by Nia Farrell
“Bitch,” he muttered, loud enough that Edward heard it. I felt him stiffen, but he held himself back, making me his priority, letting Adam handle Rutherford.
“You’re leaving,” Adam told him. “And don’t come back. Consider yourself warned. Come anywhere near either one of them, and I’ll see you arrested, convicted and imprisoned.”
“You can’t touch me here,” he spat.
“Oh, but I can.” Daniel grabbed his arm and jerked him towards the door. “Ye heard the man. Leave now and don’t come back.”
If looks could kill, we’d have been laid out on the floor.
A shiver wracked my frame, and Edward pulled me tightly against him, crooning nothings into my hair while Daniel ejected our unwanted guest.
“Masey,” I whispered, pushing away and lifting my chin to meet Edward’s gaze. “She’s in the back. Please. I must let her know that he’s gone.”
I found her in the sacristy, shaking like a leaf, her honeyed skin pale as death, hazel eyes bright with tears that she refused to shed, just like when we were young. She had to be one of the strongest women I knew.
“He’s gone,” I hastened to assure her. “He’s been warned to not come near either one of us or face arrest. Still, be careful. And watch Joseph. If he finds out about him, he may try something.” I wouldn’t put it past him to kidnap the boy as he walked to and from school.
Masey’s eyes grew hard as agates. “He’d better not try it,” she spat.
“I don’t trust him any farther than I can throw a stick. His name isn’t on the birth record, is it?”
“What?” Masey stiffened and blinked, looking dumbstruck for a moment.
I sighed. “Joseph’s birth record. If you didn’t name him as the father, he has no legal claim.”
She relaxed her shoulders and blew out softly. “No. No, his name is nowhere on the record. But someone will be walking with us to school come Monday.”
“Yes, yes. If I were you, I’d take no chances. I am so sorry, Masey. If you need to leave, I’ll let Dr. Wainwright know. After spending the afternoon here, I’m certain that he won’t object to cutting the evening short.”
She ducked her head. “If you don’t mind,” she said, sounding apologetic.
“Of course not. It isn’t your fault that he came. I’ll tell Dr. Wainwright.”
Just then, the door swung open and Tobar, dressed as Heathcliff, walked in with a tray full of used plates and glasses. “Sorry. I’ll come back.”
“No. No. It’s all right, Toby. We’re done for now. Stay here, Masey. I’ll send Young Frank to fetch your cloak and the doctor’s greatcoat. If you leave by this back way, you can avoid the crowd up front.”
Tamás, decked out as Captain Rackham, was sent to hail a cab. Dr. Wainwright and Masey left by the back door, reached their ride, and left, safe and sound, with no one suspicious in sight, according to Calico Jack.
I thanked Tommy for his service.
“Let me know if you need him gone,” he said meaningfully.
For a moment, I was worried about Lucy and what kind of men she’d involved herself with, but searching his eyes, I saw nothing but confidence.
His lips curled in a grim parody of a smile. “I know people.”
“Um. Good?” If I were a different sort of person, I’d find solace in having such an option, whether or not I ever utilized it.
Edward’s appearance cut short any further conversation. “The Gallery members are here, Lane.”
Chapter Fifty
There were five of them, including Adam. My former teacher kept looking at me, unspoken questions swirling in his eyes. His companions were polite, if not personable, with barely a blink when Edward introduced me as Lane Davenport. They may have heard that a woman dropped off cards inviting them here. Perhaps they were thinking of authoress George Sand and were thankful that I wasn’t wearing men’s clothes and smoking a cigar.
We entered the maze, allowing them however long they needed to look at my work before moving on. When we came to The Fighting 69th, Daniel was there, as he had been most of the night, sharing little stories behind the sketches, what he’d been doing, where he had been, what was going on in the war at that time.
The common opinion was that my sketches were “an accurate portrayal” and “surprisingly intimate.” One man, however, had been critical of my work from the start and denounced the series as unrealistic, failing to ring true.
Of course, Daniel leapt to my defense. “These are as true a depiction of a soldier’s life as ye’ll find,” he said. “What ye see is exactly how it was.”
