by Lynn Messina
With this discouraging truth in mind, Agatha conceded the futility of trying to sleep and presented herself for breakfast before Mrs. Brookner had finished toasting the rolls. While she waited, she poured a cup of tea and flipped through the early edition of the newspaper. She tried to read an article about an act regulating the practices of apothecaries, but she could not keep her mind on the story and read the same sentence three times before giving up. Next, she sought out a more frivolous item, and although she succeeded very well with an article about fashionable colors for ostrich-plumed hats, it, too, failed to draw her attention away from Addleson.
Sitting still was excruciating, so as soon as she finished her plate of eggs, she excused herself from the table to the surprise of her mother, who had only that moment settled in for a nice long coze about Lord Addleson. Her attempt to have a tête-à-tête with her daughter the night before had been frustrated by a canister of crimson paint, which had spilled so thoroughly that Agatha spent the rest of the evening scrubbing her skin.
Or, at least, that was what Lady Bolingbroke had been told. She had suspected the canister of crimson paint was a diversionary tactic but had been unwilling to risk her pristine silk dress to prove it.
But it was morning now and her ladyship wore a well-loved morning gown and her daughter’s skin was without marks, red or otherwise, which made her doubt the story even more. Lady Bolingbroke did not know which development she was more eager to discuss—the length of Addleson’s visit (63 minutes!) or his departing gesture (a kiss on Aggie’s hand!). She only knew she was determined to discuss them both in minute detail over breakfast, and she would have, if Agatha had not run off as soon as she had sat down.
While her mother drew her brows in frustration, Agatha sought refuge in her studio, but the quiet room, which had always been a source of comfort, felt diminished in the wake of Addleson’s visit.
How dare he do this to her—invade her space, undermine her confidence, cut up her peace, destroy her focus!
Agatha had never been so surprised in the whole of her life as when Addleson asked to see her studio. Surely, he knew her offer to repay him, as sincerely as it was posed, was merely compliance with polite convention. She didn’t actually mean to compensate him for his efforts, for what could she possibly have that he would want? Her shock had been so deeply felt, she didn’t have a clue as to how to respond. At a loss, she had sputtered—actually sputtered like a dollydrip who had lost the thread of conversation. And then, worse yet, she had used her mother as an excuse. Her mother! Not since she was a girl in leading strings had she invoked her mother’s name to extricate herself from a situation.
She knew better, of course, than to imbue the extraordinary request with more meaning than it contained. Addleson’s admiration for Mr. Holyroodhouse’s skill had been expressed before he knew the artist’s true identity, and his desire to see her workspace likely extended from that respect. His interest was in the functional details of her craft, the mechanics of creating a piece of art, like examining the springs and gears of a clock to understand what made it tick.
But even as Agatha assured herself of the impersonality of his appeal, she could not convince herself that a man of his remarkable perception didn’t understand the exact nature of his request. He knew what he was asking—to see her very soul—and because nobody had ever shown interest in that meager apparatus before, she’d found the entreaty impossible to resist. For years, the two people who loved her most in the world had treated her studio like an inconvenience to be suffered, her mother despairing of the paint-splattered surfaces and her father decrying the wasted storage space. Neither had ever cared enough to look.
And now finally someone had.
It had been unnerving, yes, to stand quietly by while Addleson thoughtfully examined her paintings, moving canvases around to scrutinize each work, but what a pleasure it had been, too. Unused to the attention, she had relished the novelty and hoped he saw what she saw when she looked at her work: unlimited potential. She wasn’t as adept with a paintbrush as she could be, not yet, but with enough time and training, she would be as good as the best Dutch master.
Addleson must have recognized something, for a change had come over him as he studied the paintings in the corner and all at once he had seemed different. The light in his eyes—that bright, knowing gleam—was suddenly a burning flame, and she had been at a loss to explain it, as the paintings were merely a series of unfortunate self-portraits, each one more dreadful than the last. She had tried so hard to make herself beautiful but could not when the moment came to add a flattering luster to her true image.
