Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  All the doors were open to each and every room, but as he methodically walked through each room, Josiah made the same discovery again and again.

  Nothing is touched. Nothing out of place.

  A chill slid down his spine at the strange idea that it had been ghosts, but Josiah shook off the sensation. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he quietly commanded, to be answered with a silence so loud it made his chest ache.

  In his bedroom, Josiah began to cross over to his dresser only to trip over an unexpected object someone had deliberately set in the middle of the floor. He knelt down and realized it was the ornate wooden jewelry chest set. Heart pounding he opened it, only for his fingers to encounter the smooth, unmistakable weight of rope after rope of pearls and the silk bags holding the loose undrilled larger orbs he’d saved for barter.

  It’s all here. As if these were useless trinkets. …

  Josiah lifted a handful of the cold pearls to the throbbing heat at his temples, trying to soothe the storm of his thoughts and emotions.

  No sense. This doesn’t make any sense. Why carry it downstairs?

  But then a new thought seized him.

  Josiah retraced his steps, racing up the stairs to the studio, his fingertips gliding along the banister. The pitch-black didn’t hinder him, but he slowed as he reached the landing.

  The painting. If it’s destroyed, then so am I.

  The door to the studio was wide open, a soft glow emanating from within. Josiah deliberately moved toward its source, experiencing in a new way the challenges of the solid black curtain that obscured his vision. Slivers of light revealed the direction of his steps until he finally surmised the details of the surprise waiting for him.

  It was the small bronze statuette of the Hindu goddess perched on a wooden platter in front of a single dancing flame, while behind her, one of his canvases served as a backdrop. He tilted his head to try to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

  My shrine. My little makeshift shrine is … here? They’ve moved it and lit the oil lamp and even the flowers. Why?

  “Thank God!” Escher’s voice interrupted his thoughts and Josiah didn’t have the energy to chastise him for ignoring his express orders to remain below stairs.

  “Yes. A miracle they didn’t take anything.”

  “Not that, sir. The paintings. They didn’t spoil them. Although I’m not sure what this lot is doing up here out of your rooms. But look here. Miss Beckett in the pearls! Oh, dear!” his tone changed, dismay flooding his words. “They smudged it, those ghostly devils!”

  “Smudged it?” Josiah scanned the work, unsure of what Samuel was seeing. He was fighting to translate what little he could and ignore the habit of a lifetime that dictated that he should look directly ahead to achieve his goals. “Where?”

  “There! Right on her dear face! What a shame!” Escher sighed.

  Josiah finally managed to see it by turning his head and glancing sideways, imagining that in doing so, he probably looked like a very bad imitation of a sly villain on the stage.

  On her face. That’s not a smudge. But that’s impossible. …

  The work in progress had barely started to take shape, as he’d sketched out his lovely Eleanor in pearls and layered in a few rudimentary colors. But a single delicate red smear in the shape of a man’s thumb print now rested on her forehead between her eyes. His English lady had been transformed into a Hindu goddess with the single touch of a stranger’s hand.

  “You can fix it, can’t you?” Escher asked at his elbow.

  He shook his head. It’s the sign of a blessing—not a curse.

  “I wouldn’t remove it for all the wealth of India, Mr. Escher.” He crossed his arms, lost in a new meditation. “Please leave me for now. Make sure your wife has Creed in hand and send for Dr. West if need be.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I—I’ll be going to the Grove.”

  “Yes, sir. Give the lady our very best,” Escher said and stepped back to allow Josiah to move past him. “Will you be fetching her back with you, then?”

  The question made every nerve ending in his body ache for a moment.

  Will I be fetching her back?

  So much has already been lost—and here is the crux of it.

  If I’m to win her back, I’ll have to lose one more thing.

  “It will be up to the lady, Escher.” Josiah began to walk down the stairs. “We’ll see.”

