Little Justin was immersed in his blocks, fascinated by the possibilities. Christina returned to her sketchbook, reminding herself to hold the pencil tighter, always seeking a boldness that evaded her.
She heard Justin's two guests taking leave downstairs. Their mounts were called up from the stables. The nursery was directly over the front porch and through the open window, she heard Justin as he saw the two men off.
"You'll know tomorrow?"
"For a certainty," one of the men replied.
"Good. Bring it to me as soon as possible. And tell your Mr. Lowell I am not mad."
She wondered if she imagined the hint of anger in Justin's tone, or if it was real. Perhaps ill tidings were brought. He never confided in her about his work, or anything for that matter, and though she always wondered, she certainly knew better than to ask. Looking at her caused him discomfort, speaking more so.
Though lately...
She dismissed the thought outright.
He would never forgive her.
A short time later Aggie appeared at the door, looking nervous. "The master wants to speak to you, madam. Right off too. I'll look after the boy."
Christina bit her lip and looked at Aggie with a question.
" 'Fraid so," she replied softly. "He's in a fit about something."
Christina looked with apprehension toward the door and rose. Aggie placed a reassuring hand on her arm as she passed and for a moment their eyes locked. Comfort and understanding were transmitted and Christina decided in that instant that no matter what she had done or didn't do to solicit his anger, she would bear it. No tears. No matter what she would not cry.
She quietly entered the study. Justin sat at his desk, leaning back in his oversized easy chair and with his long legs crossed on the cluttered desktop. He was reading some papers. He did not notice her.
"Yes?" she beckoned softly.
He looked up. "Sit down," he motioned as he swung his legs over the desk to stand up. He closed the study doors and came in front of his desk, studying her with a mixture of anger and, yes, she read perplexity in his expression as well.
"Some business associates of mine just left. Several minutes of my time was wasted as they found some amusement in relating to me the latest rumors concerning you. Needless to say I'm not normally concerned with what some man's foolish wife prattles on about at the supper table."
"Rumors?" she whispered, alarmed. "What rumors?"
Justin did not bother relating the most current consensus among the gossipmongers. Word had it that Christina was the lovely and pious daughter of a poor reverend, that he had fallen in love at first sight, had her kidnapped and kept on a deserted island until she got with child and was then forced to marry him. He had almost laughed out loud when he had first heard it, for it presented such a curious and arresting mixture of truth and fiction.
"There are many," was all he said presently. "Apparently interest in you is at a peak and I'm sure you'll be a smash at your presenting ball next week. However—and to the point—the rumor that concerns me is the one currently circulating through town, one that I'll have you deny. The rumor has it that my wife was seen entering a common peddler's shop, where she bargained to trade a gold band for mere pennies."
He stopped to wait her reaction. She stared at hands that were suddenly twisting a lace handkerchief. She couldn't speak but her expression spoke for her.
"I see. Now, did you do this with the malicious intent to embarrass me or is there some other motive that I cannot for my life fathom?"
"No," she said in a barely audible whisper. "I didn't mean to... to embarrass you."
"No? Surely it must have occurred to you how it would look to people seeing my wife selling a piece of jewelry for mere pennies?"
"I didn't think—"
"That is obvious!" he said, causing her to jerk visibly at his tone. "What's not obvious is, what then was your motive in entering a shop like that?"
Christina struggled hard for long moments to keep composed, focusing hard on Charles Paton's painting hanging over the mantelpiece. It hardly helped. Metaphorically she saw Justin as the sea—violent, raging, and ever so forceful and she, like the pitifully small ship fought a desperate battle to keep from sinking.
"Well?"
"I didn't have any money and I wanted a sketchbook. I didn't think Richard would mind if I sold his wedding band."
Justin listened and waited, then saw she was finished. He could only stare, that's all, just stare at her. The explanation was so simple and yet it said so much. He was dumfounded, confused, shocked.
