He reached into his pocket. ‘I found this on the floor by the fire the night I found out who you were.’
‘My grandmama’s cameo!’ she exclaimed with relief. It meant even more to her now that she knew her grandmother’s story. ‘You’ve had it, all this time?’
‘I kept it with me. It’s haunted my days and nights, as you have. I got a new ribbon for it, in the hope I might one day do this.’ His hands caressed her neck as he tied it and dropped a kiss in the hollow below. ‘I want you to wear it always.’
‘I always will.’ It was definitely a talisman, now.
‘Along with the ring I don’t have for you yet,’ he added, with a regretful grin. ‘Alas. I may now own Warley Park, but I don’t have a diamond ring for you.’
‘Not diamonds.’ She shuddered, remembering the ring Robert had given her that chilled her finger. At least Becky would benefit from it.
She barely breathed by the time Benedict finished tying the necklace around her neck, where it belonged. He tucked her smaller hands inside his large, warm clasp, as though making a pact. ‘I shall give you an amethyst, to match your eyes like deepest pansies.’
She smiled at the words he used from Tennyson’s poem, the subject of the painting which had brought them together.
‘I don’t need a ring. I just need you,’ she whispered.
His voice caressed her. ‘I hope we’ll always need each other, and more.’
‘More?’
‘I’ve always wanted children.’ He smiled. ‘I believe I’d like a daughter.’
‘I’d like a son, with dark hair. He shall be called Henry, after his grandfather.’
A shaft of pain flashed across Benedict’s face, followed by joy.
‘We have so much still to discover about each other, so much to learn. I’m going to take you to Venice for a honeymoon. You’re going to have a Grand Tour, as every aspiring artist should, to study the great Renaissance masters—Titian, Bellini, Giorgione. And I shall be your guide.’ His voice deepened. ‘It’s the most romantic city in the world. There’s a hotel I’ll take you to, not far from St Mark’s Square. The days we shall spend studying art and the nights we shall spend studying each other.’
Her stomach somersaulted as he lifted her clasped hands to his lips. He groaned, catching her fingertip between his teeth and nipping it gently. Slowly, finger by finger, his gaze never leaving hers, he removed her satin glove and threw it on the table, before reaching for the other. Again, ever so slowly, he slid it from her hand.
‘I never wanted to see these hands become calloused, and careworn. Now I can keep you in the manner to which you were born.’ He frowned as he stared at her fingers. ‘You haven’t been painting.’
She pulled her hands away. ‘I don’t think I’ll need any more painting lessons.’
His brow creased. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m not painting any more.’ She shivered, remembering the awful moment when the paintbrush had snapped in her hand. ‘When I was locked in my bedroom, my brother, George, smuggled me in some watercolours and I tried to paint the ash tree outside my window. I planned to climb down it and escape here, to you. But when I knew I had to give you up, I vowed to give up art, too. I haven’t tried since.’
His lips tightened. ‘You should never have been imprisoned like that.’
‘My father was just trying to protect me. Even if it was misguided.’
‘That’s true,’ Benedict agreed.
She laid her palm against his chest. ‘It’s all right now. I’m free.’
‘You’re free to paint,’ he corrected her as he held out his hand. ‘Come and see. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘What is it?’ Cameo followed him across the studio and stared at the shape beneath the sheet Benedict dragged out. He placed it next to his easel. ‘Is it a frame?’
‘Not a frame. It’s something I made for you.’ He smiled tenderly. ‘To summon you back to me.’
Her heart thudded. He’d never forgotten her, even when she had despaired.
Tearing the sheet away, he ran his long fingers over the wood. ‘This is ash, like the frame of the first portrait I did of you. I used it to make this.’
It was an easel, smaller proportioned than his rough-hewn one, more elegant, but with the same sturdiness. At the top of it he’d sketched a cameo profile of a woman to be carved into the wood.
Benedict pointed to it. ‘Your symbol.’
‘It’s beautiful!’ she said in wonder.
‘I want you to paint,’ he said seriously. ‘I want you to become the painter you’re meant to be.’
‘I’m afraid to try again.’ Tears prickled her eyelids. ‘I’m scared it’s gone.’
‘Such a gift is never gone. You just need to let the passion rise in you again.’
Benedict dragged out the wooden chair. Holding her by the waist, he sat her down in front of the easel and she tucked her legs underneath it. ‘I’ll help you. I’ll teach you.’
His arms enclosed her from behind as they had the day he’d caught her sketching, his breath tickling the hair on her neck as he chuckled. ‘After all, that’s why you came to me, isn’t it?’
He picked up the charcoal, closed her fist around the stick. ‘No.’ He removed it. ‘Let’s try oils.’
In quick strides he crossed to his easel. He seized a couple of pots of paint, a bottle of brushes and a palette and was back beside her.
‘Here.’
‘I’m not very good with oils,’ she protested.
‘Then its time you learnt to be.’ Behind her again, Benedict squeezed cobalt-blue oil paint on to the palette, dipped the tip of a paintbrush into it and slipped it into her hand. It was a larger brush than she’d ever used before, strange to her fingers; fingers that didn’t seem to want to move, clumsy and stiff.