“Or as you described it to her,” the old goat sniffed.
Daniel bit his tongue when I quelled him with a look. “He didn’t need to describe it to me. I was there,” I told him, “with The Fighting 69th. Like a thousand other women, I cut my hair and donned men’s clothes and served three years, fighting to preserve the Union. I didn’t muster out, and I’m wanted for desertion, but I can give you a dozen other names of men who’ll vouch that Lane Davenport served out his term with them, although my brother was dead all those years.”
That shut him up and started the others buzzing. Question after question, posed to Daniel and myself. Finally, Adam suggested that they see the rest of the exhibit and save the conversation for the buffet table, where libations awaited.
They fawned over La Belle de la Rosa. Their excitement over my study for Oi Treis Erastés and the massive block of marble was surpassed only by their adoration of Belle and their enthusiasm for The Fighting 69th. The cadre lingered longer over refreshments, drinking wine and nibbling on finger foods while listening to Daniel’s lilting Irish voice, regaling them with tales of the war.
By the end of the evening, I was exhausted. My feet hurt. My stomach burned. My head ached from the spinning it had done this day—seeing Adam Roth again, confronting Rutherford Thomas Paine, entertaining men with the power to make or break my career, learning that Lucy’s twins could arrange dirty work while their hands, at least, stayed clean.
I wanted to go home. I longed to crawl into bed and just stay there for a day or two, until the world felt normal again.
Young Frank brought down coats and hats. I waited until Adam had donned his before telling him goodbye. “Thank you for coming. For handling Rutherford and helping with your fellows. Now that you know where we are, I trust that you won’t be a stranger. Visit us again, please?”
“It’s safe to say that you’ll see more of me,” he said lightly, acknowledging Edward with a nod. “Thank you for your hospitality, Professor Wainwright. A teacher is never so proud as when their student surpasses them.” He looked at me, meeting my gaze and holding it. “Lanie, I am prouder tonight than I have ever been in my life. You honor your brother, in name and in deed. If there’s a heaven, he’s with Belle, and both of them are smiling right now, my dear. I hope to have some good news for you soon. I’ll be in touch. Wainwright. O’Flaherty.”
He left with the others, disappearing out the door with the tinkling of its bell.
That left us, Young Frank, Lucy, her twins, and the mess. “No,” Edward said when I looked toward the sacristy. “They’ll handle it. Young Frank can help them pack and bank the fires. Lucy has the key to lock up. The men will see them safely home. Cleaning can wait, when there’s daylight to spare. They won’t mind working on the Sabbath if it means a nice bonus, and you’ll be ready to open Monday morning as planned, hmm?”
“I love you,” I whispered. “Take us home.”
We fell into bed, all thoughts of ten strokes forgotten. I was tired, so very tired, yet sleep proved elusive. Knowing that Rutherford Thomas Paine was at large in London did nothing to ease my nerves. I was concerned for Masey and worried about Joseph, and looked forward to Sunday lunch, which had become our custom, enjoying Dr. Wainwright’s hospitality, connecting with Edward’s family and mine, invariably being pulled aside by the doctor to answer his questions about my stomach and soldier’s heart, and to u
pdate him on Daniel’s leg.
I stared at my Irishman’s head for the better part of the night, falling asleep just before dawn. A scant two hours later, I found myself the recipient of decidedly masculine attention, awakened by kisses and caresses and Edward, lifting my leg as he pushed his cock into me. I thought that I’d be too tired to enjoy it, but the two of them knew my body too well and played it like an instrument, coaxing one orgasm, then another from me, before finding their own releases.
I yawned loudly and apologized for it. “Sorry,” I murmured. “I couldn’t sleep. Too much excitement, I suppose.”
“Ye slept a bit,” Daniel said. “Yer snoring woke us. We thought we’d try to cure ye of it.”
“By sticking your cocks down my throat and up my ass? A temporary fix, I hate to say, but feel free to try again later. For now, I’d like a bath and a nap after breakfast, if I’m to be any kind of company this afternoon.”
