by Jo Victor
Alex found herself being shepherded out of Rosamund’s office and into a much smaller one next door, inhabited by a very blond, very pale woman of about Alex’s age who turned a vivid, rosy red the moment she laid eyes on Rosamund. It was all too obvious Nicola had a huge crush on her boss. Not that Alex blamed her; Rosamund was certainly pretty enough to devastate women made of sterner stuff than this one seemed to be. Given the look on Rosamund’s face, it was just as evident that she knew exactly how the woman felt and found it more amusing than otherwise. Alex, on the other hand, saw nothing entertaining about the situation.
“Nicola, darling, this is Alex Petrocelli, our new Scholar. Can you see that she signs all her forms and gets her ID card and passwords and so forth?”
Poor Nicola, apparently too flustered to speak, simply nodded.
Then it was Alex’s turn. Standing closer than was strictly necessary, even given the office’s tiny dimensions, Rosamund took Alex’s hand in both of hers.
“Alex, it’s been a pleasure. You must come by again soon so we can have a proper chat about your research.”
Alex extricated her hand. “I’ll, ah, be sure to do that, Ms. Camberwell.” Oh, very smooth.
Pausing in the doorway, she favored Alex with an impish grin. “Rosamund.”
And with that, she was gone. Alex took a moment to give herself a mental shake before turning back to Nicola.
Freed from Rosamund’s distracting presence, her assistant proved to be efficient, friendly, and genuinely interested in Alex and her work, flatteringly so. Nicola had even read Alex’s proposal, which came as a pleasant shock, especially given Rosamund’s obvious lack of interest. Nicola made a number of helpful suggestions about Foundation resources that might be worth exploring for Alex’s research, in addition to providing all manner of practical information about the museum and the Brockenbridge program.
When Nicola suggested a tour, Alex accepted with alacrity, declining the offer of an official guide in favor of Nicola herself. It turned out to be an excellent decision. While they didn’t cover the entire building, which would have taken the best part of a day, if not longer, they went well beyond the standard stately-home areas open to the public, like Lady Melissa’s suite and the ballroom. Nicola showed her various nooks and crannies where materials were archived, workrooms where artifacts were restored and maintained, and study areas for visiting researchers, including an office set aside for the Brockenbridge Scholar’s exclusive use. When Nicola handed over the key, Alex couldn’t help doing a little happy dance, which surprised a friendly chuckle from her guide.
“I’ve saved the best for last—or at least, I hope you’ll think so. If Madame will kindly step this way…” Nicola ushered her into the library with a sweeping gesture and a full bow.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll—Wow.”
It was certainly a grand room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in rich, dark wood interspersed with huge arched windows, but it was the painting over the fireplace that had surprised the exclamation from her.
Artemisia’s Farewell—there it was. Although Alex had seen prints of it, the reality was nothing like she had expected. For one thing, the painting was huge. Even a full-page illustration in a book could not possibly convey the in-person impact of a work of art of this size. It had to be a good eight feet wide if it was an inch, and proportionally tall—at least six feet. Clearly Smithson hadn’t lacked confidence.
Nor had he lacked skill. The colors, the composition, the use of light and shadow all combined to tell a powerful story, one that in lesser hands might have come across as saccharine or silly.
The scene portrayed was a darkened room, mostly in shadow, with a few key details picked out by warm candlelight. In the left foreground, almost tumbling out of the frame, was Artemisia, her face etched with pain and privation. She had clearly been ravaged not just by the fever that was killing her, but by years of sorrow. Her dark hair hung loose and lank, and she was clad in some sort of nightshirt, pulled askew to bare her shoulder and the upper part of her chest on the left side, an almost toga-like effect.
She was half lying, half sitting on a narrow, disordered bed, leaning with her head thrown back against the headboard and supported on the side farthest from the viewer by a woman—some sort of servant or nurse—who bent over Artemisia with an arm wrapped around her shoulders from behind. The woman was looking down at Artemisia, her face turned almost completely away from the viewer.
