“It just isn’t like you, Marguerethe,” he kept saying. “From any of the other artists I represent, I might have expected such behavior, but from you, Marguerethe? Perhaps there is something wrong?”
Maggie, holding her breath as one of the movers hefted the portrait of the marquis and his brother—upside down—could only murmur, “No, there’s nothing wrong.”
“I don’t mean to criticize, only if you had known you were going to be late, you might have lent me your key, so we could have started without you—”
“I didn’t know I was going to be late. Oh, do watch”—Maggie winced as the wooden frame supporting a canvas split in half under the clumsy handling of one of the men—“that stretcher.”
The mover blinked at her, the painting having come apart in his hands. “It warn’t my fault!” he exclaimed, as Augustin began to curse exasperatedly in French.
“Oh, dear.” Maggie hurried over to examine the limp canvas. Fortunately, the painting hadn’t completely dried, so the oil on it didn’t split. “Perhaps I can mend it. Go—” She waved at the mover. “Go fetch those landscapes over there, if you will. Leave this one to me.”
But of course, it turned out “those landscapes over there” weren’t quite dry, either, a fact Augustin pointed out too late, so that they ended up with four paintings that had great, dirty thumb prints marring the edges. Knowing full well they were unsalable in such condition, Maggie set them up onto easels for some quick patchwork, only to find that she was perfectly incapable of remembering how to mix the correct shades to camouflage the damage. Meanwhile, the movers, confused by her flustered directions and annoyed by Augustin’s French expletives, left half the works behind that they were supposed to have taken. Maggie and Augustin were forced to chase after them, down six flights of stairs, causing no end of delight to the other artists in the building, all of whom leaned out their studio doors to shout encouragement to them as they raced by.
It was one o’clock before the movers finally left, and then they were in a bad humor, since apparently they had expected Augustin to pay them then and there, an idea at which he scoffed heartily.
“Oh, no, mes garçons,” he said. “Payment upon delivery.”
This generated a good deal of dark muttering on the part of the moving men concerning the dire fates that awaited Maggie’s paintings on the muddy roads back to Bond Street. Hearing this, Maggie sank down upon the divan by the window, her knees having given out beneath her.
“Oh, Augustin,” she whispered. “Go with them. Please. Go with them.”
Augustin, noticing her pale face, was only just able to stifle another stream of curses. Finally, he seized his hat and said, with as much grace as he could muster, “Very well then. I shall go with them, to insure your works are not thrown in the mud. You will stay here and repair the damaged landscapes?”
Maggie, completely dazed, nodded.
“And then you will join me at the gallery this evening, after they’ve been fitted into their frames, so that we may hang them according to your specifications?”
Again, Maggie nodded, although she felt about as enthusiastic about hanging her paintings as she had about moving them.
Augustin nodded and left, clearly as unhappy as she was, though for far different reasons. He, of course, still had the pain of a broken nose to deal with, on top of the strain and worry over opening an exhibition featuring a new artist the following day. And the artist wasn’t helping matters any, she knew, by being so moody. Really, she ought to be falling over herself in gratitude to Augustin … he was doing so many wonderful things for her, and he had been so patient and tolerant.
Why couldn’t she love him? Things would be so much simpler if she could just love Augustin!
But that, she knew, would never, never happen. She’d tell him tonight. She had to tell him tonight.
It took Maggie most of the rest of the day to repair her damaged works. It was five o’clock by the time she arrived at the gallery on Bond Street. She was freezing from her uncomfortable carriage ride, crushed in as she’d been with her canvases, and thirsty, besides, from having consumed every last drop of wine from her sideboard. She had thought the wine might help give her the courage to say to Augustin the words she’d been rehearsing all day. Augustin, she’d say. I’m really very sorry, but I cannot marry you. You see, I’m in love with someone else, and it wouldn’t be fair to you if I …
Yes, that was good. Make no mention, Maggie, of the fact that you’d already tumbled into bed with that someone else … .