  Chapter

  30

  Getting to the Grove proved nearly as challenging as surviving the Thistle, much to Josiah’s chagrin. He’d forgotten that he’d sent Eleanor back with the hired carriage. Unable to see very well on a dark London street, hailing a cab was nearly impossible. The humiliation of finally having to call for Escher’s help was a bitter taste of the daily medicine Josiah feared he would learn to take in the weeks ahead.

  Alone inside the carriage, Josiah realized he’d stubbornly then left Escher behind and was now faced with getting from the carriage safely inside the Grove, navigating its unfamiliar interior and finding Eleanor—forcing him to rethink his impulsive fantasy of demonstrating to her how capable and whole he still was.

  There goes my argument about being as much of a man as any other and winning her back in some smooth, seductive maneuver.

  As the horses pulled to a stop, he tried to take a calming breath to steady his nerves and instead realized that Rita hadn’t been exaggerating. The smell of charred wood and wool still clung to his skin, and when Josiah reached up to push a hand through his hair, the unmistakable sensation of soot on his scalp made it clear he probably looked like an oversize bootblack.

  Josiah put his head in his hands and wondered if any man had been asked to do more to prove his love. I’ve been shot at, nearly roasted alive, had my house broken into, and damned if my ears aren’t still ringing, which makes me think I might be deaf and blind before dawn if my luck holds. A grim smile tugged at his mouth and Josiah’s humor finally reasserted itself. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “There, there, now!” Mrs. Clay soothed, gently placing an arm around Eleanor’s shoulders. Dressed in her nightgown and robe, she’d intercepted Eleanor downstairs and escorted her with motherly concern up to her rooms. Apparently, she’d been waiting all along after Tally had come to fetch her following Eleanor’s panicked departure, keeping watch for her safe return. Now, the woman stayed to offer what comfort and counsel she could as they waited together for Josiah.

  “Why wait an hour? I should send word to his friends now and get back to him as quickly as I can!” Eleanor nervously touched the pearls at her throat. “It’s ridiculous to wait an hour. Why in the world do men say such things?”

  “Ah! If I knew the answer to that, I’d have more power than the Queen.” Mrs. Clay sighed. “And I don’t think she knows either! Her Majesty’s probably just as puzzled on occasion by her dear Albert as you are by your man.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Has it been an hour yet?”

  “He’ll come, just as you said, and then we’ll see what’s what. Mr. Hastings is a man of his word and … well, I won’t lie, miss. I can hardly wait to hear about these misadventures and see him for myself! What a hero to save you as he did, and what a delightful ruckus!”

  “Delightful?” Eleanor asked woefully. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Well, everyone’s no worse for it, and a good story like this will get a man a few free pints in any common room in England if you ask me!” Mrs. Clay smiled. “Not that it’s clear what anyone was doing at such an establishment as the Thistle at this hour, or how you got into the thick of things, but I’m glad to see you safe.”

  Eleanor stood, gently disengaging from Mrs. Clay’s maternal grasp. She moved to the washstand and poured out some fresh water to wash her face and hands, groaning at the sight of gray ash clouding the water and staining the towels. “I must look a fright!”

  “No worse than Tally after he dropped that can of ash in Mr.
Rutherford’s rooms,” Mrs. Clay assured her and crossed to tug at the bellpull by the fireplace. “I’ll have one of the kitchen maids bring up some more coal and a nice hot toddy to put a little bit of color into your cheeks.”

  “Please don’t awaken anyone at this hour! There’s plenty of coal, and honestly, Mrs. Clay, I’ve no interest in any more roaring fires.” Eleanor finished drying her hands, and then found herself unexpectedly bursting into tears. “He won’t come! S-something has happened, I just know it! The house was dark and … even if it was nothing, he’s too proud to come now! He’s thought it through and he’ll make a noble gesture to sacrifice—”

  “To sacrifice his pride?” Josiah supplied the ending from the open doorway. Tally peeked out from under his winter coat and then guided his charge into the room. “For I swear, my pride is the only casualty of the evening, apparently.”