Did she think he would deny her a sketchbook? Anything for that matter? After buying her all those clothes... it made no sense. Unless she distinguished between what was necessary and what she felt frivolous.
Had she been that desperate these last few months with him? Did she truly imagine he would deny her a damned sketchbook?
"Christina," he began, wanting confirmation. "Did you honestly think I'd deny you a... ah, sketchbook?"
"I didn't know," she whispered. "You said not to bother you with my affairs and I didn't want to... I don't want to ever be a bother to you. I'm sorry. Truly."
Justin saw how much it took from her just to say that. Any other woman and he'd swear she had created the whole thing in some twisted ploy to manipulate his feelings. With Christina he knew the sentiments just revealed were honest and he felt as though a knife had pierced his heart.
God, how did they ever reach this sorry point?
"It's my fault," he said meaningfully. "I assumed you knew. In the future, if ever you want to purchase something—anything—you have only to sign a note to the shopkeeper. Mr. Richardson, my secretary, pays these notes. I won't even see them, yet alone," he added, "be... ah 'bothered' by them."
He paused and Christina felt his anger rising and thinking his anger was directed at her, she braced for the lashing.
"To assure me that you completely grasp the sad fact that I can't—even if I wanted to—deny you anything, I want Mr. Richardson to receive notes from you amounting to at least two hundred dollars a month."
This shocking punishment very nearly brought the tears she tried so desperately to stop. He couldn't mean it! Two hundred dollars a month! She could not fathom it. Most people could live happily on that for five years. Even if she had such an outrageous inclination, she could not see how this could be done.
"Please don't make me do that."
The silence had grown so deafening that her soft whisper seemed loud to him, but still managed to bring with it her struggle to maintain some small dignity she thought he intended to steal. This was not his intent. "Very well," he sighed, "but then you must promise to overcome your... ah, reluctance to spend my money. Hmmm?"
Relief swept through her and she nodded and started to rise.
"Oh no. I'm not through with you yet."
She looked at him, trying to read from his expression what this was about. There was still anger but also... concern? She braced herself.
"You were also seen engaged in a rather long conversation with a man."
The statement was a demand for an explanation but she resisted. He kept mistresses yet she could not even be seen conversing with a man. "Do you have people watching me?" she asked nervously.
"No, though I assure you if I ever thought it was necessary I would." Which was not quite true. If he so much as thought she was even contemplating an affair, he'd lock her up. He had lived too long with the nightmarish thoughts of her in another man's arms; he'd never allow the reality. "Now, who was it?"
"Charles Paton, the artist." She pointed to the seascape.
"Paton? What did he want with you?" Justin did not understand his simple question seemed to hurt her.
"Nothing of interest," she said softly, returning her gaze to the handkerchief.
Justin sensed something of import here. "I know the man, Christina, well enough to know he does not engage in whimsical or idle conversation with pretty lad
ies he finds on the street. I would know what he said to you."
"It was nothing really." She shrugged. "He saw me sketching and he looked at my book, that's all."
"Did he offer comment?"
"Some, but honestly, Justin, he is as you say—not a man interested in—you know, and, truly, you have nothing to fear, for I would never... do that."
"That's not what I asked you, is it?"
She shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sure you're not interested in something so... so frivolous."
"I assure you I am," he said and was suddenly beginning to enjoy himself. "Now what did the man say about your sketches?"
"He said I hold my pen too lightly," she looked at her hand and finished in a whisper, "as though I'm afraid to draw what I see."
Justin took this in and suddenly chuckled. "I'm sorry, Christina, but what is it they say? Art mirrors reality? Or is it the other way around?"
She did not see what he found so amusing.
"What else did he say to you?"
"Oh." She waved her hand, rising in marked embarrassment to leave. "Nothing. Really—"
"Sit" came the sharp command that instantly stopped her motion. "Do I have to go to Mr. Paton to find out what he said or shall you tell me?"
"No, no—don't do that."
