by Nina Mason
“I don’t believe in hell, either. Or the devil, for that matter.”
His father grabbed his arm, turned him about, and clubbed him hard enough to make his head swim. “I’ll not have you speaking sacrileges. And you’d be wise to remember something, my boy. The devil’s greatest trick is convincing weak-minded men like yourself that he doesn’t exist.”
Matthew, his cheek still smarting from the blow, just stared at his father in stunned silence. The old man had walloped him plenty of times when he was younger, but always across the backside. Never in the face.
His mother, who’d been sitting on his bed all this time, sobbed softly into her handkerchief. “Oh, Matt. What will I do without you?”
Matthew didn’t know what to say to her. Her weeping had tied a knot in his stomach that was at once hard and hollow. It was difficult enough to find the courage to move to another country with little money and no friends without her tears adding to his woes. But he was determined to be an artist, and Paris seemed the best, most romantic place to paint in the late 1830s.
She spread her arms wide. “Oh, Matt, come here and give me a hug. Show me you will not forget me!”
As he stared at her puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, dry-mouthed and heavyhearted, his father gave him a hard shove.
“Go to her, you pathetic excuse for a son.” Turning on his wife like a vicious dog, he added, “Maybe if you hadn’t kept him tied so tightly to your apron strings all these years—and hadn’t mollycoddled all our boys like they were girls—this one wouldn’t have turned out to be such a sissy.”
Resisting the urge to deck his father, Matthew went to his mother and accepted her embrace. “I will never forget you, Mother. Have no fear on that score.” Then, with a steely glare in his father’s direction, he added, “I’ll never forget either of you. Not as long as I still draw breath.”
Even now, Matthew could feel the pain of that blow, and the sting of his father’s last words. He’d gone against his wishes to pursue what he considered a calling—a vocation his father considered frivolous and unmanly.
Maybe that’s the reason he’d spent his first few years abroad patronizing the brothels of Paris. Tragically, his unwitting attempt to prove his manhood had emptied his purse in a blink.
Life sometimes seemed like a series of random occurrences, but when he stopped to reflect—like now—he could see the chain they formed. Each choice, each event, was linked to something that had happened before. If his father hadn’t questioned his virility, he wouldn’t have blown his savings on whores. And if he hadn’t exhausted his savings, he wouldn’t have taken up with Mathilde, which triggered all the bitterness and frustration to follow.
It was all so clear to him now. If he’d taken a different turn at any point along the way, he might not have fashioned the fetters that led to his present regrets. But he’d forged those bonds, link by link, and it was up to him to break them, too.
His life wasn’t over yet. There was still time to free himself from the chains of the past and create a future filled with love and success. She didn’t hate him. She should, but she didn’t. And, if he wanted to make her Mrs. Matthew Brontë, he’d better stop sulking and get busy painting.
* * *
Jane had never been to a dressmaker’s shop. She owned only three frocks, all made by her mother or herself. Two were the severe black frocks she wore most days, and the third was the nicer gray silk dress she reserved for Sundays and social occasions—not that she could remember the last time she’d been invited to one. Thus, being stripped to her shift and stays and made to stand on a podium under Lady Cécile’s exacting gaze whilst Madame Vuitton took her measurements offended Jane’s modesty in the extreme.
The chemise was one of two she owned and the corset was a hand-me-down from her mother, who was similar in build but slightly plumper than her daughter. Jane wore the corset infrequently, partly because her thin figure required no support, and partly because she never went anywhere fashionable enough to warrant a tight-lacing foundation garment.
The modiste wrapped the tape around Jane’s bustline and smirked at Cécile. “Your friend is not exactly what I’d describe as voluptuous.”
Lady Cécile laughed at the remark. “An accurate observation, Madame. But I do hope you can do something with my old gown to flatter her figure a little.”
“I shall do my best, my lady, but it won’t be easy.”