‘You can do this, Cameo,’ he urged her, the warmth on her neck making her tingle all over.
She moved the brush. Nothing came. All the happiness she’d known before whenever she painted or sketched had vanished. The marks she daubed on the paper seemed meaningless, a mess of oils, no better than that of a small child. It was over. Her spark, her passion for art, had gone.
He sensed her despair. ‘It doesn’t matter what you paint, my darling. Don’t try to paint anything in particular. Just feel it.’
She closed her eyes, melting into him. She’d try for him, but she knew it was no good. His fingers tightened around hers as he guided her, the brush swishing thickly across the paper. Unexpectedly, something released, soaring within her as if she were flying, gliding through the air like a bird on a wing.
‘That’s it,’ he whispered.
A joyous laugh rose within her as her hand glided, faster and faster, surer and surer. Still encircling her within the safety of his arms, his hand dropped away and suddenly she painted alone, the way she always dreamed she might, the way Benedict painted, liberated, free at last.
She opened her eyes. ‘I can do it!’
Behind her, she heard him laugh as he released her from his embrace. He came around and lifted her chin. ‘And I’ve got other things to teach you.’
Benedict seized a paintbrush. ‘It’s time for your lesson, Miss Ashe.’
Epilogue
‘Shall I cease here? ...
Might I not tell of
...vows,
where there was never need of vows...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
‘I want you here.’ Benedict beckoned. ‘Come over by the window. I need to see you in a proper light.’
Cameo smoothed down her dress, surprised to find her hands were trembling, just as the first time she’d come to the studio. She walked over to the window, on legs that were once again unsteady. She stoo
d, self-conscious, the afternoon light streaming in behind her. It was the only night they’d spend there. Before they moved.
To Warley Park.
But her honeymoon night had to be spent in the studio. It was all she’d ever wanted. It was where it all began.
‘Take off your bonnet,’ Benedict said huskily. ‘Let me see your face.’
She removed the pearl-tipped pin that held her silk bonnet with its white lacy trimming. Slowly, she undid the white-satin ribbons tied under her chin. With a shake of her head she set her ringlets free.
She heard his sharp intake of breath, but his expression appeared inscrutable.
‘And now your hair.’
One by one, Cameo took the pins from her hair. As she dropped them on the table beside her, he watched each move in a way that made her stomach lurch. She slowed her pace, tantalising him as she let each long black strand free.
He didn’t shift an inch as finally she released the last hairpin. Her long black curls loosened from their ringlets and loops, until she felt them tumble about her shoulders and foam down her spine.
He stood silent for a moment. He pointed to her white gown, with its lacy collar. ‘Undo your dress.’
She sought for a gulp of air. Her heart thrummed as she fumbled to untie the fine French lace around her neck. The invisible connection flared between them, as with taunting precision she undid the tiny crystal buttons at the front of her smooth bodice. She undid the top button. He stayed silent, observing her. When he made no sign, she undid the next.
‘Is—is that enough?’ she asked him, as she had that first time, her voice low.
‘Almost.’
Cameo undid the third button, and the fourth, and then fifth. She looked over to him.
His eyes darkened to their unfathomable black. ‘Let me help you.’
He came close to her, so close the heat burned from his body.
The flame she’d recognised in his work, before they’d even met.
He reached over and put his fingers to her bodice. She held her breath as he undid the remaining buttons. She released a gasp as he opened the dress to reveal the ribbon and lace trim of her silk chemise, and the top of her stays with her breasts pushed up over them.
‘Will you let me...?’
‘Yes...’ she breathed. ‘Yes.’
Cameo’s mouth dried as Benedict turned her hands palms up. His fingers played against the sensitive skin of her wrists as he undid the buttons at the cuffs where her billowing silk sleeves tightened. Still not speaking, he eased the top of the dress over her shoulders.
With a sudden movement that brought a cry to her lips he put his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him, his mouth almost against hers. She longed for his lips, but he did not kiss her. Instead, with expert fingers he unclipped the waistband at the small of her back. The dress dropped in a pool of pale silk on to the floor.
He held her hand as she stepped out of the circle of silk as daintily as if she were waltzing with him. With a leather-clad toe, he casually pushed the garment aside, never taking his eyes from her.
Cameo shuddered.
‘There’s that draught again.’ She heard the smile in his voice.
Benedict spun her around, his grasp on the laces of her corset now, releasing her from their sharp confines. With each loosened lace the fullness of her body expanded in his hands, her breasts falling and then lifting as she braced against the air, their pink tips tightening underneath her chemise.
The clatter of her corset as it hit the wooden floor. The warmth of his fingers through the thin silk barrier was all that remained between them as he twirled her to face him.
She bit her lip as he edged a finger inside her garter, before taking a flimsy silk stocking down each leg, balling them into his fists before dropping them to the floor.
Wordlessly, he untied the white ribbons of her chemise, eased it down over her shoulders and slid it over the curves of her hips. She wore no pantaloons today.