In the center of the painting, but equally in the background, were two male figures, one in rolled-up shirtsleeves—presumably the doctor—and the other the vicar, Bible in hand. Both were gazing over at Artemisia with mournful yet reverential expressions, as if aware that they were in the presence of something both sacred and mysterious.
Which clearly they were, for Artemisia’s own face, despite being marked by past sufferings, was transfigured, transformed by what could only be described as ecstatic joy, the candlelight touching her in such a way that she seemed suffused with inner light. Her right hand lay across her chest, resting against the bare skin over her heart. Her left arm was lifted and extended, her hand outstretched as she reached toward something in the upper right of the painting, a vision that apparently only she could perceive.
And here Smithson had truly excelled himself. The object of Artemisia’s heartfelt desire and her last, dying utterance was not presented as an actual portrait of Lady Melissa. No—this apparition was barely worthy of the term, a mere suggestion, a thing of gossamer and moonbeams that hinted at golden hair and beautiful features but might have been only a trick of the flickering candlelight. Might have been, except for the joy and certainty on Artemisia’s face. Clearly, she had been given a precious gift in her last moments on earth—reunited, however tenuously, with the one she had lost so long ago and had thought never to see again.
Alex gazed at the painting, helpless to do anything but feel the emotions coursing through her—sorrow for Artemisia’s lonely years of grieving, regret for the premature loss of her poetic voice, and a strange mixture of joy and heartache for her last, poignant moments: hallucination, dream, perhaps even reality. Who could say?
Nicola had come to stand beside Alex, and she began to recite Artemisia’s final words in a not-quite-steady voice. “Death may have parted us, O my Heart, but Love will reunite us. Do you think it really could have been true, Alex?”
Alex blinked her tears away and turned to meet Nicola’s earnest gaze. “Do I think what really could have been true?”
“You know, Artemisia and Lady Melissa.” The blush was again in evidence, but she soldiered gamely on. “I’ve always thought it was so romantic, the two of them. Being so in love with someone, for years and years, even long after they were gone. And then, the Farewell. I know people say she wasn’t really talking about that kind of love, not that way, but I can’t help hoping…” She was blushing even harder as her voice trailed away.
Ah, yes, the old love-isn’t-actually-love approach to erasing lesbians from literature and history. Just look right at some inconvenient fact and pretend it isn’t there, or if that fails, claim it can’t possibly mean what it so obviously does mean. It’s passionate friendship or chaste devotion or two lonesome single gals sharing expenses, or whatever. Sometimes she just laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, but not this time. Nicola looked upset, and Alex realized she was probably scowling.
Consciously rearranging her features, she gave Nicola what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “I think Artemisia meant exactly what she said. Just because I don’t have enough evidence to publish in a peer-reviewed journal—or win the Prandall Prize—doesn’t make their love any less real.”
“The Prandall! Lord, the bane of my existence.” Before Alex could pursue this interesting remark, Nicola glanced at her watch. “I’m off any moment now. Do you fancy a coffee? There’s a café a short walk from here. I often stop in on my way home.”
“Sounds good to me. I could use a change from all the tea.�
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“Sacrilege! Nothing like a nice cuppa.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Actually, I much prefer espresso—but please, don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe with me—I’d hate to be responsible for you being shunned or deported or whatever it is they do to coffee lovers over here.”
Laughing, Nicola hurried off to grab her things. Not long afterward, they were seated in a relatively quiet corner of a bustling café—one that even offered Wi-Fi, Alex noted.
After the first few sips of a most acceptable cappuccino, Alex’s thoughts returned to Nicola’s exclamation. “What did you mean when you called the Prandall Prize the bane of your existence? Are you hunting for evidence?”
“Heavens, no! My bailiwick is strictly administration, thank you ever so much. I leave all that researchy sort of thing to you scholar types.”
“Really? You seem pretty knowledgeable to me.”
“Thank you. Once someone else has sifted through the detritus of the ages and sorted it all out, it makes for fascinating reading. I just don’t like to do the actual sifting and sorting myself. Much too dusty, for a start.”
“Not even for the Prandall?”
