Romance By The Book

by Jo Victor

  “No, lass. Open your mouth.”

  Something in her tone shot through Alex all the way down to her toes. She stood there just looking at Cam for a moment while Cam gazed back at her. Her eyes looked enormous.

  Alex parted her lips and very slowly, very gently, Cam slipped the food into her mouth. Alex closed her lips, offering just enough resistance to keep hold of the morsel as Cam eased the fork back out. Never taking her eyes from Cam’s, Alex carefully nibbled the food, rolling it around with her tongue as if sampling a fine wine before she finally swallowed it. It was probably delicious, but she couldn’t even taste it. All she was aware of was Cam.

  Cam set the fork down, her gaze locked with Alex’s. Stepping closer, she took Alex’s face between her two hands, as delicately as if she were made of spun glass. Then she brushed her lips softly against Alex’s. Once, then a second time.

  When Cam pulled away just a bit, putting a tiny fraction of air between them, Alex made a little sound of protest and reached for her, grabbing Cam by the back of the head with both hands and pulling her in for another kiss, a lingering one this time.

  She fisted her hands in Cam’s hair—silk—as she kissed and kissed her, their lips gently mingling and caressing. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. She slid her tongue along the lush inner edge of Cam’s lower lip, tracing back and forth until Cam opened for her. Slipping her tongue inside, she began to explore, shivering at the pleasure of Cam’s heat. She pressed herself against Cam, pushing her into the counter. She couldn’t get close enough. She couldn’t get deep enough.

  Cam slipped her fingers through Alex’s curls—so soft, softer even than she had imagined they would be, holding Alex’s head with gentle firmness as Alex’s tongue danced in her mouth. She wanted more. She needed more.

  She let her own tongue dance back, playing with Alex’s for a while before thrusting into Alex’s mouth. Alex moaned and opened wider, crushing her whole body against Cam’s as the kiss went on and on and on.

  From somewhere in the distance, the sound of an animal yowling intruded itself into her brain.

  “Really, darling, I thought you had better taste.” Cam froze at the harsh, mocking, all-too-familiar voice.

  Alex broke off the kiss and whirled around.

  Cam looked up. There was Rosamund, standing with her arms crossed just inside the back door. Cam froze, too stunned to speak.

  “Rosamund—what the hell?” Alex had crossed her own arms and positioned herself in front of Cam, as if protecting her.

  “Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for, Alex darling. Although somehow I can’t say I’m surprised.” She looked past Alex, addressing Cam. “I should have known when I saw that van of yours out front. I suppose this is your idea of revenge. It wasn’t enough for you to leave me the way you did, just because I wouldn’t do what you wanted? No, even after all these years, you’ve got to try to ruin my happiness. You make me sick.”

  Cam tried to say something but could manage only a strangled sound.

  “Just how long has this been going on, anyway?”

  “There’s nothing going on, Rosamund,” Alex answered.

  Cam flinched. Nothing?

  Alex uncrossed her arms. “Look, I know you’re upset.” Her tone was calmer now. “We need to talk, but this isn’t really a good time.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, darling, I’m not here to ruin your little tête-à-tête. By all means, carry on. I’ll just—”

  A streak of orange fur zoomed in, sliding to a halt on the floor in front of Alex, hissing and snarling at the interloper. The look of withering contempt on Rosamund’s face changed to one of terror. She fled, the door slamming behind her.

  Surprisingly, Grace transformed from Demon Kitty to Angel in the House in scarcely an eyeblink. After taking a moment to smooth down her fur, she sauntered over and rubbed against Alex’s leg, then did the same to Cam before going about her business.

  Alex stared mutely at Cam, who could only look back, her mind reeling. Finally Cam broke the silence. “I’m sorry. Those things she said…”

  “Yes, about those things she said. Rosamund and I aren’t exactly married, but you know we’re going out. Just why did you come over here tonight, anyway?”