But the minute she stepped through the doors, she saw at once she would not be given an opportunity to make her confession. Augustin was shouting furiously at one of his assistants, who’d apparently managed to put a hammerhead straight through the wall, and into a display of kid leather gloves belonging to the shop next door. Other assistants were scurrying about, her paintings under their arms, too frightened to engender the wrath of their employer by attempting to hang anything during his tirade at one of their peers.
Wincing, Maggie crept past them, determined to deliver her not-yet-dry canvases to the frame maker, who’d set up shop in the back, where works not yet on display were stored. But the frame maker, an Italian craftsman who apparently thought her a shopgirl of some sort, took the paintings and then waved her impatiently away when she tried to dawdle long enough to catch a glimpse of his work. Without Augustin to translate, there was no way Maggie could convey to the frame maker that she was the artist, and had every right to see how her paintings had been framed. Though she pointed at herself, and then at the canvases, and mimed painting, the Italian glared at her, and let loose a stream of threatening-sounding foreign words, so she ducked back into the gallery.
There she happened to witness Augustin cuffing the unfortunate assistant about the ears. This was more than Maggie could bear, and so she slipped out the front doors again, unnoticed by anyone, most particularly the gallery’s owner.
Miserable, Maggie hesitated on the icy street, where she was jostled by fashionably attired Londoners doing their Friday-night shopping on stylish, expensive Bond Street. Really, she thought to herself. How cowardly was that? All that wine, and she hadn’t even had the courage to go through with it. She was a horrid, horrid girl.
She supposed she had no choice but to go back to the house on Park Lane. The thought caused her to sigh heavily, her breath fogging in front of her. Jeremy would be there. She wasn’t at all sure she had the strength to face him. It seemed as if every time they got together, they ended up in bed, which really didn’t resolve anything. She had so many questions, so many worries concerning their relationship. For instance, why, she wondered, and not for the first time that day, had Jeremy thrust the Star of Jaipur into her pocket? She could feel its weight even now, in the bottom of her reticule. She’d had reservations about carting the heavy stone around with her all day, but she couldn’t very well have left it at the house. Lord only knew where it might have disappeared to! She trusted Hill implicitly, and Evers, too, but the other servants …
No, it was better that the stone remained with her. But why had Jeremy entrusted it to her? It was a curious thing to give to a girl with whom one had spent the night. Almost like … well, a token of his affection. Other men gave engagement rings. Jeremy Rawlings gave sapphires the size of a plum.
Unless … the thought occurred to her as she jounced along on the seat of the omnibus … unless giving her the Star of Jaipur had been Jeremy’s way of proposing. But no. That was preposterous. He had proposed once, and been rejected. He would not do so again—would he? Besides, he hadn’t given her the stone. He’d merely asked her to look after it for him. After all, someone was trying to kill him. It was a thing of great beauty—Maggie had removed it from her reticule just once, as the afternoon sun had peeked into her skylight, and gazed at the way its many facets glowed. It was certainly worth killing for. Not, she imagined, that that was why someone had been trying to kill Jeremy. He’d hardly have given her
the stone if he thought that were the case … .
Well, she would ask him, that was all. Yes, she would ask him, as soon as she saw him, why he’d given her the stone. And that wasn’t all she’d ask him, either. She’d be certain to ask him where he’d disappeared to, and just what it was he’d been so eager to discuss with her that morning.
And just where, exactly, he thought this relationship was headed … .
But when she returned to the house on Park Lane, Evers calmly informed her, while taking her wraps, that His Grace was not in. He had not come home for luncheon, and had left word that he would not be in for supper. This struck Maggie as more than a little suspicious. Where, in heaven’s name, could he be? With the princess?
But no, that wasn’t possible. Because the princess was looking for him, as well.
Maggie didn’t hear this, however, until she stepped into her own room, and found her maid, Hill, who had just returned from taking Jerry for a walk. Maggie was so surprised to see them that she nearly choked.
“Hill,” she cried, ashamed that, in her distress, she had forgotten both her maid and her dog. “Are you well? I was very worried about you.”