“We could always cancel,” Edward said. “Father will understand. Yesterday was very demanding, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Whatever you decide. Your wish is our command.”
I stroked his beard-stippled face, delighting in our differences. “Be careful, or you’ll spoil me.”
“Too late,” he rumbled, and showed me just how spoiled I could be.
One bath, a breakfast, and two hours of sleep later, I actually felt fairly normal, with just a lingering sense of fatigue. With the morning gone, I flew into motion, settling on an outfit and dressing for the day. Pinching some color into my cheeks, I went downstairs to find Edward and Daniel in the library, reading the news. A glance at the clock confirmed that, despite my nap, we would still manage to leave at our usual time.
It was our custom to arrive early enough to exchange greetings ahead of the one o’clock meal. I was eager to see Masey, and judge for myself how she was holding up. I knew her. She would downplay it, pretend that everything was fine, when it was not. As long as Rutherford was free to roam the streets of London, there was cause for concern. The trouble was, what he’d done hadn’t happened here, or recently, but in Virginia before “The Late Unpleasantness” while she was a slave. I feared that any justice served would be at the hand of God, not man.
We arrived to a house that was oddly quiet. Edward’s sister and her family, it seemed, were not coming. Joseph ate with his governess, leaving the five adults to cluster at one end of the table and relive the highlights of yesterday’s grand opening. No one spoke of Rutherford. There were plenty of other things to relate. The food. The drink. Lucy and her twins in costume. Young Frank, running ragged. Daniel, telling tales.
And there were sales. I hadn’t thought to ask (which meant that I was more off kilter than I realized), but we sold two large paintings, one small bust, and a half dozen sketches: Wuthering Heights, Mother and Child, and four from The Fighting 69th.
It was a start.
Thank God.
We adjourned to the parlor, where the men discussed Gladstone’s prime ministry and the changing face of Parliament. Masey took up a small piece of needlework, a Christmas present for one of the staff. I watched her stitch, until my eyelids grew too heavy to stay open and I drifted away, finding the sleep that had eluded me last night.
I had the strangest dream. Adam Roth was here, and he was asking for Masey, demanding to see Joseph. He was angry. So angry. And I didn’t know why.
I awoke to the sound of footsteps charging upstairs. Masey’s voice, begging them to stop. Dr. Wainwright motioning Edward to stay, while the doctor followed alone.
“What’s happened?” I asked, feeling as if I’d stepped from one bad dream into another. “Edward?”
“It’s for Masey to tell you, my dear. I can guess, but it would be conjecture, not fact.”
I had the awfullest feeling about this. My stomach pinched, and I placed my hand over it, holding it, listening, waiting with bated breath for Masey to come back.
Dr. Wainwright returned alone, with a message to meet Masey in the library. “Just Lanie,” the doctor said when Edward rose. “If you would, please, my dear.”
He opened the door, and I stepped inside. Masey was seated, wringing the handkerchief in her hands. Adam Roth stood behind her, looking like a storm cloud, ready to burst.
“Sit, Lanie,” he commanded. I obeyed, sinking into the chair that he pointed to.
“There are some things that need cleared up. I will ask the questions, and you will give me answers. You said that Rutherford raped Masey, that you saw her after it happened. Tell me what led you to believe it.”
“Her clothes. Her face. I didn’t understand it at the time. Later—only recently, as a matter of fact—I realized what he’d done. Oh, Masey, I’m so sorry.”
He rubbed his face and blew out harshly. “She wasn’t raped, Lanie. Ill-used, yes. I stopped it before it got that far.”
“But…Joseph?”
“Yes. Joseph. I swear, I didn’t know he existed until you expressed concern for his safety. But now that I know…” He put a hand on Masey’s shoulder. Possessive. Authoritative. Commanding her with his touch.
As if he was her Sir.
Oh, God.
“We will marry as soon as arrangements can be made. I was at the door, come to check on you when you asked Masey about Joseph’s birth record. It took some coin, but I have it on good authority that I am listed as his father. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did, and I’m here to set things right. Now, you may speak.”
