by Gwyn Cready
The pained look in his eyes sent an ache through her heart.
“I have never been much of a self-portraitist,” he said, “but for you, milady, aye.”
“Thank you.”
He brought her close and kissed her forehead.
“The painting stands, I hope,” he said. “As authentic, I mean.” She stiffened automatically and he stepped back and looked in her eyes. “What?”
“I don’t know yet. They haven’t decided. It’s sitting in my office.”
“Haven’t decided?” His face darkened. “Do they doubt my word? I am portraitist to the king, you know.”
“Credentials that sadly must remain unspoken—much as the carnal status of Ball and his parents should have been.”
“What is the objection?” he demanded. “’Tis an exquisite piece.”
“It is. But the odds of finding an undiscovered Lely after more than three hundred years are practically nil, and there’s not enough yet to tip the balance in the favor of authenticity. Besides, Ball’s so mad he hasn’t let anyone look at it.”
Peter harrumphed. “Philistines.”
“But the good news is, Anastasia is doing everything she can to help. Between you and me, she told me she knows the painting’s not real.” Then, in answer to the look of insult in his eye, she added, “It’s not old and real. But she said because you did it for me, she won’t say anything. Oh, Peter, this is going to sound silly, but in some ways, that’s the best part of all.”
Peter squeezed her waist. “I’m glad.”
Forlorn, Cam gazed down at the ballet flat peeking out from her skirt. Her friend, Seph, told her pink shoes always lighten one’s spirit, but Cam did not feel uplifted. “Peter, what do you know of the O’Janpa Convention?”
His arm fell away. “Where did you hear that?”
“Mertons.”
“Hell.”
“Can they really take you away?”
“Aye—well, no. It would be a battle.” The lines around his eyes deepened. “I’d prefer to go on my own.”
“And you have to go?”
“What I do here impacts you.”
“Of course it impacts me.”
“No, Cam. I-I—” He cast his eyes downward. “I’ve already hurt you. You may have lost your job because of me, and…and there may be even more I’ve cost you that you don’t see.”
“No, Peter, no. When two people love one another, every choice they make affects what comes next. But that doesn’t mean the choices shouldn’t be made. That’s life. If your being here, in the future, means my life has to change, that’s a change I choose freely.”
“Cam—”
“Peter, no—”
“Cam, listen to me. I’ve cost you a marriage…and a child.”
“A child?” She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You and Jacket were to have a child. That child is gone. Simply by the fact of my being here. Mertons showed me the calculations. It’s true. And I—I with a wife and child who cannot even have the comfort of a name in their final resting place—I have no right to interfere. Cam, I knew what perfect happiness was once. I won’t take it from you.”
“You fool.” She wanted to shove him and hug him at the same time. “That mythical future baby is gone because that baby wasn’t meant to be. Was it because of you? Yes. Was it because of me? Yes. Was it because of Jacket? Yes. Don’t you see? Everything we do in this crazy beaker of ooze sends ripples in every direction—left, right, forward, backward. So what if your being here took away a child? Did you happen to ask if staying would bring me another one?”
“Cam…”
“Fight them. We’ll do it together.”
She heard an odd rushing noise and wheeled around. Mertons was brushing snow off his coat. He had a sort-of telescope in his hand and a look of confusion on his face. “Ah,” he said, spotting them. “There you are at last.”
Mertons wore an odd, unreadable look, and she dreaded what he was going to say. Peter shifted, growing taller and broader. She couldn’t help but notice Mertons avoided her eyes.
“My negotiations have been successful.”
“What negotiations?” Peter asked.
“You didn’t tell him?” Mertons said to Cam.
Peter’s gaze cut to her. “Didn’t tell me what?”
Mertons made a show of placing the scope in his pocket.
She swallowed. “I wanted you to have a painter’s life.”
The look of confusion on Peter’s face grew. He looked to Mertons and back. “What, Cam? What did you do?”
“I promised to show them how I travel.”
“So they can shut it down?”
“Yes.”
“And in return,” Mertons said to Peter, “you will be given a painter’s life. Money, time, recognition. You’ll have it all.”
Cam looked at Peter. She could see the effect this offer had on him.
“No,” Peter said. “I’d rather stay. Even if it’s only for a short time.”
Merton’s face purpled. “Are you insane? Do you know what you’d be giving up?”
“Aye, I think I do.” Peter caught Cam’s hand and squeezed.
“No, Peter,” Mertons said. “You don’t. I haven’t just negotiated any painter’s life. I’ve negotiated your painter’s life. You will be allowed to return to Ursula.”
Peter inhaled. After a moment that seemed like forever to Cam, he said, “I have no wish to return to her knowing what will happen. You might as well tie me to a rock and let an eagle feast on my entrails.”
“You won’t know.”
“What?”
“I said, you won’t know. The Guild has agreed to let you return to your former life insentient of your future or hers. Peter, think of it. You will fall in love with her again. You will paint her again. You’ll have more than a decade to live over.”
Peter’s posture changed. The lines around his eyes grew softer. “And she’ll die, still the same?”
