by Diane Gaston
A beautiful woman dressed in costume approached him.
Daphne Blane.
‘You are my daughter’s portraitist, are you not?’ She neglected the usual civilities of a greeting.
Jack rose. ‘I am indeed. Jack Vernon at your service.’ He bowed.
She extended her hand to him. ‘Daphne Blane.’
‘Your fame precedes you, Miss Blane. I knew you immediately.’ He clasped her hand, which felt cold and stiff.
Her smile was equally as icy. She looked him up and down. ‘Now I begin to understand.’ She shook her head. ‘Still, my daughter is a fool to choose you over…’ She hesitated. ‘Over other gentlemen.’
‘I am merely the artist who is painting her portrait.’
Her brows rose at this falsehood. ‘Well.’ She eyed him again. ‘You had best do a very splendid portrait.’
‘I will try,’ he responded. ‘It is a great opportunity for me to paint your daughter.’
She tilted her chin in acknowledgement.
He shivered. What had it been like for Ariana to have such a mother?
Soon the play began. Although Jack was watching it for the third time, this was the first performance he felt free to merely enjoy. Ariana became Juliet, but retained some of herself as well. When she was not on stage or changing her costume, she stood with him in the wings, no longer Juliet, but simply Ariana. The other dinner companions kept him company, as well, passing along more titbits of gossip, which seemed to be their preferred conversation.
When the play ended, Henry suggested Jack and Ariana come to the tavern where he and Jack had first met.
Ariana shook her head. ‘I cannot. Mr Arnold wants me to greet some of the patrons in the Green Room.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Come with me. I will introduce you as my portrait artist.’
Jack finally gained entry to the Green Room, as the guest of the play’s leading actress, no less. There had been no Tranville to bar the way. While there, he spoke with as many wealthy men who might be interested in future commissions as he could. Ariana had no shortage of covetous gentlemen wanting to speak to her. Not all of these men were reprobates like Tranville. How long before she would meet one worthy of her?
He shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts.
She rushed up to him. ‘I’ve found a gentleman interested in a history painting.’
Jack was presented to a man about Tranville’s age.
‘You paint battles, eh? And portraits? I’ve half a mind to have you paint me in my old Horse Guards uniform.’
‘My father was in the Horse Guards,’ Jack said.
‘Damn me, you don’t say?’ The man peered at him.
But Jack was distracted. He’d spied Tranville’s son, Edwin, in the crowd.
The old rage rumbled inside him.
‘Vernon is your name?’ the man went on. ‘There was a John Vernon in the Horse Guards in my day.’
Jack could barely attend to him. ‘My father, sir.’
Finding someone who knew his father would ordinarily have pleased Jack a great deal, but the sight of Edwin, his face scarred now, brought back that night in Badajoz.
Edwin swayed with drink as he leered at a ballet dancer who walked past.
‘You do not say.’ The former compatriot of his father fell silent for a moment. ‘Now I comprehend the connection,’ he burst forth suddenly. ‘Tranville is paying you to paint this actress, is that not so?’
Jack glanced back to the man. His response was terse. ‘That is so.’
Edwin had sidled up to one of the actresses from Ariana’s boarding house, Susan, the younger one.
Jack bowed to the former Horse Guard officer. ‘I must beg your leave, sir.’
The man looked relieved. He clapped Jack on the arm in farewell.
Jack crossed the room to where Edwin toyed with a long ribbon on the sleeve of Susan’s dress.
He rubbed the ribbon against his scar. ‘Received this in the siege of Badajoz—’ His eyes widened at Jack’s approach.
Jack gave him no greeting. ‘I would speak to you, Susan.’
She glanced towards Edwin and fluttered her lashes. ‘In a moment.’
‘Now,’ Jack said.
Edwin seemed to recover some composure. ‘Didn’t expect to find you here, Jack. Hoped they’d sent you to the West Indies or some such place.’
A posting where soldiers died of fevers.