Perhaps it was the simple honesty of those paintings, the straightforward truth about herself that she hadn’t tried to gloss over, that moved him to speak honestly about himself. She did not know why she had asked the question about Lord Addlewit, other than his easygoing manner made her feel overly familiar, and although she wasn’t at all surprised by his rebuff, his sincere and candid reply astonished her. She had known instinctively that she was the recipient of a very great gift and resolved not to spoil it by calling attention to herself. She spoke only when she could not stop herself, and she kept her tone measured and calm.
Listening to his quiet explanation, she had felt the same connection she had felt in the library, and when his lips met hers in a soul-tripping kiss, she thought for sure he felt it too. What a glorious kiss—soft, sweet, gentle, reverent. It had been everything a naïve young schoolgirl dreamed of in a first kiss, and in that moment when his lips touched hers, in that flash of heat and awe, she could see it all: the large attic studio swimming in sunlight and Addleson in the corner reading while she painted, the companionable silence, the mutual respect, the delight in each other’s company, even the passion that would flare up when her work was done.
Naïve young schoolgirl indeed!
Had anyone ever built such a towering castle in the air?
The castle came crashing down quickly enough as Addleson announced in that cold, indifferent tone that he must apologize for his inappropriate, inexcusable and disgraceful behavior.
What an exhaustive list of adjectives to heap onto one small act. Had he left any disheartening words out? Could he not have squeezed horrible and repulsive in there too?
He had cut her to the quick, standing there in her studio, in her sacred space she had never shared with anyone before, rejecting everything she was. For years, she had longed for someone to care enough to try to piece together a full picture from the scattered images in the small, dark room. He had. He had seen the whole and turned away in disgust.
Distraught, she had watched him climb over the window, his fine tailcoat hitching on a nail, his cravat unraveling, and the amused look in his eyes, which reveled in the absurdity of the moment—a privileged nobleman tugging his body over a grimy windowsill—deftly exposed her beloved studio as the paint-splattered storage room it had always been.
No, she thought angrily, pounding a fist on the table, she would not let Addleson diminish her, and she would not let him take the one thing that mattered.
With single-minded determination, she grabbed paper and ink and began to sketch. She had nothing in mind to begin, so she drew what was in front of her: the table, the chair, the window behind them. With each stroke of her pen, she felt less and less like a lovelorn schoolgirl. Slowly, her thoughts cleared, her anxiety eased, and she found the humiliation of yesterday start to subside. Ideas took form as she thought about the plan to outwit Townshend, and before she knew it she had a picture in her head of Townshend in a Newgate prison cell, his complacent grin replaced by a look of utter desolation. She imagined the filth and despair that filled the tiny room, the darkness and anguish that seeped into every corner of your being until you were nothing but a hollow man staring blankly at the destruction of your soul.
With nimble fingers, she quickly drew a long, narrow prison cell with chains on one wall and a tangle of stringy hay for a bed. On the far side, she added
a small window, with its black bars and stingy ray of light. She placed Townshend, thin and gaunt with a long gray beard with a family of small mice nesting in its hairs, in the center of the room, the sharp angle of his knee protruding like a bone. Then, in large capital letters, she wrote filth on the wall, despair on the hay bed and darkness on the shaft of sunshine pouring through the window. Next to his figure, she wrote anguish and added an arrow so that it pointed clearly to the abject misery on his face.
Satisfied, she signed the drawing with a lavish script, employing her given name for the first time ever. Then she removed the sheet and began another picture of Townshend in Newgate, this time sparing him the wretchedness of the prison cell and advancing him straight to the gallows. She stood his pitiful figure on the scaffold and hung the noose a mere inch in front his head. Above the crowd of spectators she wrote merciless, near the rope she wrote cruel and into the gallows itself she engraved the word hopelessness. Her next drawing depicted Townshend in the prison yard surrounded by cold-blooded murderers and thieves, the high brick walls of the imposing building obstructing the sun so thoroughly no plants could grow. Again, she added identifying tags: futile for the dead flowers, bleak for the high walls, pitiless for the roughs in the yard.
