by Gwyn Cready
She could feel him willing her to try her hand at painting. He had no idea that she’d once fancied herself a painter, nor how long it had been since she’d worked upon a canvas with anything more than halfhearted interest. The small still life on her desk didn’t count.
“Where?” she asked. “Where do you want me to paint?”
“There. You shall add a second leaf.”
“What? No! Large or small?”
“Your choice. The canvas is yours, milady.” He bowed.
She gazed at the stem he had begun and was surprised to see the new leaf form clearly in her head.
“Layer it on like silk,” he said, “with just as much texture. This is the underlayer, you see, the part that will be hidden.”
She drew the brush along the canvas, letting the bristles flip upward. It left a perfect leaf shape on the blue background.
He cocked his head and, after an instant, nodded his approval. She smiled. She’d been damned good at this once.
“Now,” he said, handing her a thicker brush, “the verdigris.”
“Shouldn’t we let it dry?”
“We should,” he said. “But I would not sacrifice this moment of teaching to the perfection of the viscount’s painting. He has an unskilled eye, and if he does not care for the paint cracking on this glorious leaf in twenty years’ time, he may rot.”
She laughed. The verdigris was thicker than the other colors, like a small blob of Jell-O on the palette. She pushed it left and right, automatically feathering in a daub of yellow.
Peter’s brow went up.
She considered an addition of blue.
“I might try the red madder,” he said.
She looked at the red, but the resultant gray-brown would deaden her green. She flicked the tip through the blue.
She could feel the corner of his mouth rise. “The student rebels.”
“I am no man’s thrall,” she said, and the look that followed sent a pleasurable shiver down her back.
“Now for the shadow you admired so fervently,” he said. “Turn your brush.”
Uncertain, she flipped the sable from left to right.
“The other way,” he instructed, then gently slid the brush from her hand and returned it with the wooden point down.
“You use the other end?”
He picked up a clean brush from the shelf, as thick and wide as the one she used for her facial powder. “A brush has many uses. A good artist does not limit himself to just one. Take the point and draw it along the left there, flipping the edge of the verdigris up as you go. Go on. Do not hesitate. Exactly! You see, you have not only exposed a trace of the yellow below, but created a tiny hillock of verdigris as well.”
The suggestion of contour made the image leap from the canvas. “Amazing!”
“Just a trick. There are dozens and dozens. I could teach you all of them if you had time.”
If you had time. The offer warmed her heart, but more than that, it unleashed a longing for artistic connection in her that she’d had no idea existed.
“I wish I did,” she said truthfully. “I can’t stay much longer.”
“Of course. Tonight of all nights. I don’t wonder you have an obligation. But you will return? Tomorrow, aye? Then every Wednesday? Say three o’clock? You would be my last sitter of the day.”
“Wednesdays, huh?”
“You smile. Why?”
“I don’t know. Wednesdays always seem to be the day for weekly meetings.”
“Liaisons, you mean?”
“Yes, actually.” She giggled. “Especially the afternoons.”
“Is that an aye, then?”
The guileless look of hope on his face sent her back almost to her teen years. She would be courted. First, out of her gown for the painting, then, after many long weeks of laughter and wine, out of the chaise and into his bed. His reward for winning her trust. She wondered what it would be like for a man to seek her heart first, not her body—to be slowly won, not claimed. She was a castle, and Peter was willing to lay patient siege to her.
“Aye,” she said softly. “I should like that very much.”
“How much time do you have?”
“A bit. Why?”
“I’m glad. I think we have two choices, then—”
A boom sounded in the distant night.
“What’s that?” She looked out the windows.
He smiled in surprise. “Do you not know?”
When she shook her head, he took her hand, fetching his coat from a hook on the wall. “Come. This is one of the choices.”
* * *
Mertons collapsed on a chair in the scullery. The woman was odd. There was no doubt about it. Was it possible she was an ally of Campbell’s? The calculations had not shown the presence of a second conspirator. And yet…
Morag brushed by. He saw a smidgen of ankle as she stepped onto the hearth to reach a high-hung pot.
“Morag,” he said, hoping the movement as she turned might provide another flash, “are you aware of Mrs. Post’s origins at all? Was she recommended by another patron? Have you ever seen her in Peter’s studio before?”
“First, Mr. Mertons, ‘Mrs. Post’ is not her name.”
“Not her name?”
“No. ’Tis Miss Post. Miss Eugenie Campbell Stratford Post. See the note from Miss Gwyn there.” She picked it up and read. “‘Attached is a sketch done by Francis Conley at Peter Lely’s studio. It is of a dress owned by Miss Eugenie Campbell Stratford Post. I should like it duplicated in a charcoal moiré. Please note the lining.’ I am to have it delivered to her tailor on Half Moon Street in the morn—”
Campbell! He snatched it from her hand, horrified.
“Mr. Mertons!”
“My apologies.” He ran.
At the first turn, he came face-to-face with Stephen and two large apprentices. Stephen carried a salver filled with cheese and broken glass.