“We can’t change that,” Mertons said sadly. “You know the limitations. But, Peter, listen. I have gotten special permission for a variance. It wasn’t easy, and I had the team triangulating the calculations for the last hour to support it. I have gotten permission to allow you to marry her.”
“Oh.” It came out like a faint puff of wind, and Cam felt her world break in two.
“Your name,” Mertons said happily. “She’ll have your name. And so will your son.”
Peter blinked, dizzy with the treasure that had just been laid at his feet. “I-I—”
“But you must come tonight.”
“Tonight!” Cam cried. She felt as if she’d spent the evening having chunks of her happiness hacked away with a butcher knife. “No, please.”
Mertons looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Miss Stratford. The Guild insists. The whole affair’s been an embarrassment to them. They want it to end. Peter, you’ll be back in your studio by morning.”
Peter was lost in a world he’d let slip through his fingers. Cam watched him work the emerald signet ring, savoring his first taste of a life free from guilt and pain, a parched man handed water.
“I-I don’t know.”
“Peter, you must,” she said.
He licked his lips, staring far into the snowy night. She touched his hand. He looked surprised, and she directed him to open it. When he did, she pulled a hairpin from her hair and placed it there. “Just think of me every once in a while. That will be all I need.”
“Campbell, I…”
“You know what you must choose. For her. For your son.”
Cam heard a clatter behind her and turned. It was Jeanne, running toward them, looking panicked. “You look different when you’re smiling,” she said to Mertons, and to Cam: “C’mon, Packard wants to see you.”
“It’s important.”
Peter caught Cam’s hand and squeezed it. “Self-confidence, remember. Go. I’ll wait.”
Cam could barely breathe. “You will?”
“Yes.” His dark eyes affirmed the promise. “I swear it.”
“Peter,” Mertons warned.
But Cam didn’t have to run. Packard strode in, mouth tight. “I need you to convince Ball to let us look at it.”
“Sure,” Cam said. “Where is he?”
“The boardroom.”
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Packard said. “Our curator was overheard saying it was a fake and that you did it. I don’t believe you did it, but I’m in a tough spot, with my key expert having once disputed it.”
Peter made a low growl. “I think you will find proof enough when you examine it.”
* * *
Mertons looked at his watch. “We can’t stay long. A quarter hour at most.”
Peter, awash in a raging sea of emotion, said, “We’ll stay.” He gazed at the Bonnard. He knew exactly why Bonnard had done it. He thought of Ursula and his son and what it means to love someone. He thought of that ring, back on Cam’s finger after she’d removed it this afternoon and placed it in her pocket. He thought of his own ring and the many years it had represented a burden he couldn’t unshoulder. He even thought of Rick and Ilsa. How long he stood there he didn’t know. He knew what he had to do.
“Where did they say they were?”
Mertons looked at his watch. “Peter, you don’t have time.”
“To hell with you and your requirements. I’m saying good-bye.” Peter ran.
Fifty-nine
Ball gazed at his hands on the boardroom table and sighed. Cam said a silent prayer.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ball.”
Packard gave Cam a grateful look. “Excellent. Should we head down to Cam’s office?”
She glanced at the clock. Her only thoughts were with Peter. How long would he stay? Could she say good-bye?
The group exited Packard’s office in single file, Cam last. Anastasia stood with a drink, halfway down the hall. She gave Cam a sorrowful look. Cam thumped her on the back.
“Anastasia,” Packard said. “Let’s go.”
Then Cam saw Peter, and her heart sunk. He stood in an archway, nearly out of sight, with the grave look of a man facing down his fate. He motioned her toward him, and the movement was so poignant, her eyes began to fill.
“Cam,” Packard said. “Are you coming?”
“What? No.” Her lip started to tremble and a tear ran down her cheek. “I have to do something. Go without me.”
“Cam—”
“Let her go,” said Ball, who was looking down the same archway.
She ran to Peter and threw her arms around him. He hugged her back, hard. The tears ran freely now, and she didn’t care. For one last time she could bury herself against Peter’s broad chest.
“I want to say good-bye,” he said.
Her shoulders heaved as a new round of tears overtook her. “I know. I know.” She laced her fingers at his back, trying to keep time from moving.
“I want you to wear this.” He pulled away and opened her hand. Without ceremony, he dropped the emerald ring onto her palm. Shaking and uncertain, she slipped the ring on her middle finger, where it towered, enormous, over her knuckle.
“Careful,” he said, “there may be paint on it.”
She wiped her eyes, confused.
“I want to say good-bye, Cam, but not to you. To Ursula. Mertons warned me once that if I put my mark on any piece of art outside my true place in time, I would be captive there forever. Cam, I know Ursula wouldn’t have wanted me to live our life over—to hold it in some bell jar, like a Bartholomew Day’s Fair curiosity, to gawk at, mesmerized, as Bonnard did. Our life had life, a life of its own that can never be again, though I loved it—loved it—when I lived it.”
“Oh, Peter.” She could barely breathe.