  Cam was shocked, and a little ashamed. “Like I said, I didn’t fancy cooking alone, so—”

  “Oh, come on. You show up on a Saturday night with dinner for two and a romantic movie and expect me to believe it was all by chance? That kiss didn’t just happen, did it? You planned it. You planned all of it.”

  “That’s not the way of it at all.”

  “Not at all? Really? Not one little bit?”

  “All right, I was hopeful, I’ll admit, but not the way she made it sound. Rosamund’s got a way of twisting things round that you wouldn’t believe. Please, Alex.” How had things gone pear-shaped so quickly?

  “I can’t help it—I just don’t know what to think. Right now, I’m not even sure what my own name is. I think you’d better go.”

  “Aye, I think I’d better had.” And she did, her heart in her throat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning Alex staggered around cleaning up the kitchen, feeling cold and empty inside. She hadn’t been able to face doing any of it the night before, barely managing to even put away the food. She’d wanted to pitch all of it—pots and pans included. But food wasn’t something you wasted. It was life—it was sacred. Her mother and grandmother had taught her that.

  Not that she could face the idea of eating much of anything at the moment. She made do with a piece of toast and a cup of tea for breakfast, trying not to think about the ugly things that Rosamund had said. She didn’t believe Rosamund, couldn’t believe her, however plausible she had sounded, so full of injured innocence as she hurled nasty accusations at Cam.

  Alex knew better—Cam wasn’t like that. But Rosamund had caught her off balance, and the words had seeped into her like drops of poison, working their way through her, damaging everything they touched.

  Worse, she kept seeing the way Cam had looked when she walked away—like something inside her had died. And that was Alex’s fault, not Rosamund’s. She shouldn’t have sent her away like that, no matter how upset and confused she felt.

  Especially not after what she and Cam had shared. Those moments with Cam, touching her, kissing her, had completely overwhelmed her. Alex knew all the pretty phrases from poems and books, but nothing had prepared her for the way Cam’s tenderness had seared right through her, the way her own passion had blazed up in response.

  But then Rosamund had turned up to spoil everything, like a bird of ill omen croaking death and disaster. And Alex had let her.

  She had to make it right. She needed to find Cam, talk to her, figure out a way to fix things. But first she needed to pull herself together, somehow, and get Rosamund’s whispers out of her head. Maybe if she could fill her mind with something else, it would help her get a grip. She decided to try working for a while.

  As she walked through the foyer, she noticed that the mail had piled up again. When she forced herself to go through it, she was rewarded with the discovery of another letter from Ian. He reported that he hadn’t been able to find anything else related to Artemisia in his great-aunt’s letters, which of course was disappointing. On the other hand, he had started writing down what he could recall of the stories she used to tell him, and he had enclosed the first installment.

  It was quite a mixture. Some of the information didn’t appear to have much to do with Artemisia, or even with Janet, but Alex was glad he was apparently passing on his recollections unedited, since that seemed more likely to be effective in the long run at helping him remember as much as possible. And even the most apparently peripheral things might turn out to be important later, or at least spark her own thinking in helpful ways.

  So she read and reread what Ian had sent, silently and aloud, trying to just let it all sink in without prejudging any of it or closing off an
y ideas. After a while, she started noticing certain passages in particular. Ian had included a fairly long section describing Oona’s criticisms, handed down from her mother, of Smithson’s painting, and the more times Alex read it, the stranger it seemed.

  She had always assumed the painting in the Highgate Hall library was a somewhat romanticized version of Artemisia’s death, but apparently a better description would be completely fantasized. The supposedly candlelit scene had taken place midafternoon on a sunny day, and the doctor, far from being present, had been sent packing days before by Janet when he tried to insist on continuing to bleed the weak and clearly failing Artemisia. And yes, Janet had been present, along with a number of other people Smithson hadn’t bothered to portray, including the vicar’s wife, a couple of village women who had been helping to nurse Artemisia, and, of course, Oona’s mother herself.