She was in the middle of a fourth drawing—Townshend eating a gray slimy substance (ruthless) from a cracked bowl (desperate)—when Ellen entered the room.
“This came for you, miss,” she said, depositing a black oval tin box on the table next to where her mistress was working. She placed a white envelope on top of it. “There’s a note too.”
Thoroughly immersed in her work, Agatha looked up from her drawing and stared at the box with confusion for a moment. She hadn’t ordered any new art supplies recently, had she? Then she remembered Addleson’s promise to provide her with a wig and glanced at the time. Twelve o’clock already?
At once, Agatha jumped out of her chair and reached for the letter, which she hastily tore open. She nodded as she scanned the contents—plan proceeding nicely, Townshend agreed, Rusty Plinth at two, expect carriage at twelve-thirty—and asked Ellen to help her change. While her maid unfastened the buttons on the back of her dress, she removed the wig from the box and examined it closely. It was certainly more modern than the one she had unearthed in the attic, its color a rich brown and its style simple with a queue tied with a leather band. It was also lighter than its predecessor, which she hoped augured well for a decreased level of itchiness.
The rush to transform into Mr. Clemmons—pin up hair, flatten chest, widen jawline—kept her mind so fully occupied that she didn’t think of Addleson until forty-five minutes later, when she was climbing through the window of her studio, the same window through which the viscount had climbed hours before. She looked back at Ellen, thanked her for all her help and reminded her to invent a large, messy mishap if Lady Bolingbroke should request her presence.
“I don’t expect to be gone very long,” Agatha assured her.
“Very good, my lady,” Ellen said. “Do be careful.”
Following her request, Addleson had instructed the driver to wait for her several doors down from her own, so Agatha climbed into the carriage in front of 45 Portland Place. Although the ride to the docks was uneventful, she felt increasingly agitated with each mile covered and, needing to keep her fingers busy, she compulsively tied and untied the purple ribbon that encased her drawings of Townshend, which she planned to present in place of his letters.
Take that, you sniveling coward, she thought as she imagined calmly handing the packet to Townshend as the fact of his defeat slowly occurred to him.
She smiled in anticipation.
Then the carriage stopped in front of a brick building on a narrow street, and her heart plummeted to the floor of her stomach as the carriage door swung open to reveal Addleson. Unaffected by the events of yesterday, he wore a delighted grin and sketched a fleeting bow.
“Mr. Clemmons,” he said, “how very good to see you again.”
For a moment—for just the shortest, briefest span of time—Agatha gave the naïve young schoolgirl free rein and allowed herself to feel pleasure in his company. At the sight of his bright, handsome face, those skilled red lips, the tight knot in her stomach simply unraveled, as if it had been a loosely tied silk bow all along, and she indulged the bittersweet joy of a hopeless passion.
The cherished attic studio, with its bright sunlight and doting viscount, would never be, but for that one brief moment she let herself have the dream. She let herself luxuriate in the fantasy, then, appalled by her own missishness, she slammed the door on the lovely scene and faced reality.
With hard-won calm, she addressed Addleson. “It is very good to see you, as well. I trust everything is in order?”
The viscount glanced at his watch. “Our quarry is due to arrive in a half hour. Come, let’s go inside and familiarize you with the setting for our scene.”
Agatha nodded and followed the viscount into the taproom, which was dark and grimy and malodorous and every bit as unsavory as Addleson had implied. Rough-hewn men with blackened fingernails laughed and drank and glared at one another at wooden tables.
As the site of Townshend’s downfall, the Rusty Plinth was ideal.
“There’s a private room in the back,” Addleson said close to her ear.