He retreated. With his gaze never moving from her naked body, he lifted a wooden chair and placed it at an angle by the window. ‘Sit down.’
Against the straight-backed chair, Cameo arched slightly. He backed a step away, his gaze unwavering. Her body went taut as he gently folded her hands in her naked lap.
‘Now, turn to the right.’
Remembering, she gave him a glimmer of a smile. She turned marginally on her seat.
‘No, not like that. Turn some more.’
She shifted her body an inch to the right.
‘More.’
She shifted again.
‘Now lift your chin.’ Leaning forward, Benedict held her chin, tilted her head upward and forced her to stare directly into his burning expression.
The charge shooting between them burned as hot as the fire in the grate. Would it always be like this? she wondered dizzily as he removed his hand, his fingers running lightly against her bare skin.
‘There’s another thing.’ This time, she didn’t move as he lifted up her cameo necklace from where it lay against her skin, twisted on its velvet ribbon. Lifting it high, he dropped it down again into the soft dip between her breasts.
He backed away further, still scrutinising her. ‘Now, you must hold still while I do my preliminary drawings. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’
He seized a large sheet of paper and propped it against a board on his easel. Taking a stick of charcoal, he made strong, bold strokes on the paper, glancing back and forth.
Cameo hid an inner smile. You think you’re watching me, Mr Cole, when in fact I’m watching you.
‘Benedict.’
He looked up, the familiar lock of dark hair falling across his forehead.
‘I just wondered—what will this painting be called?’
He smiled, his white teeth flashing. ‘Well, surely it’s obvious, my darling Cameo. This painting is for my own, private collection. It will be called Portrait of the Artist’s Wife.’
A thrill ran through her body. ‘On her wedding day?’
‘On her wedding day,’ he confirmed. Dropping his paintbrush, Benedict crossed the room and took Cameo in his arms.
* * *
‘“The secret bridal chambers of the heart,
Let in the day.” Here, then, my words have end.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
* * * * *
Historical Note
The Art of the Pre-Raphaelites
Cameo’s story is inspired by the Pre-Raphaelite artists and models of Victorian England. The beautiful, romantic Pre-Raphaelite paintings are some of the most familiar artworks in the world today. Just like Benedict Cole, the art and love lives of the Pre-Raphaelite painters, a group of brilliant, free-thinking young men, were considered scandalous, as featured in the BBC television series Desperate Romantics. Their artistic milieu was in complete contrast with the strict conventions of the Victorian upper classes. Ladies like Cameo, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair, lived in a controlled, stifling world, and they were often trapped and unhappy. It would have been considered unthinkable for a young aristocratic woman such as Cameo to pursue art seriously and even more unthinkable to be an artist’s model. Cameo’s story celebrates every woman who ever challenged convention for the sake of art, and for the sake of love.
To learn more go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art: www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/praf/hd_praf.htm
See Pre-Raphaelite images on Pinterest at www. pinterest.com/tategallery/pre-raphaelites/
Or meet the Pre-Raphaelite Sisterhood at: prerapha elitesisterhood.com
There’s even a T-shirt!
The Beauty of Cameo Stones
A cameo is a small carving in relief on a semi-preciou
s stone. Usually, the lighter-coloured layer is chipped away to reveal a darker background. Cameo stones were produced as far back as ancient Greece and Rome.
The relief image is produced by carefully carving the material with a plane, to the point at which the two contrasting colours, light and dark, can meet. The technique, used mainly for jewellery making, has gone through a number of revivals, during the Renaissance and into the nineteenth century, when cameo jewellery was popularised by Queen Victoria. At that time cameo portraits were often made of well-to-do young women to adorn jewellery, for a keepsake or to give to a lover. Glass and shells were also engraved. The word cameo, with an original Greek meaning of ‘shadow portrait’, today more commonly describes the unique style of carving or engraving, and is also used in plays and movies to capture the fleeting dramatic appearance of a character: i.e., to make a ‘cameo appearance’.
Enjoy some cameo appearances on Pinterest at www.pinterest.com/elizaredgold/
Find out more about Victorian cameos at www.victorianbazaar.com/cameos.html
The Fashion of the Mid-Victorian Era
The clothes Cameo and Maud would have worn in mid-Victorian times were extraordinary. Getting dressed would have taken a while. At the time this story is set, around 1850, layers of frothy petticoats were just giving way to daring hoop skirts. Corsets and bodices, bonnets and gloves were part of daily life, and for high society, beautiful ball dresses made of silk and lace, complete with flirty fans, were an essential part of the Season. Today, Victorian-era fashion, style, homewares and decor continue to enchant. Take a peep inside a Victorian room or closet. Be inspired to add some Victorian decorative touches to your own home or fashion style.
Make a virtual visit to the Victorian and Albert Museum at www.vam.ac.uk/page/0-9/19th-century-fashion/
For all things Victorian, from teacups to jewellery, homeware and accessories, try: www.victorianeralovers.com/topsites/in.php?id=40
Or why not play dress-up in some romantic Victorian outfits? Visit romanticthreads.com/index.html
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 60