Through the window she saw there were people standing about, admiring the paintings that hung on walls on both sides of the half-brick walls.
She twisted the brass doorknob and stepped hesitantly inside. No one noticed her. A gentleman wearing pince-nez, who she guessed might be the owner of the gallery, was with a group at the rear, pointing to one of the paintings and gesturing enthusiastically, although she couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Avoiding the large group, she turned to her left and went to the first painting, a small work with a simple, square, wooden frame.
A sharp breath caught in her throat. It must be Benedict’s work. She recognised his brushstrokes even before she noted his bold black signature in the lower-right corner. But it wasn’t just the fact that it was Benedict’s work that made her clutch her cloak with a trembling hand. It was the subject.
Her eyes widened in disbelief at the portrait of her, a head study. Her own face stared out of the frame, her eyes holding a sparkle of laughter, her mouth curving in the beginning of a radiant smile. Cameo glanced at the card beneath the painting. My Lady Laughing, it was called.
Had she ever looked like that, felt like that? It seemed impossible she had ever experienced such an obvious moment of joy, especially now, with despair her familiar shadow. She must have shown that part of herself to Benedict, in those lost, magical moments of happiness.
She moved to the next painting and gasped. This, too, was her portrait, painted in Benedict’s own indefinable style. A large work; he’d captured her absolutely. This time in profile, depicted seated, she curved over a table, clutching a stick of charcoal. Cameo recalled how he’d seen her sketching in his studio. The memory must have been imprinted perfectly in his artist’s brain. Looking at it was almost like being back in the studio. Her gaze went again to the card beneath the carved picture frame. My Lady Drawing, this portrait was named.
Next was the largest painting in the room, a full-sized life study. There she stood, as she must have looked when she’d first met Benedict, in her simple grey dress with the ivory buttons, her black-and-white cameo at her neck and her hair pulled into a bun. In spite of her simple attire, she witnessed for the first time how haughty she could appear, with her chin tilted and her head high. She also discerned the vulnerability, the loneliness in her eyes that Benedict had captured, a lost look, of being alone and misunderstood. He’d recognised that in her and balanced it with her haughtiness, making her whole.
She checked the card below. My Lady Posing. The title brought something between a sob and a laugh to her lips. It wasn’t only a reference to her posing for Benedict as a model, of course, but also to her posing as the mythical Miss Ashe.
Dazed, Cameo moved on to the next painting. This time she cried out aloud. Her own face and figure were again depicted with such skill she felt awed. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown against the golden brocade of the chaise longue, her hair tumbling, revealing her neck as the stem of a flower, her emerald-green taffeta dress ruffled. It appeared so real she almost blushed, remembering his lips on her skin after that taffeta dress was removed. What had he called it? She alone knew the double meaning of the title My Lady Lying.
She went on to the next painting, and to the next. It couldn’t be true. Every single one of Benedict Cole’s paintings was of Cameo, each capturing a different mood, expression or activity. Every precious moment from the weeks they’d spent together had been frozen in time. There were too many to take in. My Lady Reading had her with her head buried in a book, while My Lady in the Park showed her sitting primly on a Hyde Park bench, while yet another, My Lady Fury, showed her clearly fuming with rage, as on that last terrible night she’d seen him at the studio, when he’d discovered her identity.
There, too, was The Gardener’s Daughter, the painting which had caused so much trouble. A smile stretched her lips. So he had showed it after all. She might have suspected that an artist as strong-minded as Benedict Cole wouldn’t let polite society tell him what he could and could not paint and whether he had permission to show it. Relief flooded her to see the portrait intact. In her worst moments she’d imagined him hurling it into the fire.