  Alex realized she shouldn’t be quite so surprised. History had a way of leaving out the so-called unimportant people.

  The other passage that struck her had to do with Artemisia’s visits to Highgate Hall after Lady Melissa’s death. When she first began her study of Artemisia’s life and work, Alex had been surprised to learn that even after Lady Melissa’s death, Artemisia had continued to be a regular guest of Mr. Dawson, and not just at social events. Apparently they were personal friends, and Artemisia would often call on him, and vice versa. After his death, in fact, he had left her the ownership of Dawson House.

  All of those things Alex was already familiar with, and although the situation had puzzled her at first, she had decided that the two of them must have bonded through their shared grief over Lady Melissa. The new information in Ian’s letter was brief but rather strange. According to what Oona had told him, Artemisia would never set foot in the Highgate Hall library. No one knew the reason, although since this behavior started after Lady Melissa’s passing it was assumed to be somehow connected.

  Alex wondered why this particular fact had never before come to light. Perhaps it had been such a minor eccentricity amid so many greater ones that no one had considered it worthy of remark. Thinking about Smithson’s painting, she realized how ironic it was that the one room in the house Artemisia had religiously avoided was also the one where she was now on display in all her—albeit fictitious—glory.

  Even though it was almost lunchtime, Alex decided to head up to the Hall and take another look at the painting. Maybe seeing it again, or just being in the library, would inspire her.

  Once she reached the Hall grounds, she headed for the back door that gave access to the kitchens. She preferred not to use the front entrance on Sundays when no one was around. Her route took her past Rosamund’s cottage, but fortunately there was no sign of her. She knew she would have to deal with her sooner or later, but the very last thing she needed right now was to see her.

  Taking out her set of museum keys, she unlocked the door, carefully relocking it behind her, and made her way through the servants’ hall and into the main part of the house. When she opened the library door, the curtains were all drawn and the room was in darkness. In trying to locate the light switch, she managed to catch her foot on the edge of a carpet. Her keys flew out of her hand and as she fell sprawling, she heard them hit the floor.

  Fortunately she wasn’t hurt, just shaken up. She got slowly to her feet and let her eyes adjust. Then she turned the lights on and started looking for her keys.

  She found the key chain near the bookcases to the right of the doorway. The ring had snapped open and the keys had scattered. The front- and back-door keys, being so large, hadn’t gone far, and after a little more searching she found the archive-room keys as well. But her office key was missing.

  After going around in circles for a while without success, she went back to the spot where the key ring had landed and stood there, looking slowly in all directions. There weren’t any places that she could see where the key could have ended up. The bookcases were sitting directly on the floor, not raised on feet, so there would be no way for the key to have slipped under them. Their sides were pushed up against one another and appeared at first glance to be perfectly flush.

  But when she took a closer look, she discovered that there was a tiny little gap between two of the cases. It seemed hard to imagine that her key could have gone in there. And the gap wasn’t wide enough for her to slide her fingers into. Or was it?

  She lay down on the floor and looked carefully at the gap. Up close, it did seem to be a tiny bit wider at the bottom. She wasted a moment wondering why. Maybe the floor was warped. Maybe the planets were properly aligned.

  Keeping her hand relaxed and moving slowly, she was able to ease her fingers between the two bookcases just a little way, then a little more. And then she felt it—something small and metal. Hooray. She started flexing her fingers to draw the key toward her.

  But then she felt her fingertips brush against paper. A fairly sizeable sheet. Excitement raced through her. Who knew what it might be, or how long it had been there? Maybe it was something important. Something about Artemisia.

  Or maybe it was something to do with the hundreds and hundreds of other people who had lived in and worked at and visited Highgate Hall over the centuries. Like a grocery list, maybe, or a thank-you note, or somebody’s random doodling. Maybe it was blank. Maybe if she stayed like this long enough her hand would swell and she’d be caught like an animal in a trap without any hope of rescue until Monday.