“Especially not the Prandall! I swear, half my job is spent dealing with all the letters the Foundation gets from loonies trying to win the seven hundred thousand pounds.”
“Is it that much now? Last I heard it was only five hundred thousand or so.” She laughed. “Only! So now it’s what, about a million dollars? A million and a half?”
“Something like that. Hard to believe it started with a mere thousand pounds, isn’t it? The magic of compound interest.”
“But why does all the mail come here? I thought the Foundation was London based.”
“Oh, it is, but most people can’t be bothered with that. They just slap Artemisia and Bramfell on the envelope and hope for the best. Sadly, it works, because the letters keep arriving. Sometimes I have dreams where I’m being buried under a pile of Prandall correspondence, never to be seen again. Last time I woke up screaming. Just as well I’m between girlfriends at the moment.”
“You, too? What, are all the women around here blind? If you’re single, clearly there’s no hope for me at all.” Nicola colored prettily but looked rather alarmed. Alex realized she must sound like she was either flirting or fishing for a compliment—and maybe she was, on both counts. She seriously needed to get out more. “I can see how that could give anyone nightmares. But why do you get saddled with it all?”
“Because I’m the most junior member of staff, of course. No one else can bear to deal with it.”
Nicola seemed to have recovered her equilibrium, so Alex decided to stick with the topic. “You know, I’ve never understood the point of the prize—I mean, the reason why Prandall set it up. He’s always described as an admirer of Artemisia’s, so you’d think he’d want to discourage the rumors about her and Lady Melissa, not wave money in people’s faces asking for proof they were lovers.”
“Oh, that’s just typical Victorian logic. He was throwing down a gauntlet—daring people to provide proof, because he was sure it didn’t exist.”
“Sort of put up or shut up. Yeah, that does make sense. Only it didn’t shut anyone up.”
“Too right. All it did was encourage people to manufacture evidence in hopes of winning the money. And the paper avalanche has never stopped.”
“What on earth do you do with the letters? Do you have to answer them all?”
“Oh, I just send off a response our solicitors drafted—Thank you for your inquiry, we regret to inform you, etc.—and then I box it all up for storage. Unfortunately, I have to read each one first, on the off chance there’s something that ought to be passed on to London.”
“Anything promising?”
Nicola grinned. “No, not even once in the entire time I’ve been here.” She sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t bother me so much if it weren’t all such pathetic rubbish. Most of the forgeries are so obvious even I can spot them—half of them are in ballpoint, for heaven’s sake.”
“Well, maybe Artemisia was ahead of her time—an inventor as well as a poet.”
“It’s astonishing, the lengths to which some people will go for money.”
“While the rest of us toil for our daily bread.” Alex looked up at the sound of Cam’s voice. “Evening, Nicola. Hello, Alex.”
Nicola spun around in her seat to greet the newcomer, a delighted smile on her face. “Cam! I haven’t seen you in ages. Do join us, please.”
Cam didn’t immediately accept Nicola’s offer, meeting Alex’s eyes with an inquiring, mildly amused look on her face. Suddenly there was a lot less air in the general vicinity, although Nicola didn’t seem to have noticed.
Clearly there was no way out of this without being completely rude. Alex managed to mumble something that could charitably have been considered an invitation. Cam wasted no time setting down her mug and pulling over a chair, turning it backward and straddling it. She casually crossed her arms along the top—a move that just happened to show off the well-developed forearms revealed by her rolled-up shirtsleeves—and smiled at both of them. Doubtless it was Alex’s imagination that the look directed her way contained just a hint of smugness.
Nicola said, “So where have you been hiding, Cam? I haven’t even had a chance to properly thank you for giving Alex a lift from the train station. Alex, I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet your train, but something came up last minute that I truly wasn’t able to avoid. I do so appreciate you coming to the rescue, Cam.”
Cam’s hazel eyes were fixed on Alex even as she answered Nicola. “Always glad to be of service to a lady in distress.”