"Then tell me. All of it."
She resumed her seat and wasted several seconds toying with the folds of her pale apricot dress, feeling nervous, so nervous. She felt her face flushing in stages, her breathing grew labored, and her pulse took flight, and none of this helped her frantic search for what to say. "Oh!" She suddenly found the safe ground she sought. "He lamented for some time on the poor quality of his art students."
"That's interesting considering how carefully he selects them. It's my understanding that art students from all over the country are pounding on his door and some even from England. There's a long waiting list but apparently he won't take just anybody on." He watched her shocked reaction to this, then saw her look quickly away to hide it. "What else did he say? More specifically, what did he say about you?"
Her gaze darted around the space in front of her in search of something to rest on. "Oh, he said he knew you, that you were one of the few people with the wits to appreciate... his paintings."
"Yes, and about you?" he asked yet again, becoming exasperated.
"About me?"
"Yes!"
"He said it was an unfortunate mistake of nature to give a woman any... any—"
"Talent?"
She nodded but did not venture anymore.
"If you had just bought a sketchbook, how did he know you had talent? There couldn't have been more than one or two sketches in there."
"Two, but they weren't very good—" She stopped, realizing her mistake. "I mean—"
"What you mean is that on the basis of two 'not very good sketches' he concluded that you have talent."
"Well," she whispered, "I'm sure if he saw more—"
"Yes, just imagine what he'd think if he saw some of your good sketches."
Christina was embarrassed into silence. Justin knew only that he was discovering something buried in her profound self-effacing manner, something he would reveal, for it was a matter of her heart.
"Did he say anything else?"
"He asked if I painted."
"Yes?"
"Well, I said no, that I'd not had the chance."
"Why not?" He was curious.
"I... well, my father thought I wasted too much time in my sketchbooks... that it couldn't be serious for a girl and I suppose he was right," she finished softly but then tried to explain. "Painting is expensive and we could ill afford such expense."
"I see." And Justin did see. He saw all the condescension and arrogance of his sex to hers. Little wonder why there were no noted women artists when they were discouraged at every turn. Little wonder, too, where Christina got her profound self-effacing manner, the debilitating shyness she fought so hard to overcome. She had held her father in the highest esteem, he knew, but numerous times, like now when she spoke of him, he glimpsed a common tale. A small man in an even smaller world; authoritarian and rigid, winning the complete devotion and reverence of his young daughter with but small doses of affection.
"Once again, did Mr. Paton say anything else?"
She nodded. "That I needed instruction."
"And by any chance did he offer his instruction?"
Her nod came on the heels of a long painful pause.
"That's quite a compliment." He smiled, finally at the point. "Should I send for him. You do want to paint, don't you?"
Until that moment Justin had only glimpsed how much it meant to her. She could not at first speak or move and when he saw the tears filling her eyes, he was suddenly at her side. "My God, Christina," he whispered, kneeling in front of her chair and smiling at the tears he wiped. "If painting meant this much to you, why didn't you just ask me for it?"
"I didn't know... I didn't think you... I—" She stopped and reached a hand to her mouth, looking at him and certain every emotion in her heart was plain to see. She was a breath away from falling into his arms, just a breath and she waited his reaction.
Justin realized it a second later and it disarmed him. Disarmed him like nothing else could. He stood up abruptly and moved to the mantel, keeping his back to her.
"I'll make arrangements with Mr. Paton as soon as possible," he said finally and evenly. "But there's another thing I have to say before you leave. Richard sent the annulment papers." Richard was actually waiting in town to surprise her with a visit after they were married, which would be tomorrow. "We're to be married tomorrow," he said softly. "I've made the arrangements. It will be an understandably small ceremony with only Jacob as witness. Make what preparations are necessary. That's all."
He heard no sound or comment or anything and he turned back around to find her staring at him. "I said that's all. You can leave now."