  Taking a deep breath and letting it out, she tried to calm herself. Then she spread her fingers and reached forward again, oh so delicately, afraid of pushing the paper farther in instead of drawing it out. The tips of her index and middle fingers closed around the barest edge of the paper and she tugged back a fraction. The paper slipped free and she swore.

  Then she tried again. This time, she got a better grip and felt the paper slide toward her just the tiniest bit. Afraid to breathe, she continued easing it along, managing to use the edge of one finger to slide her key as well. Finally, she was able to claim both her prizes. And the paper did have writing on it—cursive writing.

  She stood up. The key went into her pocket and she took the paper over to a desk, setting it down on the blotter. Then she sat down and switched on the lamp.

  At first she couldn’t decipher the old-fashioned handwriting, even though it looked familiar. Then something clicked. The handwriting was Lady Melissa’s.

  She thought she was going to faint. Breathe, she told herself.

  Glancing over the whole thing, she saw there was no signature or salutation. That might mean many things, but her gut told her it was because the letter was highly personal, so personal the writer didn’t want to risk identifying herself or the recipient in case it fell into the wrong hands. Was she writing to Artemisia?

  After your disgraceful exhibition yesterday—

  That did not sound at all good. Alex forced herself to start over and concentrate on the words.

  After your disgraceful exhibition yesterday, it should come as no surprise that I find it impossible any longer to continue our association. That you should make such a ridiculous and imprudent suggestion beggars belief. That you could believe me so lost to all propriety and common sense as to consider giving assent to such a scheme is beyond insulting.

  I shall never be able to look upon our association with anything other than disgust. That I allowed you those freedoms that should have been reserved for the marriage bed will never be sufficiently regretted.

  You will not see me again. Should you attempt to call, I have left instructions that you are to be denied admittance, and you will likewise find no welcome among my acquaintance, should you be so foolish as to importune them. Any correspondence will be returned unopened.

  Alex could picture it as if she had watched it happen. Artemisia arriving at the Hall, a place she was used to treating as a second home, but this time finding herself escorted not into Lady Melissa’s presence, but to the library, as if she were a mere business appoint
ment. Left to cool her heels there until a servant, most likely Lady Melissa’s maid, delivered this cruel dismissal. Trying to control her reactions and retain some dignity as her whole world came crashing down. Letting the letter fall from nerveless fingers, never noticing as it slid between the bookcases. Stumbling, half-blind with unshed tears, out of the room, out of the house. Feeling the door close behind her, forever.

  Alex was horrified. It sounded as if Artemisia had proposed that she and Melissa run away together instead of continuing to live a lie. She had dared to ask the woman that she loved for what she wanted and needed. And Melissa, concerned only with preserving a façade of respectability to maintain her social standing, had responded with singular harshness. Artemisia had taken a huge risk, and she had paid a heavy price. No wonder Artemisia had stopped writing poems about Melissa.

  She checked the date on the letter. Melissa had died less than a week later, struck down by a lung infection, probably pneumonia. Alex shuddered.

  The sound of the door opening behind her was like a gunshot in the silence.

  “Alex darling, what on earth are you doing in here all by yourself?”

  Rosamund. Perfect.

  Rosamund walked over to the desk. “Really, after last night I should—Why, you’re as white as a ghost. What is it?”

  Alex didn’t trust her voice. She just pointed to the letter. Rosamund came and stood beside her chair.

  She read slowly through the letter, muttering the words to herself under her breath. Alex just sat there, waiting for her to finish.

  “Darling, what is this?”

  “Lady Melissa wrote it.” Her voice sounded as dead as she felt. “I recognize the writing.”

  “But I don’t understand. I’ve never seen this before. Is it from the archives?”

  Alex shook her head. “I found it. In here.”

  Rosamund gasped. “Wait—do you mean to say you found this? Just now?” She bent over the letter again, eagerly rereading. “Allowed you those freedoms…marriage bed—Darling! You do realize what this means, don’t you?”