Adam Roth was Joseph’s father. Little Joseph, another artist in the making, doubly gifted from his mother’s and his father’s side. But Masey was so young when she conceived him, not quite sixteen. Adam would have been thirty-two years old, twice her age and old enough to know better. But she’d been ethereally beautiful even then. When had she caught his artist’s eye? Did she realize that she had a choice? When did he start to command her? Had they filled each other’s needs—his to dominate, hers to submit?
Holy mother of pearl. It was shades of Edward and me, only more fucked up.
I struggled, sorting through my jumble of thoughts. “I’m sorry. I just…Masey, he cannot force you. Are you certain—absolutely certain—that this is what you want?”
She nodded, once. He squeezed her shoulder.
I looked at Adam but spoke to my sister. “One word stops it, Masey. Remember that. If it doesn’t, there’s something wrong. Obeying him is one thing. But if he doesn’t give you a choice, then he’s made you a slave again. If that ever happens, and you want set free, I swear that I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen.”
I looked at Masey but spoke to Adam. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” “Yes.”
“All right, then. Welcome to the family.”
Chapter Fifty-One
As tired as I’d been before, I was wide awake now. The excitement of last night suddenly seemed pale in comparison.
“Adam Roth is Joseph’s father,” Edward repeated. At least he’d allowed me to wait until we were home to tell my twisted tale. Instead of bouncing about in a carriage, the three of us were in the study, on upholstered furniture that would eventually start moving if I kept drinking the way that I was.
“Yes. He swears that he knew nothing about him, but his name is on the birth record. Masey was fifteen years old and a slave. I don’t know details. They did not offer, and I did not ask.”
It was conjecture. of course, but my best guess was that their interlude happened soon after Adam stopped Rutherford Thomas Paine’s ill use of Masey. Adam always came to our Valentine’s party, but I never saw him that night and thought that he had missed it. I must have seen Masey in the time between, after Rutherford’s attack and before Adam’s consideration.
I was certain that he didn’t set out to seduce her, but I knew what it was like to be a dominant man’s center of attention. She would have been grateful. She would have felt safe. She would have needed reassurance. With his masterful presence and her submissive nature, how natu
ral, and how easy, it would have been to yield to him and find solace—and pleasure—in his arms.
He’d been attractive then and was still attractive at the age of thirty-eight. Masey was twenty-two, the promise of beauty fulfilled and a muse to inspire him for the rest of his days.
Edward seemed seven shades of pleased with things. I suspected that it was less the thought of seeing Masey settled than it was removing Adam Roth from his theoretical list of extracurricular sexual partners, which once again held only Sydney Blevins. Not that it was ever going to happen, save in his dreams, but he had not yet given up trying.
“I will do some checking. I am fairly certain, from the cut of his clothes and the company he keeps, that he can provide for them, but we do not know where he lives. What he does. If he has a mistress. If he frequents clubs or drinks to excess or gambles. Before she makes a legal commitment, she needs to know what she is getting herself into, for Joseph’s sake as well as her own. If Joseph’s school is too distant from where Roth lives, she might be persuaded to wait to marry until after the school year ends, rather than have him switch schools mid-term.”
“He has a Jewish name. I always assumed that he was a son of Israel. I don’t know anything about their weddings. Will they even let him marry a Catholic?”
Masey went to Mass with Dr. Wainwright. It followed that she currently practiced the faith in which we had been raised. Not that it worked in her favor where Adam Roth was concerned. He would arrange a civil ceremony—a legal union by a judge or justice or whomever performed such marriages here, before he’d take classes and convert. He wanted Masey and Joseph—the sooner, the better. One way or another, he would make them his. Everything else could follow.
“Probably no more than Holy Mother Church will let her marry him. If the situation is as you say, they will have to wed outside of it. It is customary to post bans for three weeks. Long enough to have him investigated.”
“And Rutherford,” I said. “He hates me still, and he’s capable of anything. Harassment. Blackmail. Theft. Vandalism. Arson.”