by Jo Victor
When they reached the gates of Dawson House, they stopped. Alex suddenly felt awkward. She wasn’t sure what she expected, or wanted, from Cam. A handshake? A kiss? Nothing at all?
For her part, Cam seemed to feel neither expectation nor uncertainty. She just pushed the gates ajar for Alex to walk through, then pulled them shut, watching as Alex walked to the front door and unlocked it.
When Alex turned back and lifted a hand to say good-bye, Cam called out, “Chin up. I have a way of growing on folk. And not like fungus, either.”
Laughing, Alex went inside and locked the door.
Once she had switched on the light, she noticed that the sitting room door was open—wide open. Curious, she went inside. When she’d glanced at the room the day she arrived, she hadn’t noticed much beyond some under-upholstered chairs and a couple of spindly occasional tables. Now that she was actually standing in the room, she could see that there was a portrait of some kind over the fireplace. After turning on all the lamps, she looked back at the painting. Her breath caught in her throat.
It was Romantic Poet. She’d seen prints of it many times, of course, but this was different. The painting looked as if it could come to life at any moment. This couldn’t be just a reproduction—it had to be the original. The artist was unknown and the identity of the subject disputed, but it had long been rumored to be a portrait of Artemisia herself. Now that Alex could finally see the real thing, she was sure it was her.
As the first overwhelming rush of shock subsided, she began to focus on details. The sleek, dark hair, gathered in a neat club at the back of the neck. The carefully tied white cravat adorning the throat. The smoothly fitted jacket and trousers molded to a trim figure, one that was subtly—but, to a careful eye, definitely—female. Small, deft hands, one holding a quill and the other a piece of paper inscribed with a few lines of verse.
And those eyes, always those eyes. Dark, deep, intense. Gazing out at her as if the woman were about to speak, but only to her, one soul to another. She was truly, truly beautiful.
And so young—painfully young. What a contrast to the tormented martyr of Smithson’s painting. That had been a meditation on sorrow and suffering leavened at the very last by a moment of redemption. This was a paean to the promise and joy of youth with all its glorious, hopeful possibilities. It was heartrending to know what the future held for this radiant young woman.
The portrait must have been made when Artemisia first came to London, barely seventeen, an orphan raised in provincial obscurity by an eccentric uncle, yet already a published poet, trying her wings in the great metropolis. Somehow she had found the courage to live life on her own terms, demanding to be seen and known for who she truly was, refusing to hide or dissemble.
Daring to love and be loved. And what a price she had paid.
No wonder Lady Melissa had fallen for her, fallen so hard that she ignored all the gossip and scandal to spend the rest of her tragically short life with Artemisia by her side.
Alex wondered how anyone could have doubted for a moment that this was Artemisia’s likeness. Why, off to one side the artist had even provided some rather obvious hints, the marble bust of a woman in Grecian headdress and drapery displayed on a short pillar and backed by a small tapestry. In prints and even reproductions that part of the painting was usually dark and indistinct, but here it was sharp and clear, the crescent moon and arrow design on the tapestry glinting with strands of silver, and, for those who couldn’t work out even so strong a clue, the artist had helpfully labeled the statue Sappho, albeit in Greek. How could anyone viewing this painting have possibly misunderstood?
At the doorway, she turned back to the portrait, gazing deep into Artemisia’s eyes. She found herself speaking out loud.
“I will find out the truth, I promise you. And I will tell your story.”
She hardly expected a reply, but just for a moment everything went perfectly still. It felt like the moment after an indrawn breath, or right before a kiss. It was almost as if the house itself had heard her and, somehow, approved.
Shaking her head at her own imagination, Alex closed the sitting-room door behind her and headed for the kitchen.
Chapter Five
Alex spent the following morning gleefully exploring the materials in the Dawson House archive room. So absorbed was she that Mrs. Tate actually had to call her for lunch. If Grace hadn’t happened to slink into the archive room, plopping herself down in typical feline fashion right on top of what Alex was reading, she might never have come up for air, and Mrs. Tate would have actually had to leave the kitchen a second time instead of merely being on the point of doing so when Alex hurriedly presented herself.
The days began to settle into a pattern. Exploring the archives after breakfast, then a chat with Mrs. Tate at noon. Alex had managed to persuade her to pause then for a cup of tea, which did much to alleviate the master/servant feeling of eating lunch alone while Mrs. Tate worked. Her afternoons were devoted to leisurely walks, either up to the moor or around the village, and the evenings she spent quietly reading at home.
She saw no signs of Cam on any of her excursions—not that she was looking for her, of course. She stopped in at the museum a couple of times to chat with Nicola and locate materials for further study. Rosamund was not in evidence, having been called back to London, no doubt on a matter of importance.
Alex did little else for the best part of a week, barely firing up her laptop except to send an occasional e-mail to her mom. More often than not when she was in the house, she had company in the form of Grace, who always seemed to put in an appearance when Alex was least interested in paying attention to her, a problem that Grace solved by merciless harassment until Alex obliged with petting and praise. Scapegrace indeed.
