rubbed it. “Forgive me. I didn’t know that nurses were affected, too.”
“Perhaps they were. They are. Mine runs a bit deeper than that. You’ve seen the sketches.”
He froze. I refused to meet his gaze and looked downstairs, forcing my concern for Masey to the forefront, ahead of my own deficiencies. I needed to know what had upset her.
And then he turned. The new arrival. A face that had matured in six years, as handsome and haughty as ever. Rutherford Thomas Paine.
“Don’t tell me.”
“Bastard.”
“Lanie, please, I’m only trying to help.”
“Not you,” I growled. “Him. The son of a bitch who raped Masey. Help me up. I’ll see him in hell before I let him near her again.”
He grabbed both of my shoulders and turned me to face him. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice preternaturally cold.
“Rutherford Thomas Paine. The Valentine’s party. The one you missed.”
“Wait. She told you this? That he’d raped her?”
“I saw her,” I spat. “Afterwards. And there’s Joseph. Oh, God. He can’t find out about Joseph.”
“Joseph?”
“Masey’s son. Please. He needs to leave, then we must keep him away, keep them safe from him.” But Adam was already lifting me from the floor and hauling me downstairs as I rambled. He thrust me into Edward’s arms. “Not a word,” he growled. “I will handle this.”
Adam turned to face my old nemesis, Masey’s attacker. “Paine,” he said curtly. “Go. Now.”
Rutherford’s lip curled in a sneer, the haughty bastard. “I’m here to see Lane.”
Adam nodded in my direction. “And you’ve seen her. She honors her brother’s memory by creating in his name. His grave is in Richmond, if you care to visit.”