Jane bit her lip to stifle the urge to defend herself. There seemed little point. She was a governess, not a highborn lady. She didn’t paint, cinch, and pad herself like all the other females who would attend the ball. And yet, Matthew Brontë—the handsomest man in the county, by Lady Cécile’s own admission—preferred her to all of them.
Madame helped Jane on with the gown, which was far too large in the bust and inches too long in the hem, but still pretty. It was pale-blue taffeta with puffed sleeves and a bell-shaped skirt. As Jane admired herself in the full-length looking glass just beyond the podium), she imagined herself wearing the dress (perfectly tailored, of course) as she spun around the ballroom in the arms of the man she adored.
Yes, he’d deceived her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy herself. After the ball, she planned to give herself to him to ensure she wouldn’t die a virgin. Living on as a spinster governess would be a soul-murdering existence. But at least she’d have the memory of a night of passion with the man she loved to comfort her in her loneliness.
She tried to imagine what it would be like to lay with him naked, to touch him all over, and to feel him come inside her. Her mind jumped back to the drawing lesson during which he’d posed with his shirt off. Sketching him had given her ample opportunity to make a study of his body—including the attributes she didn’t capture in graphite. On several occasions, she’d allowed her gaze to follow that trail of dark hair that disappeared into his trousers. How she longed to explore what lay at the end of that path. Yes, it was wicked to entertain such thoughts, but where had virtue ever gotten her?
Nowhere I care to be, that’s where.
Would being his mistress really be so terrible? Had she perhaps been too hasty in dismissing the idea? It wasn’t as if they’d be committing adultery, since he was unmarried. And being the pampered concubine of the man she loved couldn’t be half as degrading as being a governess to the savage likes of Cécile Brousseau and Rupert Massey. In fact, if not for the shame it would bring upon her mother and sister, she might seriously consider living in sin with him.
But alas, she did have her family’s reputation to protect—as well as her own—so living in sin was out of the question.
When Madame at last finished tucking and pinning their gowns, Jane and Lady Cécile returned to Vouvray. To Jane’s delight, there was a letter waiting for her on the silver tray in the foyer. The handwriting on the sealed and folded vellum let her know it was from her mother. Eager as she was to read the news from home, she delayed the pleasure until Lady Cécile went off to change her dress.
Taking the letter to the unoccupied parlor, Jane received the news that her sister, who’d just turned eighteen, had engaged herself to the young vicar who’d taken their father’s place. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), the date of their wedding coincided with Lady Cécile’s ball.
“Really, Miss Grey, do put that dull letter away and give me your full attention.” Lady Cécile had come in while Jane was engrossed. “For I wish to talk about the ball—and my splendid new dress. Did you not think it the most beautiful gown you ever clapped eyes on? I’m quite convinced I will look so well in it, every gentleman in attendance will fall madly in love the minute I make my grand entrance.”
Jane could not deny the dress was exquisite. White gauze over pale pink satin with a blue sash around the waist. Lady Cécile would indeed be a vision of loveliness on the night of her ball.
“I’m sure you’re right, for it’s a very pretty dress.”
“Oh, Miss Grey.” Her pupil’s eyes sparkled like emer
alds as she pressed her joined hands to her cheek. “I will be so much admired and make so many conquests, all the other girls there are sure to turn chartreuse with envy.”
“I’m sure you’re right…but there is something I would speak to you about.”
The girl’s countenance brightened. “To do with the ball?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Jane drew a breath and prepared to do battle. “I’ve just learned that my only sister is to be married the same week—and I should very much like to attend her wedding.”
Cécile looked like she’d bitten into a lemon. “Oh, Miss Grey, you cannot be thinking of missing my ball for some poor country wedding!”
“I daresay I won’t be wanted at your ball, which cannot be said about Mary’s wedding.”
“If your attendance is that important to your sister, ask her to delay the ceremony. For I cannot imagine doing so would present much difficulty. The date of my ball, on the other hand, has been fixed for months. The invitations are out, and scads of people—very important people—have arranged their schedules to allow them to attend. Can you make the same claim for your sister’s unimportant little wedding?”