Alex had no idea how the cat was making its way in and out, since she never seemed to use the doors. But in a house as old as this one, there were bound to be nooks and crannies that a determined searcher could ferret out—or in this case, cat out. And since Alex never saw any sign of mice or any other unpleasant visitors, she assumed Grace must be doing something to earn her keep.
The only difficulty that Alex had was she was still waiting for her boxes to arrive, and she didn’t feel like she could get down to any real work until she had all her books around her, safe and sound. Repeated calls to the Leeds office of the shipping company only yielded mysterious mumbles about customs and complications, her interlocutors’ accents becoming increasingly broad and decreasingly intelligible in direct proportion to the persistence of her demands for explanations and action.
Even when at long last she got the news that her books had emerged from quarantine, things still weren’t right. She was able to arrange for the boxes to be sent through to Dunheath railway station, but that was as much as the company could or would do, regardless of reasoning or pleas. She was on her own to get her things from the station to Dawson House.
Which was annoying, of course, but not a serious problem. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been. It should have been a simple matter to get a local firm to fetch them for her. She knew of at least one right there in the village that could almost certainly do it, although now that a little time and distance had given her a chance to reflect on a certain party’s officious ways, she was determined to avoid that particular option.
But try as she might, she could discover no alternative. Mrs. Tate, overhearing her on the phone for the third morning in a row trying to locate someone—anyone—to transport her books, barely waited for her to hang up before snapping a business card down on the desk in front of her. The very same business card Alex could have sworn she’d thrown away the day she arrived.
She looked suspiciously at Mrs. Tate, but the woman just stared at her until she began dialing, then walked off shaking her head.
Cam answered on the second ring.
The conversation that followed amply justified Alex’s misgivings. The woman just would not be cooperative. Alex wondered if Cam was always l
ike this. If so, it was a wonder she managed to stay in business. Which paradoxically was apparently booming, since that was the reason she gave for not being available to pick up the boxes for at least two more days.
Alex wanted to just hang up on her, but she was desperate. According to the people in Leeds, her boxes should actually be at the station by now. So Alex gritted her teeth and carried on, determined to make the best of what was already a bad job.
“There’s naught breakable in the boxes, is there?”
“What?”
“Well, if they’re as heavy as you say, I might drop one when I’m shifting it. But books and such can stand up to a bit of rough handling, I should hope.”
“Rough handling? Listen, you, you…there is no way I’m letting you throw my precious books around like a, like a—”
“Right you are. No telling what mischief I might get up to on my own. Best if you come along and supervise.”
“If I come along? Oh, all right.”
“I’ll drop round at two on Thursday to fetch you, then. And don’t worry about your things in the meanwhile. No one’s like to bother them. Stands to reason—what would folk want with a bunch of old books? It’s not like they’re worth anything.”
Cam held the receiver away from her ear just in time to avoid being deafened by Alex’s slamming down the phone. She grinned to herself. She really shouldn’t tease the woman, but it was so easy to get a rise out of her, it was irresistible. Unfortunately, doing it over the phone meant she missed seeing the way Alex’s eyes flashed when she got really worked up.
Lovely eyes she had, a deep blue that seemed to change color depending on the light. Unusual, that, especially with that dark hair. Alex’s was such a rich, deep brown. Not like her own mousey brownish blond that was neither fish nor fowl, as her mum used to say, having been cursed with the exact same shade.
And those curls. She wouldn’t mind a chance to find out if they were as soft as they looked. Just to run her fingers gently through them for a bit and—No. No, no, no. She would not go down that road. Yes, it had been a good while since she’d been out with anyone. But she had sworn off posh types for the best of reasons, and she hadn’t yet broken that rule. No reason to start now.
Especially not with an American who would be on her way and gone in a few months. Not that she had anything against something casual. Which might be just the ticket to getting her mind off Alex. Next chance she got, she’d head into Leeds and go round the pubs. Bound to be someone interesting, and even if not, she’d have a good time catching up with her mates.
Still, no harm in having a bit of fun with Alex in the meantime. I might drop one. Ha! That was her best yet. Pity she’d had to miss the look on Alex’s face at that moment. Silly thing—as if she’d ever treat a client that way.
Come to think of it, perhaps it wasn’t quite so funny that Alex had fallen for the country-bumpkin act so easily. Probably thought she really was that thickheaded. Oh, well, nothing for it now.
Sighing at her own foolishness, Cam hunted up the number for Dunheath Station so she could ring Seth and make sure he had someone get Alex’s boxes locked away safely until Thursday.
*
Whatever else might be true about her, at least Cam was punctual. When Thursday afternoon rolled around, Alex decided to simplify matters by waiting just outside the Dawson House gates, and the bizarre-looking vehicle that apparently comprised the entirety of the Carter’s Contracting motor pool made its appearance promptly at 2:00 p.m.
Of course, the woman couldn’t just pull over and let her get in. No, Ms. Impress the Ladies had to make a production out of getting out and sauntering over to open the door for her. Alex gave her an overly bright thank-you smile but decided not to go all out and bat her eyelashes—too much risk of Cam missing the sarcasm, she figured. However, when she realized that the passenger seat belt was back where it was supposed to be, untangled and ready for use, she did actually feel a little grateful.