Fascinated by the company, Agatha nodded absently and wondered if she could re-create their worn faces and scarred hands and their threadbare clothes.
“Through here,” Addleson added, applying very slight pressure to her back as he directed her into the second room, which was livelier and brighter than the main hall, with emerald curtains and a yellow settee. The smell was vastly improved, as well, for although the stench of tobacco, sour ale and sweat still hung in the air, it was fainter and less sinister.
Agatha took her first easy breath since entering the establishment.
Standing in the middle of the room was a trio of gentlemen whom Addleson promptly introduced as Bow Street Runners. The men had been informed of the plan and were prepared to arrest Townshend should he not agree to their terms.
The sight of the Runners, so imposing and official in their black topcoats, unnerved Agatha, and the silk ribbon in her stomach ably tied itself into another knot. Nevertheless, she managed to greet them calmly as she looked around the room for a nook or cranny commodious enough to conceal four large gentlemen. There seemed to be none, unless all of them could somehow squeeze themselves behind the love seat.
As if sensing her concern, the viscount said, “While you are meeting with Townshend, we shall be hiding behind the curtains. I know what you’re thinking, of course.”
“Really?” she asked, surprised, for in truth she did not know the answer to that herself. The agitation of the moment had made her mind curiously blank.
“You can’t conceive of how a man of fashion such as myself would consent to hide behind a curtain of such an unflattering shade of green. Your concern is warranted, for this garish emerald not only clashes with my olive tailcoat but also gives my complexion an unhealthy yellow tinge,” he drawled. “Naturally, I entertained the idea of hiring a seamstress to replace the drapes with a set in a more temperate color such as dark blue, which goes with everything, but our plan required prompt action and left no time for redecoration. You must not despair, my dear, that I’m renouncing a lifelong pledge never to align myself with emerald green, for no sacrifice is too great to ensure your freedom.”
His nonsensical chatter, so familiar and dear, at once broke her heart and calmed her nerves. “Your forbearance is impressive, my lord, for even from this great distance, the emerald drapes are spoiling your complexion to an alarming degree. It is unpleasant to look upon, but I shall demonstrate the same forbearance by not flinching at the sight of your alarming yellowness.”
“Your heroism is humbling,” Addleson said admiringly.
Because she knew he was joking, despite the sincerity in his voice, she shrugged nonchalantly,
as if she were offered effusive compliments every day of the week. Then she changed the subject, for his praise made the silk knots in her stomach flutter uncomfortably. “Is it not time for everyone to take their places?” she asked. “Townshend will be here at any moment.”
“You are right,” he said as the Runners disappeared behind the voluminous folds of the drapes. “He will arrive in a minute or two and when he does, I want you to remember I am nearby. If he does anything to frighten you, if he looks at you oddly or says something you dislike, all you have to do is call out and I will be at your side.”
He spoke forcefully, as if determined to imprint his words onto her brain, and she nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Addleson examined her closely for another moment more, perhaps, she thought, trying to find a hint of fear in her eyes, then raised a hand as if to caress her. Agatha froze, anticipating the exquisite torture of his touch, but his arm fell so quickly to his side, she wondered if her besotted mind had imagined the movement.
“Good,” he said with one final nod. Then he, too, disappeared behind an emerald green curtain, and suddenly Agatha was alone. She knew she was not really by herself, but as she stood there in the middle of the room waiting for a villain to appear, she felt abandoned by life and circumstance. It was absurd to regret the decisions she had made and in truth she was satisfied with her existence, for it was better to have herself than a husband who would dictate her choices, and yet she felt unbearably sad at the thought of this escapade ending. Plotting with the viscount in the library had given her the same ineffable contentment as painting, and she knew she would never forget the closeness she had felt or that irrepressible yearning to be closer still.
For all her giddy swooning, Lady Agatha Bolingbroke knew she was not a naïve young schoolgirl, as that intemperate creature would be on to the next infatuation by the end of the week.