Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  The urge to bolt from the room faded as he kept his eyes on her. “If that’s the worst, I can’t complain. But I’d prefer not to demonstrate any more of my humanity, so let’s hope I can keep my elbows out of the gravy boat.”

  “A reasonable goal, Mr. Hastings.” She resumed her seat, and he took his.

  It was humbling to think of all the social graces he’d lost and never mourned until this moment. The meal seemed far more daunting than it had a few minutes ago, but Josiah wasn’t about to forgo her company. “Well, let’s see if we can make enough of a mark on this feast so that Mrs. Clay is satisfied! She is a true favorite of mine, and my friends, and I hope you don’t find her too … motherly. Rutherford growls all the time about getting too soft under her care, but he’s not exactly rushing out to find another place to live.”

  “She mentioned him. She said something odd about him being her ‘own dear mystery.’ And since you spoke of him earlier, I take it that Mr. Rutherford is your friend as well, then.”

  Josiah nodded. “He is. One of my closest, in fact. But Rutherford would never forgive me if he found out that I’d made him the subject of conversation, much less divulged any of his secrets to please a lady.”

  “Do you know his secrets?” she asked.

  “Mutton?” Josiah held up a platter, redirecting the conversation. “I’m starving, aren’t you?”

  Eleanor laughed and accepted the ceramic platter. “Very well. I will ask you about your painting and you can tell me when we’ll begin.”

  “Agreed.” He held out his hand. “I’ll send a carriage for you in the morning.”

  She gasped in shock at the speed of the arrangement but took his hand shyly to seal her fate. Josiah shook it as solemnly as a bishop and allowed himself to hope.

  Chapter

  7

  “This is your home?” She tried not to sound leery of the building as she leaned forward to peek out of the carriage window. For instead of the hackney carriage coming to some residential square and pulling up in front of a brownstone or house, the driver had traveled eastward into the city and stopped in front of what could only be described as an industrial brick ruin.

  “Such as it is.” He opened the carriage door and settled with the driver, tipping him generously for his patience. “I live and work on the top two floors, and my steward and his wife have a portion of the third.”

  He held his hand out to help her down from the carriage. “Please.”

  She took his hand, reluctantly leaving the sanctuary of the carriage behind. “You live here?”

  He smiled. “I believe I just said that.” He tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his arm, and then gestured grandly with his other hand like a man proudly showing off a local landmark. “Don’t let her rough looks fool you! She’s seen better days, but she’s as sound as Gibraltar and has a good deal of character. Why would I want to live in an ordinary brownstone when I can have five stories of solitude? Well”—he amended the description—“near solitude. As I said, there’s old Escher and his wife.”

  “It’s … charming.” It wasn’t, but Eleanor wasn’t sure what to say. She’d never heard of anyone living in such a place. She shook her head, newly concerned about his judgment. “Do all artists prefer—unique living spaces?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t asked my peers what they prefer.” He began to lead her inside through a broken rusted gate and into a small paved brick courtyard. “The bell doesn’t work, but I don’t have a lot of callers. Few people know that’s it’s not still abandoned, but Rutherford is insisting that I hire a man to stay on the ground floor for security.”

  “A reasonable suggestion.”

  “It’s not that rough! I don’t need protection. You should know that I met Michael in India while I was there, and he’s like a big, protective elder brother or a nanny—though I would never say as much to him directly.” He shrugged, as if uncomfortable. “One of the benefits of being disowned, Miss Beckett, is that a man can choose his family and affiliations as he wishes.”

  She nodded, her chest feeling tight with emotion. It was a benefit she’d never considered, and as an orphan, it occurred to her that she, too, now enjoyed the privilege of selecting the people she wanted to hold dear. But it seemed a bittersweet reward, at best. “I look forward to meeting him, then.”

  He opened a large, thick front door for her, and her breath caught in her throat. Behind its plain exterior, his home did possess a certain interest of its own. He’d lit a great wrought iron lamp that hung from the massive beam across the room’s center, and she realized that the entire front wall of the room was a series of large doors that would have opened up to give the work floor light and ventilation. Ornate old-fashioned touches of stonework graced the arched doorways and spoke of more prosperous days before the structure had been damaged and scorched. It was the skeleton of a factory, with machinery along the north wall in disrepair all covered in cobwebs, and she began to hope that the upper floors were a little more livable. “Was there a fire here?”

  “Yes, several years ago. It was a bit of a bargain because of the damage, but the top floors are restored and renovated. I just can’t seem to decide what to do with the rest of it.”

  “There are so many poor laborers desperate for work. If you can afford it, you should do something, if only to help others feed their families during these hard times.” She reached her hand up to touch one of the empty iron frames. “It seems a waste to do nothing.”

  She dropped her hand from the metal bars, horrified at the awkward silence that answered her thoughtless remarks. It wasn’t her place to lecture any man on what he should or shouldn’t do, and especially one who had rescued her from the edge of the abyss. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hastings. I spoke out of turn. It’s a terrible habit.”

  “You spoke from the heart.” He moved to the bottom of the stairs and held out his hand. “It’s a habit you should practice as often as you can. But come, Miss Beckett. Let me show you the workshop above and you can see where we’ll be working together.”