It felt strange seeing the portrait again. It was even more beautiful than she remembered, the carved frame with its ash buds, leaves and flowers, the fine way he’d painted the green leaves of the ash tree and its slender grey trunk and boughs, the delicate petals of the daffodils, bluebells and snowdrops at her feet, each blade of grass a tender pointed shoot. She appreciated once again his attention to nature in the Pre-Raphaelite style, the truth he captured by it. And the way he’d painted her—she saw even more clearly now the care he’d layered through the paint, how accurately he portrayed her in the filmy white dress—in truth her chemise, she recalled with a blush—her black hair over her shoulders, her eyes that vivid pansy shade. It was more powerful than staring into the looking glass, for he’d gone deeper, into her soul.
The loss of him tore her heart. At least she’d had those days with him in the studio, seen him create this work, she comforted herself, blinking away tears. At least she still had that night.
At the rear of the room, where the other viewers were gathered, she waited until a woman wearing a large purple bonnet stepped aside.
The painting here seemed to stop her heart. Smaller than the rest, a miniature, the wooden oval frame contained a small cameo carved in wooden relief at its top. Immediately inside the frame, on a velvety-black background, the words A miniature of loveliness, all grace were painted in gold, curling calligraphy. She knew that phrase, she recalled with wonder. It came from ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’, too.
Within the curved quotation, Benedict had painted another oval shape resembling a brooch. It had a gold rim to it, in finely wrought detail. It appeared so real she almost reached out to clasp it. In the centre of the oval he’d depicted her partly in profile. Her shoulders were bare and around her neck, on its black-velvet ribbon, hung her cameo necklace: a cameo within a cameo. My Lady: Cameo Portrait, she read below, her eyes brimming with tears.
Her mind awhirl, she moved into the centre of the gallery and surveyed the exhibition as a whole, trying to take it all in. The effect in its entirety stunned her. There were close to a dozen portraits in all, including the pencil sketches. She’d never imagined the whole exhibition to be Benedict’s work, let alone an exhibition entirely made up of portraits of her. How had he done it? His brilliance stunned her as she recognised his talent anew, a talent that could never be destroyed. He must have painted night and day to produce works of such extraordinary power and beauty. What did it mean? He’d dedicated an entire exhibition to her.
The woman in the purple bonnet nudged her neighbour.
‘That’s the model,’ Cameo heard her mutter.
‘It is you, isn’t it, miss?’
She came out of her trance. ‘Yes, it’s me. But I didn’t know the artist had painted all these.’ She waved around the gallery.
‘You didn’t know.’ The woman shook her bonnet in disbelief. ‘Well, he certainly knows you.’
Cameo nodded, dazed. ‘Yes, he does.’
Across the room a man she guessed to be the owner of the gallery had pricked up his ears and began to bear down on her, as through his pince-nez his eyes gleamed with recognition. ‘Excuse me...’
Cameo couldn’t speak to the owner, not at that moment. She couldn’t speak to anyone, just then. Her cloak swirling around her, she rushed out of the gallery and straight into a man coming through the door.
Cameo steadied herself on the door frame.
Benedict stood on the street in his long coat, his red-paisley cravat tied loosely at his strong throat. She’d forgotten how tall he was, how he towered over her, how his presence filled the air around him. But his dark brown hair, with that wayward lock over his brow, and his black, searching eyes, glowing with a fierce inne
r light as they raked her face and body—no, she hadn’t forgotten those.
He, too, had fallen silent.
‘I’ve...’ She stepped out into the street. The gallery door slammed behind her. ‘I’ve been looking at the paintings.’
It wasn’t what she meant to say as the words tumbled from her lips.
‘Now you know.’ Benedict cupped Cameo’s face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. ‘I cannot paint without seeing your face.’
Colour burst inside Cameo’s head as Benedict’s lips met hers; his kiss was a blaze of passion that told her all she needed. It told her he had longed for her, as she had longed for him, each moment, each hour. It told her every day apart had been a torment to his soul. It told her she was his, for ever.