“No, but neither can I ask her to postpone her wedding on my account.”
“If she wants you there, she must change the date.” The stubborn set of Lady Cécile’s jaw told Jane she would never give way, even before she said, “Because I absolutely forbid you to miss my ball. And I’m sure Lord Brontë will be no less disappointed if you insist upon doing so. Don’t forget you promised him a dance.”
The thought of missing her chance to dance with Matthew provoked a sharp pang of regret in Jane. Perhaps Mary could be persuaded to delay the wedding. After the ball, Jane would be returning to England anyway to look for another situation. So, at the very least, postponing until then would save the family considerable expense.
With a sigh of forlorn, Jane closed her eyes and let her mind roam over the long and eventful day, which started with Matthew’s declaration and kiss, and ended with news of her sister’s engagement. She was in turmoil about all of it. Even her younger sister’s wedding split her down the middle. On the one hand, she was happy for Mary. On the other, she felt horribly envious. Soon, her sister would have a husband to warm her bed while Jane, who was nine years older, never would.
As soon as she was able, Jane stole away from Lady Cécile, seeking the sanctuary of her own bedchamber. Sequestering herself inside, she threw herself down on the bed and burst into tears. Unless Matthew would give up his fortune for her, which seemed extremely unlikely, she felt certain she’d never be happy again.
Chapter Thirteen
As Matthew lathered his jaw in the looking glass of his shaving stand, his only thoughts were of Jane. He’d arisen that morning with every intention of calling on her at Vouvray, but now had misgivings. What would Lord Brousseaus think of him paying his addresses to his daughter’s governess? Not much, he’d wager. Thus, however he worked things out with Jane, he must proceed with the utmost discretion.
Taking up his razor, he began to glide it over his soapy whiskers. When he’d finished shaving, he squinted at himself in the mirror while using a cloth to wipe the excess lather from his chin. Maybe, if he went riding, he would meet her out walking in the lane. And, if he didn’t, at least his new stallion would benefit from the exercise.
Heartened by his plan, Matthew hung the damp cloth on the washstand’s brass rail and returned his razor to its place beside his shaving mug. Heading into his dressing room, he put on a clean shirt, a sturdy pair of riding breeches, and a lightweight wool waistcoat. Taking his tall boots with him, he returned to his bedchamber and tugged the bell-pull. He had no valet, which had long been a source of conflict with Mathilde, who found his habit of dressing himself far too quaint for a count (even a suppositious one, it would seem).
“Have you no sense of noblesse oblige?” she’d said on one occasion.
“I’m not a noble,” he’d answered, “in case you’ve begun to believe your own fiction.”
“I have not forgotten,” she returned with a spiteful glare. “How could I when you find a thousand small ways to remind me of your inferior birth on a daily basis?”
Rather than retaliate, he relented. “I have no quarrel with the concept of noblesse oblige. I believe people of privilege should look out for the less fortunate. It’s the idea of someone helping me in and out of my clothes I cannot abide.”
A rap on the bedchamber door brought Matthew back to the present. “You may enter,” he called out toward the door.
As expected, the butler came into the room. “Sorry to disturb, my lord, but you have a visitor.”
Hope spiked in Matthew’s breast. “Is it Miss Grey?”
Jon-Luc watched him for a moment as he struggled with his boots, knowing better than to offer to assist him with the task. Then, with a bow, he said, “No, my lord. It is Monsieur Claremont from Paris.”
Far from disappointed, Matthew said, “What a pleasant surprise. I had not expected him to come so quickly. Please show him into the morning room and tell him I will be with him shortly.”
“Very good, my lord.” The butler made a slight bow and started to back out of the room. “I shall do so without delay.”
“Wait!” Matthew’s cry stopped the manservant. “After you deliver Monsieur Claremont to the parlor, ask one of the chambermaids to make up the guest quarters for him.”
Jon-Luc bowed again. “I shall do so at once, my lord.”