  The climb up several flights of stairs was invigorating enough to make her appreciate her first-floor accommodations at Mrs. Clay’s, but Mr. Hastings made several diplomatic stops to describe a bit of architecture or point out the views from the windows set at each landing.

  “And this is my studio,” he said, pushing open a set of carved double doors.

  Eleanor walked through, and found herself speechless. It was a vast unfinished room under the building’s roof. It was empty of almost everything but a few tables covered with candles and a dais with a large upholstered fainting couch wide enough for two atop it, arranged near the garret windows. She eyed the couch warily but had to admit that it didn’t seem out of place. Beautiful narrow columns of cast iron connected to cutout arched beams and steel girders that gave the room the look of an industrial Gothic cathedral.

  Instead of feeling barren or lifeless, Eleanor marveled at the peacefulness and airy welcome of the space. Stacks of paintings leaned against the eastern wall, drawing her eyes to the unexpected splashes of color. She walked over to view them, the sound of her heels on the unpolished wooden floors echoing in her ears.

  “Those are much earlier, some of them.” He trailed behind her, his hands clasped behind him without any of the bravado that he’d shown downstairs. “Rough bits and experiments better left unseen, most likely.”

  She tried to hide her amazement and admiration for the strange and wonderful works of art. There were landscapes and still life studies unlike any she’d seen. Not that she had any vast education in fine art, but she wondered what a miracle it must be to see the world through the filter of an artist’s eyes. There was a precision to some of the paintings that convinced the eye that the grapes on the glass plate were ripe enough to pluck and eat. But another stack of work was far more raw, as if color and undefined brushstrokes alone could convey the loneliness of a landscape or the texture of a drop of cloth.

  Th
ere was even a bizarre portrait of a small child sleeping in a doorway, but every hue was a different shade of blue, like a melancholy dance of blue and gray that made her worried for that child and aware of how lost he looked. She’d never even imagined the world in one singular color, but there it was, as if emotion alone dictated vision.

  She looked up at him with new respect and speculation. “I had no idea.”

  “What were you expecting, Miss Beckett?”

  “Truthfully?”

  He smiled, his stance relaxing a bit. “I prefer it when you speak directly.”

  “I thought there would be pictures of women. Naked women. I had lectured myself on the ride here on not being shocked if I were to walk into a room where I might struggle to find a safe place to rest my gaze.”

  “I see.” He was struggling not to laugh, and Eleanor liked this side of him. He never looked at her with censure, and made it far too easy to say whatever she wished.

  She did her best to steer the conversation away from such a scandalous topic, but her own curiosity outwitted her. “I’m simply pointing out that there are no paintings of women. Not a single one, Mr. Hastings.”

  “Isn’t that better? Having a variety of safe places to rest your eyes?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure.” Instead of comforting her, the notion was unsettling.

  “What are you thinking over there, Miss Beckett? You look as serious as a woman composing her last prayer.”

  “There are no women, even wearing clothes.” She turned to face him, hating the blush that made her feel like a shrew for answering so honestly. “Or did you tuck away some of your paintings to protect my sensibilities?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. Although there might be a few downstairs in my apartments, but it wasn’t to protect your delicate nature.”

  “No?”

  He crossed his arms defensively. “I haven’t painted a female model in a long time. And until I saw you fly out of the back doorway of that dress shop, I didn’t think I would.”

  “Why ever not?”

  He didn’t answer her right away, his gaze turning back to the paintings sitting on the floor.

  “I apologize. I’ve lost some of my social polish in these recent months,” she said.

  “I doubt that. But again, don’t amend your ways for me. A veneer of good behavior rarely makes for great conversation, Miss Beckett.”

  “You are polite, Mr. Hastings, and I like your conversation very much.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not always polite, but thank you for the compliment. Now, there is a coat rack there, if you’d like to be more comfortable. I’ll hang it up for you. I know the room is a bit chilly, but I have a brazier set up near my worktable, so I’ll do my best to keep you warm.”

  Eleanor allowed him to help her with her coat, and then removed her bonnet. “How will this work precisely? Will I come every day or …”

  “I’ll send a carriage for you when I wish to paint, and naturally, provide one to take you back to the inn whenever a session is finished.”

  “When did you wish to start?”

  “Now.”

  “Oh.” She tried not to sound surprised. After all, the man had every right and she’d already agreed to everything, but Eleanor suddenly felt nervous at the prospect. “And how exactly do you wish me to … be?”

  He smiled. “I have things arranged here, by the windows. I know it seems a bit odd, but I brought out a comfortable chaise lounge and some pillows. If you’ll but sit there for a minute, I can better decide how to proceed.”

  “So, I just sit.”

  “I’m not sure if you sound disappointed or shocked at the notion, Miss Beckett.”

  “No! I’m”—she tried to take a steadying breath, hoping she didn’t look like some fearful little ninny—“relieved. I was afraid you’d ask me to dance about.”

  “I think I’ve challenges enough without trying to capture you in motion. But dance, did you say?” He looked at her as if considering this exciting new idea.

  “I am not dancing.”