‘I knew you’d come.’ His voice was husky. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
Revelling in his familiar smell, Cameo leaned against his broad chest. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’
He tossed an ironic laugh into the air as his fingers tangled gently in her hair. ‘Whereas you were all I could see. I couldn’t hold you as I yearned to, except in my dreams, and when I awoke, you were gone. All I could do was paint.’
‘You’re tired.’ His face seemed thinner, quite haggard, with a pallor suggesting he hadn’t seen sun and air for many days, and dark stubble lining his jaw. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’
‘My intention was to paint you out of my system. That formed my plan. But it didn’t work. As soon as I finished one portrait, another image of you would come to me, and I began another. Painting you—it didn’t feel as if I had any choice in the matter.’
She glanced through the gallery window. ‘The results are beautiful.’
His lip curved. ‘So you approve of the paintings?’
Cameo rubbed a gloved finger along his hard, stubbled chin. ‘Do you need to ask?’
He gave her his unexpectedly boyish smile, the one she loved. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be interested in exhibiting them. I just couldn’t stop painting you. I felt half-crazed. Trelawney saw them and said they were the best works I’d ever done, an improvement even on The Gardener’s Daughter. He convinced me to show them here.’
‘Mr Trelawney told me about the exhibition. I ran into him in Hyde Park.’
‘Is that right?’ A chuckle.
‘Do you mean he’s been in on it, too?’
‘Poor Trelawney’s taken so many walks in the park he’s declared himself a skeleton, he says he’s lost so much weight. Not that there’s much chance.’
‘It mystified me why he’d been so insistent until I saw the paintings.’
‘I knew you’d see them, somehow, some day,’ Benedict told her huskily. ‘I believed they’d bring you to me. I had a strange faith in that.’
‘Then you’ve forgiven me?’ Her heart pounded. ‘For lying to you?’
‘It’s I who should ask for forgiveness.’ His mouth was taut. ‘When you didn’t come back to the studio after that night we argued, I thought I’d driven you away for ever. I said things that were unforgivable.’
‘Not unforgivable,’ Cameo objected. ‘I said harsh things, too.’
‘Only because I wouldn’t listen.’ He breathed into her ear. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? It was your first time, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Her confession was a shudder against his chest.
He pulled her closer. ‘I took your maidenhood.’
‘I wanted it to be you. It was all I ever dreamed,’ she confessed softly.
‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have, I should never have...’
‘Benedict. Hush.’ She laid a finger against his lips. ‘I don’t have any regrets. It was perfect.’
As he wrenched her closer her cloak fell from her shoulders to reveal the shimmering satin dress, the pearls and fine embroidery.
‘Is that a wedding gown?’ he asked, incredulous.
Cameo might have suspected his artist’s eye would miss nothing. Self-consciously, she smoothed her skirts.
‘Are you getting married? Today?’
‘I didn’t want to, Benedict. You’ve got to believe me,’ she begged. ‘My parents forced me into it. I had no choice—at least, I thought I didn’t. Then, on the way to the church today, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. So I leapt from the carriage.’
‘My darling! You might have been hurt.’
‘I’m perfectly all right. The carriage stopped at a corner.’
He chuckled. ‘You never cease to amaze me. So you’re a runaway bride.’
‘I suppose I am.’
Benedict cast a quick glance around the busy street. ‘We can’t stay here. Come back to the studio, Cameo. We can discuss everything.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘We spoke of other things; we coursed about
The subject most at heart, more near and near.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
Above Cameo’s head the sign for the Lamb public house creaked as it swung in the breeze.
‘Oh, Benedict.’ She’d feared never to see this familiar place again, the crowds of people, the carriages and carts, the bakery with the smell of warm, fresh bread wafting from inside. ‘It’s so good to be here again. And there’s Becky!’
‘You know Becky?’ Benedict asked with a smile.
‘Do you know her, too?’
‘I often give her money and food. She saw you being attacked, that night you came to me, when the thief was after your necklace. She found me and brought me to you.’
‘Did she? Oh, I must thank her!’
Cameo raced ahead to where the match girl sat on the cobbles with her wares laid out beside her.