“Is he upstairs?” Mertons demanded.
“Peter, do you mean?”
“Aye, of course. I need to speak to him.”
“Impossible.”
Mertons snorted. “It’s urgent. Is he upstairs?”
When Stephen failed to reply, Mertons turned to find out for himself, only to find his egress halted.
“Take your hand from my sleeve, sir,” Mertons said sharply.
“The master is not to be disturbed.”
The apprentices, approximately the size and tensile strength of marble columns, spread to fill the hall.
“This is a matter of extreme urgency.”
“If it don’t involve blood, it can wait until morning. In fact, even if it do involve blood, it can wait until morning.” And when Mertons attempted to shake the hand loose, Stephen added, “Do not make it involve blood, sir.”
The apprentices stepped forward.
“You’ll regret this,” Mertons said.
“Please usher the master’s cousin to his room in the cellar. See that he rests there until morning.”
* * *
Peter’s hand was warm and dry, and her own felt like a child’s within it. He led her through the double doors to a small balcony. The sun was gone, replaced by a blue-gray black, and a field of stars adorned the sky. The balcony stood high above the street, and they had a clear view across the roofs of the city. The vastness of such a vista, as always, sent a pang of awe through her. She loved the way the southern hills of Pittsburgh looked from the windows of her loft—there was something about the way the sky enveloped you when you had the long view that really took your breath away—but this was even more spectacular: squat chimneys, unknown spires, glimpses of cobbled streets abuzz with Londoners, and, on a far hill, even a windmill silhouetted black against the sky.
“Oh my.”
He smiled, sl
ipping his coat back over her shoulders. “I know. I love the feeling of gazing over the city. It’s as if one has been transported from one’s problems.”
“You have problems? Well, the king, I suppose. But I should think there are many rewards to being the royal portraitist as well.”
“There are. Look around. The house, the staff, the line of patrons. I am very grateful.” But his hand went to his ring, and there was something in his voice that didn’t quite ring true.
She was torn. She was tempted to pursue a line of questioning related to this ambivalence, but she knew she had a job here.
“I, uh, know there’s a lot of rivalry in the art world. You must have dozens of unpleasant stories of other painters trying to insinuate themselves with the king to take your place. I mean, how did you come into the position yourself?”
He laughed. “I hope, milady, I am not reading an implication of misconduct into your question.”
She flushed. “No, of course I did not mean you. Still, the story of how you got your start would be most interesting.”
“Well, of course, the position had been Van Dyck’s for many years. I was a great admirer of Van Dyck. He has certainly had a profound influence on my work. And you are right about rivalry. I do not think he cared o’ermuch for me, and he would certainly not have considered me an equal, with me being half his age and he being a man of preternaturally large pride.”
“So rare to find that in an artist.”
He smiled.
“And…?” she prompted.
“And I suppose I find myself in his shoes now. His age. Past the peak of my career. And yet I find myself far less eager than Van Dyck to cling to what I have.”
There it was again. That note of sorrow. She had the next Van Dyck question on the tip of her tongue, and a dozen more after that, but somehow the woman in her was more curious than the writer.
“You have problems? I mean, apart from the king?”
An uncomfortable quiet came over him. She waited, wondering if he’d say more. He lifted his chin, as if to reply, but he must have changed his mind, for all he said was “Come.”
He led her to the edge of the balcony, and she took a place along the wide, low balustrade by his side. He splayed his fingers on the marble, elbows straight, abstracted. She held her tongue, waiting for him.
“There,” he said.
She turned. In the distance, toward the river, tiny streamers of white fire rained down on the river, illuminating for an instant the decks and yardarms of several tall-masted ships. Muffled cheers from a crowd rose over the night.
“Fireworks!” she cried.
“The usual for Guy Fawkes, I should think.”
The Guy Fawkes celebration in England was akin to Halloween, she knew, and had something to do with the defeat of a plot to blow up Parliament, though her knowledge of English history was more than a little hazy, and she had not been aware the holiday had been celebrated as early as the seventeenth century.
“It’s still a bit early. Another quarter of an hour will see the start of something more organized. I take it you’re meeting someone?”
Meeting someone? Then it dawned on her. He thought she had a date for Guy Fawkes, which is why he had said “tonight of all nights” when she’d mentioned she couldn’t stay much longer. “No, I…It is something else. But surely you had an engagement?”
He smiled. “No, I am practically chained to the studio.”
Still he maintained his rigid grip on the railing. What haunted this man?
“Your ring is quite unusual,” she said.
His hands came up as if he’d been burned. He nearly tucked them under his arms, but at last he brought the ringed one forward with evident will. “It is my mark.”
“In an emerald?” She could see the P and L etched backward in the surface.
“Not just an emerald. ’Tis the Kingfisher of Istanbul.”
“Oooooh,” she said, impressed, for the only named jewelry she owned was a Joan Rivers bracelet from QVC. “Does it come with a curse?”
“It did for me.”
She held her breath.