  “It would be modern, but we’ll just have you sit, shall we?” Josiah did his best to pretend disappointment, secretly surprised at his body’s reaction to the notion of the delightful Miss Eleanor Beckett shrugging off her proper ways and dancing just for him. It was out of the question, but a singularly wicked thought.

  “It may take a while to find exactly the pose we want. But I don’t wish the portrait to be ordinary, Miss Beckett. I will have to wait for exactly the right moment.”

  “The right moment?”

  “For inspiration to strike. But don’t worry. It will happen.”

  “You sound so sure!” She nervously touched her hair, tucking yet another small stray curl back into place. “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we shall have spent a good deal of hours waiting for it, and I will pay you as a forfeit when time runs out.” He wasn’t worried in the slightest. Hell, he was already inspired and the woman was standing there in what was probably her better dress for a visit but it was clear that a forest green gabardine day dress wasn’t the stuff of dreams that any artist would swoon over. Even so …

  “Here, Miss Beckett. Just try sitting facing the worktable and my easel for a moment.”

  She dutifully stepped up onto the dais and took her place on the divan, landing as primly as a duchess. She smoothed out her skirts and then waited expectantly.

  He moved the brazier, for her comfort but also to make sure he didn’t forget himself and kick it over if he needed to cross over to adjust her position. Josiah dismissed the gray fog that had threatened to be particularly thick today in his peripheral, and instead concentrated on her face. He lit all the candles he could on the table and then looked back to assess the change in light.

  It was astonishing.

  Even with her hair pulled back, he could see the fire reflected in each copper strand, and her eyes radiated calm beauty. “If you don’t mind, Miss Beckett, I’m going to move behind you and see if we can’t improve things with a backdrop.”

  From the wall, he picked up a rope he’d been using for drapery and stretched it across from a latch on the window to a nearby column behind her. Over the rope, he tossed a length of black fabric like a loose curtain and then walked back around to survey her again.

  “Am I improved?” she asked.

  “It’s helped quite a bit. Now the light is reflected back off the dark surface and isn’t lost into the room.” He tilted his head to one side, studying the way the light fell across her face. “Can you turn more to me?”

  She turned obediently, and once more he moved behind her, this time at a much more intimate distance.

  “May I?”

  She nodded, and he gently pressed his hand between her shoulder blades, so that she was leaning forward a scant inch more. His hand brushed against her back, and his sensitive fingers detected what could only be described as a most industrial-strength steel-ribbed corset. He smiled behind her. This was not a woman who risked her virtue with light laces and whalebone. “What a lovely posture you possess, Miss Beckett.”

  “You’re mocking me, Mr. Hastings.”

  “Just a little.” He stepped back and caught her smiling in return. “If we’re to spend a good deal of time together, I think it bodes well if we can laugh together.”

  “I thought art was a serious business.”

  “Now who’s mocking who?”

  She laughed outright, a proper woman shedding for just a moment the restraint of etiquette, and Josiah’s breath stopped in his throat at the raw beauty of her.

  “Do you just … begin painting when the mood strikes you?”

  “I’ll sketch you first. I’ll make several sketches on paper until I’m confident enough to approach the canvas. I’ll sketch a bit on the larger frame, and then, yes, I suppose, it’s as simple as that. I just paint.”

  “I didn’t mean to belittle the process. We had a neighbor that had
his portrait made and I was always curious about it. He was such an … unattractive man, but that shouldn’t matter, I suppose. For posterity’s sake?”

  Aren’t you the most unique woman? I love how that mind looks out at the world. “If only people stopped to consider aesthetics before they insisted on their great uncle Walter being painted.” He sat on the edge of the table, leaning against it to stretch out his legs for a moment. “I’ve seen too many commissioned portraits of people now long dead that did little more than frighten their young descendants with eyes that followed you no matter where you stood. Hell, I think I even stooped to painting one or two myself when I needed the money!”

  She frowned at his language, but the sparkle in her eyes told him she’d appreciated the jest all the same. “You never did! And I’ll kindly ask you not to make me look too frightening.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He crossed his arms and tried to broach a more delicate subject while she was at ease. “Can you … bring what clothes you have tomorrow to see if we can choose something for the work?”

  She smiled. “I warn you now, there’s nothing of magic in my wardrobe. I have but three dresses and”—her humor faltered a bit—“and one of those is out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “It is that wretched red velvet dress, and I’m not about to be painted in scarlet!”

  “I see.” He bit his lower lip, mulling over the problem. “A shame, as you would look stunning in it, Miss Beckett. I know the color has its associations. …”

  “I’ll look like a harlot! That isn’t an association, Mr. Hastings. That is a fact.”

  “You aren’t a harlot. That is a fact. If someone puts you in purple, it doesn’t make you an empress.”

  His logic was infallible, but Eleanor was having trouble accepting it or admitting that she was teetering on agreement.

  “But,” he went on, “if the red troubles you that much, we’ll simply have to see about buying you some new clothes and—”

  “No. Absolutely not! You are not … I will not have a man buying me clothes. The shopkeeper would insinuate—it isn’t appropriate for a woman to accept such things from a stranger.”