The maid certainly did not look well, but she was, at least, alive. “Oh, miss,” she began, untying the strings to her cloak, as Jerry raced over and laid his paws upon Maggie’s knees. “Such a night I passed! You could not imagine. Evers insists it musta been somethin’ I et, only Cook denies it, since nobody else took ill, but oh! Such a night!” Hill puttered about the room as she spoke. “I don’t think I ever retched so much in all my born days. Though I’ll tell you, I never had such dreams in me life. Beautiful dreams, I tell you. I wish I could remember ’em properly.”
Maggie, racked with guilt over having been the direct cause of her maid’s illness, begged her to sit down and rest more, but Hill would have none of it. She was as full of chat and gossip as Maggie was depressed.
“And what do you think, Miss Margaret,” Hill demanded, as she fluffed up Maggie’s pillows, “about the duke now, eh?”
“W-what?” Maggie asked nervously.
Hill shot her young mistress a disapproving look. “You mean you didn’t see it?”
“See what?”
“This morning’s Times!.”
“Oh,” Maggie said, a good deal less tremulously. “No. Why?”
“Right there, on page two, it was. Mr. Evers, he showed it to me. Otherwise, I never would’ve believed it.” Hill paused dramatically. “A retraction!”
“A retraction?” Maggie echoed weakly.
“Yes, miss. A retraction of the article the day before, sayin’ he was goin’ to marry that pert heathen princess.”
Good God! He’d meant it! Every word he’d said. He truly hadn’t intended to marry the Princess Usha after all! Why, even though it was dark outside, did Maggie suddenly feel as if the sun were shining?
“Oh, I didn’t like the look of her, I didn’t,” Hill was saying. “Not the minute she walked in the door. Darting eyes, she had. You can’t trust a heathen with darting eyes … .”
“Hill,” Maggie asked curiously, “when did you see the princess?”
“Why, not half an hour ago, when she and that interpreter of ‘er’s came callin’ in the house.”
Maggie sprang up from her seat beside the fire, dislodging Jerry, who’d curled up into her lap. “What?” she cried. “The princess was here? Princess Usha was here?”
“Heavens, yes,” Hill replied, looking more than a little surprised. “What are you shouting for? Do you want them to hear you all the way to Newcastle?”
“Does Jeremy know?” Maggie demanded. “Has anyone told Jeremy?”
“How could anyone tell the duke, when the duke boarded a train bound for Yorkshire hours ago?”
“Yorkshire?” Maggie cried. “Jerry went to Yorkshire? Are you quite certain, Hill?”
“Yes, of course I’m certain,” Hill said irritably.
“But why?” Maggie exclaimed. “Did Jer—I mean, His Grace—say why he was going to Yorkshire? Did he … have some bad news from Rawlings Manor during the day, or something?”
“Well, Mr. Evers said the duke got a hand-delivered message this mornin’. I reckon it was from the Lady Edward. I wouldn’t doubt she finally got wind of you and him bein’ here at the town house all alone together—”
Maggie glared at her maid. “And I wonder how she would have got wind of that,” she said angrily.
Hill looked innocent. “I certainly wouldn’t know. That Mr. Evers, though. I wouldn’t put it past him … . But why shouldn’t His Grace pay a call on his aunt and uncle, I’d like to know?” Hill stomped over to the chair Maggie had just vacated and began to plump up its cushions. “It’s high time he did, if you ask me. If my nephew joined the army and went away to India for five years, then got himself engaged to a heathen who was all set to bring her seven-headed Buddhas back to the vicarage—”
“Hill,” Maggie interrupted. “Please. She isn’t a heathen. She simply worships in a different manner than you and I—”
“I saw her!” Hill declared emphatically. “She’s a heathen! And all I’m saying is, if I were Lord and Lady Edward, I’d be right put out if my nephew didn’t stop to see me first thing on his return to England.”
“Yes,” Maggie murmured. “Yes, I suppose so. Only it’s just so strange! I saw him this morning, and he didn’t say a word … .” Her voice trailed off. Perhaps his decision to go to Yorkshire had been because of their conversation this morning. After all, Maggie hadn’t been exactly warm toward him.