‘Not your lucky day, then, is it?’ Jack said through gritted teeth.
‘Well, well, you’ve found me out, Jack. Not even m’father knows I’m in London yet. Was in Paris, y’know.’ His words were slurred.
‘Paris!’ Susan’s eyes brightened.
Jack turned to her. ‘Come with me, Susan.’
She looked from one man to the other, but did not move.
Edwin favoured her with a white-toothed smile. ‘The young lady and I were engaged in a very pleasant conversation. I am loath to have you interrupt me telling her all about Paris.’
An intoxicated Edwin was too dangerous to trust.
‘I must interrupt.’ He took Susan’s arm.
‘Now see here, Jack!’ She tried to pull away.
At that moment Ariana appeared. ‘What is this?’ Her voice was tense, but cheerful.
Jack gave her an intent look. ‘I need to speak to Susan. Now.’
Ariana smiled. ‘Of course you do. I shall entertain this gentleman while you talk.’
Edwin tossed a wary glance at Jack, but he happily returned his gaze to Ariana. ‘By all means.’
Jack’s gut twisted at leaving Ariana with the likes of Edwin, but he knew Ariana would not leave with the man. Susan might.
She was not happy to be led away.
He took the young actress to a corner of the room. ‘Stay away from that fellow, Susan. He is no one you would wish to know.’
She shrugged off his grasp. ‘He’s Tranville’s son. He should have money.’
‘He is not worth it. Believe me.’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Why should I believe you?’
Jack leaned down to her, his expression brooking no argument. ‘Because I know him to be cruel to women.’
Her hands dropped to her side. ‘How cruel?’
‘Violent.’ He could not say more. ‘Trust me on this, Susan.’
She chewed on her lip as if calculating her decision. ‘Introduce me to some other gentleman, Jack. Then I’ll agree to leave that one alone.’
He introduced her to the former Horse Guards officer, who was equally as delighted to meet her.
Jack hurriedly manoeuvred through the crowd to return to Ariana and whisk her away from Edwin. As he made his way, the rumble of voices around him started to turn into the roaring flames of buildings afire. One man’s voice sounded like musket fire. A woman’s laughter became a scream. He could not move.
Ariana came to him. ‘What is it, Jack? You look unwell.’
The memories of Badajoz were about to engulf him again. ‘I must leave.’
She took his arm. ‘I will go with you.’
She led him to her dressing room where the maid helped her change into her own clothes again. From behind a screen, she asked him about Edwin. He could only repeat what he had told Susan. The sounds in his head did not abate.
Then they walked outside and headed towards her boarding house, but the noises in his head remained. It had rained and the streets glistened with moisture, making their footsteps echo in the still damp air. The sound reverberated in Jack’s head, like ghosts shouting at him. His muscles were taut, ready for flight. Every shadow seemed like a marauding soldier. The air smelled of burning wood.
Ariana glanced behind them. ‘Look, Jack, there’s a fire!’
He spun around. The scent of smoke had been real. The fire was some distance away, perhaps at a warehouse on the river, but the orange glow was visible in the sky and the smell of smoke had drifted. A crash sounded nearby, a wagon overturning perhaps, spilling its contents.
; Suddenly he was completely back in Badajoz.
With a cry he pulled her to the wall of a building, flattening her against its brick surface and shielding her with his body.
She gasped. ‘Jack, what is it?’
He pressed against her, the sights and sounds of Badajoz so strong now he could do nothing but act as if they were real.
‘Must hide.’ His voice cracked.
‘What is happening?’
He could not speak, could not explain.
She put her arms around him and held him. He clung to her tightly as Badajoz returned to him once more.
‘You are safe,’ she murmured. ‘You are safe. No need to hide.’
It seemed an endless period of time that he was caught in the living nightmare. She held him until a semblance of reality returned.
He released her and pushed himself away. ‘I must be mad.’
‘Tell me what happened.’ She looked alarmed.
He took off his hat and ran a trembling hand through his hair. ‘I was back in Badajoz.’