The harsh tone startled her into motion. She nodded, rose, and quickly took her leave. Lifting the skirts of her dress, she raced up the stairs. He heard her bedroom door open and shut and he imagined she flung herself on her bed in tears.
He imagined the reality.
Damn. He slammed his fist against the mantel. Every blessed time he saw her he came closer. Closer to forgetting. Forgetting that she had left him, forgetting the implicit statement that single act said about what he had known as love, forgetting the purgatory of agony it caused.
He had come so close to sweeping her in his arms, forcing her lips to his, all in a masochistic demand that she alter an unalterable truth. She might have plenty of gratitude, as though the glad fact that she drew breath was the result of his whim but she did not love him. So, God, when would he stop loving her? Wanting her so?
He wondered what he would find in her on the wedding night. Reluctance, no doubt. The necessity of consummation served as both an excuse and justification for taking her one last time. But after that, he'd not force her again, not as long as he drew breath.
CHAPTER 12
Due to her father's occupation, Christina had attended numerous weddings but none with as dolorous an air as her own. It might have been a funeral. Even nature reflected dismally by providing a steady downpour. Bleak gray skies that were but a shade lighter than the groom's own dark mood.
Seemingly unable to bear her company, Justin chose to ride alongside the carriage, despite the rains. Despondency shrouded her throughout the long ride to the church. A good mile from the church the carriage got stuck in a mud hole and, wordlessly, Justin helped her out of the carriage, lifted her to his saddle, and pressed the horse to gallop. Even so, the lovely off-white gown she had so carefully chosen for the auspicious occasion was soaked through her cloak, the skirt splattered with mud. She had spent over two hours painstakingly fixing her hair into a pretty style and by the time she walked through doors of the small church, it hung in miserable wet clumps. She looked almost as bad as she felt.
J
acob already waited inside. While she had not really expected Hanna to attend, there had always been a small glimmer of hope. Hope was crushed the moment she saw him standing alone with the reverend.
The small brick church was as nondescript as its caretaker. She did not think she'd be able to recall it on the morrow. Wearing the traditional black cloth, the small, serious man quickly got to the point. It was the shortest possible ceremony and throughout the duration she frantically searched the empty surroundings for one thing, something, anything—a single flower would do—that could signal there was joy in the world.
She found none.
Justin placed a thin gold band on her finger. Unlike the one she had pawned, it was not plain. The tiniest diamonds swirled in a delicate pattern around the band, so tiny it looked like fluid sparkles flowing over gold. It was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. Had he had the ring made for her? Or was it a family treasure?
The minister concluded and she closed her eyes as Justin leaned over to kiss her. The first kiss in over a year and half again but he barely touched her lips with a quick, circumspect manner as though he found this small token taxing. She opened her eyes with but the smallest, hurt gasp and turned instantly away from his dark and watchful gaze.
Justin could not believe this. If she found such small token of affection unbearable, even painful— what then would she do with the wedding night? Reluctance seemed suddenly an understatement.
God, he had had it with her.
"Wait outside, Christina."
The anger in his command brought a quick withdrawal. The carriage waited out front and she entered, so distraught that she never wondered what business Justin had with the minister that he had not wanted her to overhear.
Justin asked that the date of their marriage as shown in the small church record book be changed to the very first night he had forced Christina to give herself to him. The minister thought such a generous sum was unnecessary for the commonly provided service but when Justin insisted he use it for one of his many charities, the reverend did not argue. The date was changed and with a warm smile and gratitude.
The carriage finally made its way around the huge circular drive shortly after nightfall. Jacob had turned off the road leading back to town without a word of congratulations. Justin dismounted and entered the house without ceremony, not even bothering to wait for her. It was Chessy who helped her descend. He apologized for ruining her dress and hair, never giving on that he had any idea what the day's proceedings were about. Justin had already warned him and Chessy had promised not to tell a soul—not even his sweet wife, who happened to be one of the few women he knew could be trusted with a secret.
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