But she’d certainly been more than warm to him during the night … surely that had to count for something! But maybe he didn’t see it that way. Maybe he’d misinterpreted her sarcastic remarks and teasing, mistook them for genuine when really, she’d only been trying to disguise her own unease and embarrassment. Maybe he’d left for Yorkshire convinced that she didn’t care for him. She was engaged to another man, was she not? And yet she’d given herself to him … .
Oh, Lord. She shuddered. What kind of man would want to marry a woman who’d do something like that? Oh, he had seemed to enjoy their lovemaking well enough. She’d heard the cry he’d let out the night before, when he’d climaxed. That had not been the shout of a bored man. That had been the cry of a man who had found release after a period of interminable imprisonment.
But then he’d left.
Oh, what was the use? She wanted him. She might as well admit it. And if she had to become a duchess, and give up her painting, in order to have him, well, she would. Oh, Lord, what was happening to her? She had never in her life wanted anything more than her painting, and now …
Well, now she wanted Jeremy.
Right when he didn’t seem the least interested in her. Blinking sadly at the bed in which she’d enjoyed so much bliss the night before, Maggie started to sniffle. Just a little, but Hill, unfortunately, heard.
“Now, then!” she cried, coming out of Maggie’s dressing room, where she’d gone to run her mistress a hot bath. “What’s this? I’m the one with the head what’s pounding fit to bust. What are you crying about?”
“Nothing,” Maggie murmured, from behind her hands.
“Something’s the matter. What is it? You didn’t get a note from that Frenchman of yours, I’ll wager. Now, I’ve told you before, miss, just because a man doesn’t call one day, doesn’t mean the engagement’s off. Even two days isn’t enough to cause worry. Now, three days, if he’s not out of the country, then I’d say, yes, there’s reason for concern. But one day—”
“It isn’t that, Hill,” Maggie said, sniffling. Then she raised her head. What was she doing? What was she doing? Weeping, because the man she’d made love with the night before had fled to Yorkshire? Was she insane? She was no lovelorn governess, no simpering milkmaid. She was an artist! She would probably make love to dozens of men throughout her lifetime! She couldn’t burst into tears every time one of them decided to take a train to see his family t
he next day. Look at Berangère. Maggie had never seen Berangère cry, not ever, and Berangère had scores of lovers, some of whom she could not even remember a week later. Maggie was just going to have to harden herself to be more like Berangère, that was all.
But deep inside, Maggie knew that no matter how she tried, she’d never be like Berangère. She didn’t want scores of lovers. She couldn’t imagine making love with any man but Jeremy. Even the thought of doing so physically repulsed her. She wanted only one man, and he was on a train headed for Yorkshire. He might as well have gone back to India again.
A tap sounded at the door. Hill, muttering to herself, went to answer it. Maggie, still trying to rally her own spirits, heard only murmurs until Hill closed the door again and rejoined her by the bed.
“Well,” the older woman said, in her warmest voice. “You are quite popular tonight, Miss Margaret. You might be interested to know that, according to Evers, Mr. de Veygoux is waiting downstairs to see you!”
Maggie suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “Oh, Hill, could you please send Mr. de Veygoux away? I’m really not feeling up to seeing him this evening.”
Hill sniffed. “I shall do no such thing. The man is your fiancé. You can’t send him away as if he were an unwanted suitor.”
“Oh, Hill,” Maggie said, and suddenly she was sobbing.
Hill took one look at her mistress and hurried away. When she came back, it was only a few moments later, and Maggie, ashamed of her tears, was trying to dry them on the back of her wrists. Hill would have none of that. She applied her own handkerchief to her mistress’s streaming eyes and cooed, “There, there, Miss Maggie, don’t you worry now, he’s gone away. Right doleful he looked too when I told ‘im you were ill. And with his nose all swollen up, and his eyes so bruised it’s a wonder to me he can see a’tall. Poor man. He brought you more roses.” Hill pointed to a bouquet she’d left on the bed. “Shall I put ’em in with the others?”
Maggie looked at the already overladen vase on her bedside table. “I suppose so,” she said miserably. “I do wish he’d stop. He must have spent a fortune on flowers already.”
Portrait of My Heart Page 28