She touched his arm. ‘You had a vision?’
He shook his head. ‘I suppose you could call it a vision. You know the paintings of war in my room? It was as if they’d come to life and I was in them.’
She came closer, threading her arm through his and holding him next to her. ‘You are not there,’ she said soothingly. ‘You are in London with me.’
He started to walk—and to try not to run. ‘It has happened before. I think I must be mad.’
She did not slow their stride. ‘You were certainly frightened. I should think if I had seen war as depicted in your paintings, my memories might sometimes overtake me. It is over now, though.’
They reached a street to cross. He could not even say which street it was. The area looked strange to him, even though they must have walked the same route going to the theatre.
As they crossed, she said, ‘We are almost at the house.’
With each step the sounds of Badajoz still rumbled. He thought if he could only make it to her door and say goodnight, he could quickly run to his studio and hope to reach it before the vision engulfed him again.
They reached her door and she pulled a key from her reticule, but she took his hand before opening the door. ‘You are coming inside with me.’
‘I should not.’ The sounds roared louder.
She gripped his hand. ‘Until you feel calm again. Just for a minute.’
‘Ariana, I should not come in with you.’
‘No one will blink an eye about it, believe me.’ She opened the door and stepped inside, pulling him in with her.
He followed. The house looked strange, lit only by an oil lamp on a table in the hall. Flashes of the Frenchwoman’s house in Badajoz intruded. Again he saw the broken furniture, the papers scattered everywhere, the haunted eyes of the woman’s young son.
She led him above stairs to her room, turning a key in the lock after closing the door. ‘See? We will be safe here.’
She removed her cloak and gloves and lit a taper from a coal glowing in the fireplace. She used it to light every candle in the room. He was grateful. The more light, the better he felt. She helped him off with his top coat, but this time did not put it or his hat and gloves on the bed but on the chair. That done, she went over to a cabinet in the corner.
She took out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. ‘Sometimes I need this to calm down after a performance so I can sleep.’
She poured for him, not giving him a chance to refuse.
With her drink in hand and the bottle in the other she kicked off her shoes and climbed on the bed, sitting cross-legged. She patted the space next to her. ‘Sit with me.’
He removed his shoes and joined her, taking a long sip of the warming brandy.
‘Will you tell me of Badajoz?’ she asked.
He shook his head, unable to even utter words of refusal.
She did not press him, but merely refilled his glass when he emptied it. The brandy slowly calmed him and he was able to breathe normally again. His heart no longer pounded like the regiment’s drums.
‘Cannot speak of it,’ he mumbled, suddenly exhausted. ‘And there are drawings I cannot show. But really I ought to bid you goodnight.’
‘In a little while,’ she murmured. ‘You should rest first. Let us take off your coat and waistcoat so you can lie down for a minute.’
He allowed her to remove his garments and loosened his neckcloth.
‘You might as well take off your trousers, too,’ she said, unbuttoning them as he lay against the pillows.
The brandy and exhaustion were fogging his mind. He ought not to allow her to remove his trousers. ‘I should return to the studio.’
‘After a brief rest,’ she cajoled. ‘I will wake you in ten minutes.’
‘Ten minutes.’ The bed felt very warm and comfortable. Perhaps it would do no harm to rest for ten minutes.
Ariana smoothed his hair and stared down at his handsome face. As she had anticipated, it had only taken him a minute to fall as soundly asleep as a child.
The vision, or whatever it had been that seized him, had frightened her. He acted as if he’d been in another time and place, as if he saw and heard things she could not. She knew very little about madness, but could not believe him insane. She preferred to think that the fire had triggered a very realistic memory.
Badajoz. She tried to recall what she knew about it. The battle had occurred about three years ago, shortly after she’d left the school to join the theatre company. All she’d been thinking of in those days had been performing on stage. Still, she knew many soldiers had died at Badajoz. Was that the place where the English soldiers rioted and looted the town? She could not remember.