Said the Goddess’s gift to women. Alex nearly choked on her coffee when Cam winked at her, for all the world as if she’d heard her. Either she’s a genuine mind reader or I have whatever the opposite of a poker face is. Just as well I don’t gamble. “Thank you, Nicola. I had a feeling you must be the one responsible for that arrangement. Somehow I can’t picture the fair Rosamund going to so much trouble. I can’t say I envy you working for her.”
Nicola seemed a little uncomfortable. “Oh, Rosamund’s all right. Certainly better than my last boss—even after three months I’m still grateful for the change”—Nicola glanced aside for a moment—“mostly.” Looking back at Alex, she continued, “She’s just not much on details. More of an idea person, you might say.”
“She’s lucky she’s got you, then.”
“Kind of you to say so.” Nicola looked sideways again and this time Alex followed suit. Cam was staring into her coffee, cradling the mug in both hands. A working woman’s hands, sporting a few scrapes and scratches. Strong, capable hands.
It took a moment to realize that Nicola had asked her a question. Fortunately, she repeated it. “So has Aunty Elspeth been taking good care of you?”
“Aunty Elspeth? Mrs. Tate is your aunt?”
“Actually she’s a sort of cousin, but we were always taught to call her Aunty.”
“Does everybody in town—” She glanced over at Cam, who had emerged from her brown study and was shaking her head at Alex in mock disappointment at her inability to remember something so simple. Alex rolled her eyes. “I mean, does everyone in the village work for the Artemisia Foundation?”
“Not really,” said Nicola, “but between the Foundation and the tourists, most of us owe our living to Artemisia in some form or fashion.”
“And I suppose I do too, or at least, I will once I get my dissertation written and use it to land a job.”
Cam said, “What sort of work are you after, then, lass? Sorry, I mean, Alex.” Not sorry at all, if the cheeky expression was anything to go by.
“Well, nothing’s certain these days in academia, but I’ll be looking for a tenure-track job—preferably at a halfway decent university. Thanks to the Brockenbridge, I might even get it.”
Nicola seemed taken aback. “Might get it? Are things really so bad in
the States?”
“A lot of my friends from graduate school are working as adjuncts.” She looked over at Cam as she explained. “Small salary and no benefits, no office, no respect, almost no hope of a permanent job. Universities claim they can’t afford to hire full-time faculty, but they’re happy to churn out bushels of new PhDs, year after year. Apparently in their minds there’s no connection between the graduation glut and the hiring dearth, so if you can’t find a real job, it’s just your own fault.” Her companions were staring at her. “Sorry for speechifying, but the whole thing makes me crazy.”
“No need to apologize, Alex,” said Nicola. “I just didn’t realize things were so bad.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, Lord. I must dash.”
As if by mutual agreement, they all three stood up and moved to the sidewalk just outside the café door. Nicola took her hand to say good-bye, but unlike Rosamund’s farewell gesture, it felt friendly and natural.
“Alex, I hope to see you back at the Hall very soon.” As she walked away, she kept talking over her shoulder. “Cam, drop round anytime. And you know Mum wants you for Sunday dinner next week.”
“Tell her I’ll be there. And yes, I’ll help the lads finish the repairs to the garden wall.” Turning back to Alex, she said, “Good sorts, her brothers, but hopeless at anything practical. Good job the lot of them went to university like Nicola, or they’d have starved by now.”
Alex couldn’t think of a response, nor did one seem expected. “I’ll be going now. It was, uh, nice to see you again.”
“Not as bad as you imagined, you mean?” Alex could only stare at her. Cam smiled back, clearly amused at the effect of giving voice to feelings Alex hadn’t realized were quite so obvious. “Let’s get you home.”
“Really, that isn’t necessary. I’d have to try very hard to get lost in a place this size. Good night.” She started walking away, striding boldly and hoping Cam would take the hint.
Instead Cam fell into place beside her and had no trouble at all keeping up. Finally Alex gave in and slowed to a normal speed. When she did, Cam smiled at her but didn’t say anything, simply continuing beside her at the new pace. Alex felt no need for conversation either, and the walk passed in silence that was surprisingly comfortable.