And the interior of the vehicle was so clean it was practically gleaming—not that it had been really dirty before, but still, it looked like Cam had found time in her busy schedule to spruce things up for her—at least, she assumed it was for her. Alex risked a sideways glance as Cam pulled back onto the roadway. Was she really trying to impress her, or did Thursdays just happen to be her spit-and-polish day?
The trip to Dunheath proved to be relatively painless. For some reason, Cam was in what for her was a talkative mood, occasionally pointing out landmarks and natural features as they drove along. When they finally reached the station, she backed the van up to the edge of the sidewalk outside the front entrance.
Alex tried to hop right out, but somehow Cam anticipated her, rushing around before she’d even gotten the seat belt unfastened to open her door with a grand flourish, then slamming it shut behind her before racing ahead with exaggerated eagerness to jerk open the station door.
For a moment Alex just stood there, arms akimbo, glowering. But then Cam gave her an exaggerated bow before straightening up with a grin to wave her inside.
Alex couldn’t stop herself from smiling back. Oh, the hell with it. She bobbed a little curtsy and swept into the station, nose in the air. Cam followed, laughing.
The sight of Seth staring down at them from his stool behind the counter sobered them immediately. Alex felt like a naughty schoolgirl, and from the look on her face, Cam was feeling something similar. As Seth disengaged himself from his perch and shuffled toward them, ring of keys in hand, Alex could hear him muttering to himself. She couldn’t understand most of it, but she was able to catch “that Cam” and “full of mischief.” It made her wonder what else Cam could possibly have been up to.
He unlocked what was apparently a storeroom, and Cam slipped inside. She emerged a few minutes later, box in arms. Despite being the smaller of the two, it really was quite large, Alex realized to her chagrin. Maybe she should have split the books up into three crates after all, but at the time it hadn’t seemed worth the extra expense.
Fortunately, Cam didn’t appear to be having any trouble with this one regardless of its size and weight, although she was moving rather slowly and carefully. Alex raced to open the door for her, which earned her a terse “Ta,” followed by a warning growl when Cam almost tripped over Alex’s foot. Alex scrambled out of the way as Cam regained her balance and clomped across the sidewalk to drop the box into the back of the van.
It landed with a crash that made Alex wince before rushing over to inspect for damage. None was apparent from the obstructed view she had around Cam’s shoulder. As she watched her maneuver the box—none too gently—farther back into the vehicle, Alex realized the woman wasn’t even breathing hard. Damn. With a mental shake, she refocused on more pressing matters.
“You know, the other box really is a lot heavier. Don’t you think you should get some kind of cart?”
“No.”
Cam made as if to head back inside but Alex remained firmly planted between her and the door, crossing her arms and giving her what she hoped was an intimidating stare.
“And why not, pray tell?”
“Don’t need one.”
“Seriously? Could you maybe just drop the macho routine for five minutes?”
Now it was Cam’s turn to stand with arms crossed, glaring.
“Look, I know exactly how heavy it is—I packed the damn thing myself. It took both Mom and me plus my next door neighbor to get it into the car, and two guys at the shipping office to get it out of the car. And they used a cart.”
Still no response, other than a raised eyebrow.
“Why don’t you at least let me help you with it? Listen, if anyone finds out and tries to revoke your butch card, I’ll swear you only did it under extreme duress.” Was that a hint of a twinkle in her eye? “I’ll say I used the ultimate weapon.” She sniffled and wiped away an imaginary tear.
Cam’s mouth was definitely twitching. She glanced over Alex’s shoulder, no doubt wondering what
Seth was making of all this.
Alex said, “Don’t worry—I’ll take care of him.” In her best fake pirate voice, she added, “Arrr. Dead men tell no tales, me hearty.”
Cam gave an exaggerated sigh of surrender. “Can’t let you do that. Without Seth, I think the station would just fall to bits.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’d hate to be responsible, so I guess we’ll just have to hope for the best.”
Cam laughed. “Right, then. Let’s get that box sorted.”
Even with their combined efforts, it wasn’t easy hauling the other box up off the floor, but eventually they managed it. Without any prompting, Cam took the more difficult position, walking backward, which Alex was grateful for, except that it meant she was responsible for navigating. Progress was slow.
As they worked their way carefully out of the storeroom, Cam said, “Bloody hell, lass, what have you got in here—paving stones? Anvils?”
Alex waited until she was through the doorway before replying. “No, just a bunch of dead people’s heads.” Cam stopped abruptly, her eyes flashing a moment of panic. “Gotcha. But I’m not really kidding. It’s my research materials—history, philosophy, literature, women’s studies. Historical documents, sources of inspiration.”
Cam started moving again, a little faster this time. “Surely you might have been a bit more sparing. We do have the odd library, even this far north.”
“It’s not the same—for the most important stuff, I want my own books. They’re like old friends. Besides, I need to be able to write in them.”
“What? In books?”
“You know, making notes, underlining someth—hey, watch out for the door. A little to the left. No, not your left, my—”