Suddenly anxious about showing his paintings, Matthew finished pulling on his boots with no little amount of effort before making his way downstairs. As he entered the parlor, the art dealer came forward and deposited kisses on each of Matthew’s cheeks, one after the other. A tall man with shoulder-length dark hair and an unruly beard, the Parisian gave off the strong scent of lavender hair tonic.
“Welcome to Cœur Brisé, my friend.” Matthew kissed the man’s cheeks in kind. “Thank you for coming so promptly. Was your journey tolerable?”
“Tolerable enough,” Claremont replied. “And I thank you for the invitation. Long have I yearned to see what splendors impressed you enough to give up painting.”
“My arrangement was forged to support my painting,” Matthew pointed out. “I didn’t know until too late that our incompatibility would have the deleterious effect of silencing my muse.”
Monsieur Claremont arched an eyebrow. “And it took her death for your muse to find her voice again?”
“It took more than her death.” Matthew thought of Jane with a pang. “But that was the start of my reclamation, it would seem.”
“You are not then deeply aggrieved, I gather. I’m glad to hear it. For many artists of my acquaintance must achieve a state of complete misery before they can paint anything worthwhile.”
Matthew smiled at the irony. Had that been true in his case, he’d been unhappy enough the past ten years to paint a museum’s worth of masterpieces. “Come, I’m eager for your opinion. Let me show you my canvases.”
Claremont followed him through the halls to his indoor studio, where he’d arranged the new works at two levels along a long table. The dealer took his time, studying one after the other, before stopping before his newest work.
“They are all trés magnifique, but I am especially captivated by this one. Can you tell me the story behind it?”
In the painting, Matthew had placed the central figure, modeled upon Jane, stretching before a stained-glass window depicting the Annunciation. He had added his own unconventional touches by displaying her in an overtly sensual pose in one of her tight-fitting black dresses.
“It is based on the poem Mariana by Alfred, Lord Tennyson,” he began to explain. “I have depicted her stretching between embroidery stitches while gazing desirously into the eyes of the Archangel Gabriel. Do you see him there, in the stained-glass window?”
As he said it, something struck him. Gabriel was his middle name. Had he unconsciously painted the
angel, the object of Mariana’s desire, as himself? Much of art was subconscious, so it seemed entirely possible.
More intentionally, he’d painted a Latin motto under the window in a ribbon. In coelo quies—in Heaven there is rest—the last words he spoke to Mathilde. Lower down, on the floor, he’d laid a snowdrop, the flower signifying consolation.
“It’s meant to show a woman frustrated by the roles religion and society have thrust upon her,” he explained, “forcing her to suppress her true self, including her sensual passions.”
Squinting, Monsieur Claremont leaned closer to the canvas. “I see shades of William Blake’s Garden of Love in the theme. Are you familiar with the verse of which I speak?”
“I am indeed, for it is the inspiration for my favorite section of the formal garden,” Matthew replied. “If you have any interest, I can show it to you later.”
“I should like to see it very much,” said Claremont, still scrutinizing the paintings.
When the art dealer had examined them all, he stepped back and, with an approving grin, clapped Matthew on the shoulder.
“I like what I see very much. Your new work is quite avant-garde and puts me in mind of a new-but-expanding movement across the channel. Are you by any chance aware of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood?”
Matthew, deeply flattered by the comparison, swelled with pride. “I am, and greatly admire their work and ideas.”
“Excellent. Then you would not mind showing your canvases alongside some of theirs?”
Matthew was thrilled. “Mind? I should say not. I would be honored to share gallery space with any one of those accomplished gentlemen.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Claremont said. “One of the galleries I work with is mounting a collective of painters working in the new style. I will write to him at once to strongly urge your inclusion in the exhibit.”
Matthew’s ecstasy at hearing this was tempered slightly when the dealer added, “You will, of course, need to complete several more canvases to round out what I see here—and will have little time to get them done. Do you think you can manage?”