“I want to be with you. I want to paint you. I want to be your Alex Katz.”
She hugged him. “I’ll be your Ada.”
Mertons appeared, scanning the air with his computer pen. “Peter,” he said, “something just happened. The variables went haywire.”
“I struck it,” Peter said. “The painting. I have struck my mark upon it.” He held up Cam’s hand and pointed to the ring. Instantly the sound of Ball’s triumphant hoot reached their ears from the direction of Cam’s office, followed by Anastasia’s happy “I told you. Curators make mistakes all the time. Look, that’s Lely’s mark. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Mertons cried.
“I don’t,” Peter said. “But I’m willing to find out.”
Sixty
“’Tis good of you to do this.” Peter laid in some vermillion and watched it spark in the light. The early morning sun flooding in from Washington Road cast a beautiful pink-gold gleam on his canvas.
Cam shifted on Peter’s long brocade couch, still giddy from the night before, tilting her head toward the window as Peter had directed, but also to see the fat, gleaming emerald on her finger. “Well, when Mertons agreed to sneak the painting of Nell out of your Covent Garden studio for a night, impact on the tangent arcs aside, I could hardly say no.”
“That was a brilliant idea. With the painting in hand, Charles will sign the edict and Ursula will get my name. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”
“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “I wish I’d known before.”
“I just hope Stephen doesn’t notice the painting’s absence. Mertons says he’ll have it back to London tomorrow and on its way to Charles the next.”
“That Mertons… He’s an enigma.”
“I’ve decided he’s a romantic at heart. Besides, he told me the Guild was in such disarray when he broke the news last night—had to roust the chairman out of his bed at midnight—he probably could have reversed the outcome of the Thirty Years’ War and no one would have noticed.”
“Do you think Nell will mind?”
“I doubt it. Her nakedness has been well admired over the years, and there have been, shall we say, countless monuments erected to it. One naked painting more or less will not be missed by our Miss Gwyn.”
Cam laughed and then shivered, remembering the monument that had been erected to her last night in Peter’s warm, dark bed. She still didn’t know if Anastasia was going to get the executive directorship, and it didn’t matter. She’d told Packard last night her resignation stood, and Ball immediately offered her twice the salary to curate his stuff. “My own museum,” he’d said to her dreamily. “I’m seeing ‘The Ball Collection’ in big lights. Tasteful, but big.”
“Can I get a peek?” she said, and Peter obliged by turning the easel. What had been Barbara Villiers and then Nell was now Cam, the reddish brunette waves interwoven with orange and gold, the nose made just a touch more retroussé, and the gray eyes streaked with blue. It was amazing what could be altered with a few masterful touches of paint.
“But if you’re only changing the face,” she said, “I don’t understand why you needed me naked under here.” She gazed down at the black dressing gown she held tightly around her.
Spots of color appeared on his cheeks. “Hmm, aye, that’s a fair question. Well, when Charles asked for a painting of you in a, um, mythological setting in exchange for signing the marriage edict, he was quite clear he wanted everything to be as accurate as possible.”
“Everything?” Cam repeated, confused.
“Everything.” Peter’s eyes trailed down the gown, and a small, shameless curve appeared on his mouth.
“Ah. I see. I should think at this point you could do it from memory.�
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“One might think that, that is, if one didn’t recall that you were clothed from the waist down the first two times we made love and bathed in darkness the third. I beg you not to consider this a complaint,” he added quickly, “but there is a certain question with women of your coloring as to what, er, shade would be appropriate.” He looked at his palette, embarrassed.
“Is there?” she said drolly.
“Oh, indeed there is. There is cinnabar, red ochre, raw umber, and even ivory black—any or all could be required. That’s the question men—I mean artists—grapple with. All of this you’ll learn when we begin your lessons.”
“My lessons? I wasn’t aware I needed any lessons.”
“In certain areas, no. In fact, in certain areas I would almost defer to your expertise.”
“Almost?” She smiled.
“But in painting, aye. Your work shows good promise, and I will teach you to be great. Peaches, plums, and oranges to the end of your day, milady. We shall be overrun with still lifes.”
She grinned. The Ball Collection with Jeanne as her assistant and painting lessons with Peter. Could life be more perfect?
“But for now…” He tilted his head toward the gown.
Cam flushed to her toes. She took a deep breath, stood, and turned away. She fumbled with the belt. She could feel his gaze on her and the heat that always comes from sporting at the edge of danger. The belt fell loose, and she brushed the flaps of the gown open. Screwing up her courage, she lowered her shoulders and let the gown slip.
“Ah.”
She caught the silk on her wrists before it fell completely and looked over her shoulder at him. “What?”
His eyes danced over the view this movement had bestowed upon him. “The blackness of the gown will turn you gray. Toss it over there, please.”
The basket where he pointed seemed a long way away. Nonetheless, she tossed the gown and turned.
And with a deeply contented smile that made her smile as well, Peter reached for the cinnabar.
Order Gwyn Cready’s third book
in the Sirens of the Scottish Borderlands series
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