‘Hello, Becky!’
The match girl’s dirty face lit up. ‘Hello, miss. I haven’t seen you for such a long time. I thought you’d gone away.’
‘Becky, Mr Cole told me how you helped me that night, when the thief tried to get my necklace. How can I ever thank you?’
‘That’s all right, miss.’
Cameo patted Becky’s rough hand. A bump underneath her glove caught her attention. Why, it was the diamond ring Lord Warley had given her. Impulsively she slipped off her glove. Sliding off the ring, she dropped it into the girl’s palm.
Becky stared down at the jewel in amazement. ‘You can’t give me this ring, miss!’
Already Cameo experienced a sense of release. How furious Lord Warley would be if he knew she’d given a diamond ring to a match girl. The thought gave her a certain satisfaction. It was no less than he deserved. ‘Yes, I can. Take it to your mother, Becky. Don’t let anyone give you less than it is worth.’
Cameo smiled as Becky grabbed her matches and scampered away.
She turned to see Benedict smiling at her. ‘You gave away a diamond ring.’
‘I don’t need a diamond ring.’ She shuddered. She could trust Benedict with her life. She could trust his love and talent against Robert’s hate and cruelty. ‘All it represented to me was a life sentence at Warley Park.’
His fingers pressed into the flesh of her upper arm. The rage in his eyes terrified her.
‘Warley Park is where I grew up.’
* * *
Benedict pulled Cameo inside the studio and slammed the door.
‘I don’t understand.’ She cast off her cloak. ‘Tell me. What do you mean?’
‘Just as I said. I grew up at Warley Park.’
‘Do you mean the cottage you told me about, the one your mother made so colourful, was on that estate?’
He gave a brooding nod. Nowhere else had been as dear to him as that cottage at the edge of the woods, under the curling leaves of oak and ash trees.
‘Why, it all mak
es sense now,’ Cameo said wonderingly. ‘Those grounds, the gardens and woods you described—I’ve seen them.’
‘You’ve been there.’
‘When you were painting The Gardener’s Daughter. I had to go away. I went to Warley Park with my parents and I spent an afternoon in the woods. They were so beautiful. And I saw the estate cottages, too. But...if you grew up at Warley Park, then it must have been that family, who...’
He witnessed the horrified knowledge dawn in Cameo’s eyes.
‘Were they the aristocrats you hated so much, who mistreated your family and cast your mother out of her home?’
Pain blazed inside him at the recollection. ‘Yes. It was them. Or should I say, Robert Ackland, the current Lord Warley, to be precise.’
‘I can’t take it in.’
Cameo collapsed on to the worn armchair by the fireplace and lifted an amazed face to him. ‘Lord Warley tried to force me to wed him. He’s in debt from gaming. That’s why he sought to marry me—he needed my dowry, my marriage settlement.’
‘I’m not surprised to hear he’s so unscrupulous,’ Benedict said in disgust, as he scraped out a chair to sit opposite her. ‘It would have broken the late Lord Warley’s heart.’
‘You knew him, then?’
‘Oh, yes, I knew him.’ He paused for a moment as he struggled inside. For so long he’d kept it to himself. Then he spoke, his voice low. ‘He was my father.’
‘Your father! But I thought your father was Arthur Cole, the gamekeeper.’
‘Arthur Cole did act as a father to me, when I was young.’ He recalled the kind, weather-beaten gamekeeper who had taught him wood carving. ‘He was a good man. He showed me care and compassion, as he did my mother. She was already pregnant when Arthur married her.’
‘Pregnant with you,’ Cameo confirmed.
‘Yes. That’s why my mother stayed at Warley Park. She was from a local family, a country girl. It was hard for her, living in the gamekeeper’s cottage. But she did it for me and for my real father. She loved him, but they couldn’t be married. He was already married to Robert’s mother. Most unhappily, I understand, though they had Robert in the end.’
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