“I bought it six years ago, after a particularly large commission from the Duke of Silverbridge. Once I saw it in the jeweler’s hand, it was the only thing I could think about. It cost a king’s ransom, but to me it represented reaching the height of my profession. The woman I loved—Ursula—laughed when I told her I planned to buy it. She thought I was making jest with her. When I told her why I wanted it, she told me that if I depended on the adulation of gemstones, I would never be fulfilled. We quarreled. I bought the emerald, had it engraved, and we never spoke of it again. It wasn’t until years later that it dawned on me I would have been far happier if I had given her the stone and watched it blaze away the rest of our days on her finger.”
Odd, Cam thought. He has a ring that brings him pain, but he wears it, and I have a ring I love that I hide.
“Were you together long?” she said.
“Ten years.”
“That is a long time.” And a lot to regret. But the trick had to be letting go of the regret. Starting over. That’s what Jacket wanted her to do. She’d been so angry for so long. She had to teach herself to cling to what she had, not what she’d lost.
“Why do you wear it?” she asked.
For a long moment he was silent. Another flash of spangling lights brightened the night sky, and a soft wind blew the hair around his shoulders. “I don’t want to forget. I don’t deserve to forget.”
As he gazed at the ring, she watched his face: the pained eyes, the strong, determined mouth. “In my opinion,” she said, “one of the hardest tasks for a human is to accept that what comes our way is a journey we need to take,” she said. “If we err, we should not add unnecessarily to our burden. Failure is enough. Nor should we try to avoid the good things that come our way serendipitously, even when the reasons for them are unclear.”
She thought of that book on Amazon and the amazing gift it had given her. She thought of Jacket, renewing his proposal. That was a good thing, right?
“Do you think all things that come our way serendipitously are good?” he asked.
“Not so much good as necessary, something we must act upon. But they can be very, very good. And it is our responsibility to find out how by working them through to their conclusion.”
“My success,” he said, “came very serendipitously.”
“Oh?”
“Which is not to say I lacked talent, but talent, as you know, is quite different from success.”
She did.
“Van Dyck—you know his work, aye?” He continued when she nodded. “I was not his pupil, yet it was impossible not to be influenced by him. He was one of the most famous artists of the time, and I traveled to Antwerp not once, but twice, to see him. He was already quite established as the portraitist to Charles’s father here in London.”
Cam tried not to move. This was exactly the information she needed.
“He looked at my work—I was exceedingly good—and gave me the usual encouragement. Well, it so happened Elizabeth of Bohemia was at his studio at the time, as were a number of her ladies-in-waiting. There was one—Giselle—” He caught himself. “But perhaps that is a story best left for another time, for it caused Van Dyck trouble he did not fairly deserve. In any case, Elizabeth had the opportunity to admire a painting of mine, and when Van Dyck died, she wrote to her brother recommending my work.”
“And her brother was connected with the king?”
He laughed. “Her brother was the king. Charles the First. My original patron. The father of my far more troublesome one. But my point is, things came very easily to me—my talent, my position with the court, considerable wealth. I grew accustomed to this success, placing a value on it far beyond its worth and, worse, allowing myself to grow blind to
the things I had that really did matter.”
He twisted the ring absently, eyes focused on the dark night. He gave her a sidelong smile. “Regrets.”
She touched his hand. “One must let failure be enough.”
* * *
The touch rose up his arm and exploded in his chest, like one of the fiery bursts over the river, only this one seared his heart, like the touch of God upon Adam, and he wanted her. Every particle in his body strained toward her. But she was affianced, or nearly so, and in any case, her body was committed. He had seen it with his own eyes, the way she arched when her lover’s hands were upon her in her head.
The man, whoever he was, did not deserve her. To have broken her heart and then expect to be welcomed back? Had he been married? Freed now by the death of his wife to offer her his hand? Was he married even now? Did he expect her to take a place as his mistress?
The desire Peter felt for her was no longer healing or instructive. It was like a river closing in over his head. He prayed she would leave, would glance at the clock and make her excuses, saving him from destroying this precious connection. He wanted her for the duration of the portrait, not a stolen hour. He wanted to end their time together with friendship and a hope—faint though it might be—that the future might hold something more for them. Peter was no longer young, but he had the patience of Job, and if Jacob Ryan made the mistake of losing her again, before the Guild selected a new life for him, he would find a way to return to her. If they succumbed now, while she was committed to another, he would never see her again. No woman forgives her tempter.
She removed her hand, and he nearly collapsed, so great was the relief.
She said something about the night air, though he barely heard the words. The scent of her skin was thick in his head. Her hair, collected in its pins, tossed off lambent sparks that put the Guy Fawkes celebration to shame. He strained to concentrate, but the graceful movement of her throat as she spoke captivated him. He wanted to draw his fingers along it, lifting her chin with his thumbs, and bring that mouth to his. In the distance, the boom of fireworks grew more frequent.
He apprehended that she had asked him a question, and his heart hammered, knowing that he’d been caught.