She drew her finger across Jack’s forehead and thought of Jack’s paintings leaning against his bedroom wall. If the real horror of war was worse than that, she could not imagine what he must have endured. To think she had been consumed by the frivolity of the theatre at the same time he had been living in a nightmare he could not shake even now.
She was pleased he slept peacefully.
She slipped out of her room and hurried up another flight of stairs to the maid’s room, waking the poor girl to help her untie her laces and corset.
‘Thank you, Betsy,’ she whispered to the girl.
Betsy had already lain back down to sleep.
Ariana hurried back to her room, opening the door carefully. Jack’s eyes were still closed and his breathing even. She pulled off her dress and slid out of her corset. Sitting at her dressing table, she took the pins from her hair, brushing it smooth before putting it in a plait. Not bothering to change into her nightdress, she put two more coals on the fire, blew out the candles, and climbed into bed next to him clad only in her shift.
She adored being close to him. He rolled over to face her, and she could just make out his features in the dim light that came from the fireplace. Her eyes grew heavy, but she did not wish to sleep. She wanted simply to gaze at him, so peaceful now when a short time ago he had been terror-stricken.
From her first glimpse of him she had suspected he was a complicated man. Tonight she’d seen him in complete control of his emotions one minute, then totally at their mercy at another, lost in a vision that terrified him.
Her last thought as she drifted off to sleep was that she was becoming very attached to this soldier artist of hers.
Ariana woke to a cry.
‘Release her!’ Jack thrashed in the bed as if he was fighting someone. ‘Stop!’
She sat up and reached for him, but he flung his arm so hard he knocked her back down.
Heart pounding in fear that he might end up hurting one of them, she grabbed his arm and held on as he fought her. ‘Jack. Wake up. You are dreaming.’ Her shift rode up to her waist and her hair came loose of its plait.
‘Fire! The building is on fire.’
He’d alarm the house. She managed to climb on top of him, even though she knew her s
trength was no match for his. She covered his mouth with her hand. ‘There’s no fire. Wake up.’
He sat up and seized her upper arms.
‘Wake up!’ She was on her knees, straddling his legs, but there was little she could do when he held her in such a tight grip.
His eyes flew open, wild and confused and terrifying.
‘It was a dream, Jack.’ She tried to make him see her. ‘A dream.’
He blinked and finally focused. ‘Ariana?’ He suddenly embraced her tightly against his chest.
She stroked his neck. ‘Shh. It’s over. It was only a dream.’ She also needed calming.
‘Ariana.’ He buried his fingers in her hair and brought his lips to hers.
His kiss was one of desperation, as if she were his very last tether on sanity. She opened her mouth and he deepened the kiss, his tongue thrusting hungrily against hers.
Her one brief affair could not compare to this. Desire swept through her and she kissed him back, tugging her shift up until they broke apart and she pulled it over her head. He removed his shirt and with a swift motion, she was suddenly beneath him. He moved his hands over her, kneading her breasts, rubbing her nipples until she thought she would cry out at the exquisite torture. He slid his hand between her legs, stroking her until she writhed beneath him, slick and ready. She pressed her fingers into his skin, soundlessly begging him to fulfil her need.
He obliged her, thrusting inside her so strongly she gasped, not in pain but in a thrill unlike anything she’d ever anticipated.
She lifted her hips to him, meeting each thrust, the sound of their breathing filling her ears. The attraction that had first drawn them together and the desire that continued to flare exploded between them.
She’d known he possessed this passion, but she’d not known he could unleash the same passion from within her. Their coupling was wild, frenzied, urgent. A part of her understood his lovemaking came from whatever dark place he’d been in his dream, but, if he needed comfort for it, she wanted to comfort him.
They moved as if created for each other, faster, hotter, harder, together.
She needed the end to come, but she wanted this to last for ever. Just when she thought she could stand no more, her release came and, as attuned as they were, his came at the same moment. She wanted to cry aloud for the joy of it.