  “Josiah!” Eleanor rushed to him, heedless of any thought but Josiah and his safety, openly weeping in relief. “Thank God! Was everything all right? Are you injured?”

  “I’m all right.” Josiah retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here, dearest. I’m not sure how clean it is after what we’ve been through tonight, but I cannot have you crying on my account.”

  She took it from him, and then turned away to wipe her face, blushing. “As I told you the day we met, I am not a woman that cries often, Mr. Hastings.”

  “It’s one of the things I admire about you most, Miss Beckett.” He started to shrug gingerly from his coat, wincing a little. “Though apparently, while I avoided injury, my poor fitness from so many hours standing at an easel has guaranteed me a few aches in the days to come. Someone will have to tell me again why I insisted I didn’t mind stairs.”

  “And the Eschers and poor Mr. Creed? Were they unharmed? Was it burglars?” Eleanor asked, her composure recovered as she tucked his handkerchief away in her pocket.

  “Nothing was taken,” Josiah assured her. “But there were intruders all the same. But it’s a matter for another day, and Rutherford will take over the subject tomorrow as soon as he gets word. The man lives for a chance to protect his friends.”

  Mrs. Clay’s reaction was almost as dramatic as she clasped her hands in joy. “Oh, Mr. Hastings! Oh, dear! You look—dreadful and as dirty as a stray dog after a mud bath! But I’m so pleased to see you’re here to relieve my poor Miss Beckett’s worries.” She readjusted her mobcap and walked over to pat him on the shoulder. “I’m going downstairs to start the water heating for a nice hot bath. Trust me, Mr. Hastings. I’ll see to everything, and my Tally and I will leave the two of you in peace for a while.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Clay,” Josiah said, releasing his gentle hold on her son and accepting the welcome gift of privacy. “You are the kindest woman I have ever known.”

  “It’s hardly appropriate for—” Eleanor began and then stopped herself. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “And I must thank Master Tally for his assistance. I’d have hated to burst in on the wrong guest room and been arrested as a burglar myself if left to my own devices.” He knelt down to try to look Tally in the eye. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Come, Tally! Leave the man to his lady!” Mrs. Clay blushed and retreated to the door, with a grinning Tally in tow. “Nonsense! Now the two will sort it out so that I can begin with the congratulations!” She shut the door before they could answer, and Eleanor’s cheeks felt warmer than they had at the Thistle at the realization that everyone had known of their relationship all along.

  “So much for all those carriage rides home to keep up appearances,” she said, pressing her hands against her face to try to stem the pink that was flooding her cheeks.

  “As tempting as it is to wait for this bath and the ministrations of my beautiful attendant, she’s right in that we should sort out this business between us, Eleanor.”

  “Josiah!”

  “It was pride, Eleanor. I should have told you about what was happening to me, but I didn’t want you to stay out of guilt or pity. It was stupid. I see that now,” he confessed, his back ramrod straight.

  “I should have seen it. I thought you didn’t trust me. I thought I wasn’t good enough to earn your love and respect—that I’d failed to reach you.”

  “You’ve had me from the first moment I saw you, Eleanor. You’ve been the mistress of my heart from that first day when you clutched that pitiful jewelry box and refused to come home with me.”

  “Then why did you say nothing? Even when I came that day … the money was meaningless. I’d only wanted to hear you say that you cared. Was it pride then, too?” she asked, taking a step closer to him.

  “As you can see … pride is a luxury I’ve lost. I haven’t any left.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Look at me, woman! I’m filthy! I’ve got twelve-year-olds leading me around like a large, sorrowful dog to make sure I don’t think too highly of myself. I have little to recommend myself, Eleanor. Blind artists aren’t exactly sought after.”

  “Blind? You said your sight was failing but that you could see well enough! You sent me off in that carriage and you faced intruders by yourself blind!” Eleanor was furious. “How could you?”

  “It was my last deception, and a necessary one. But I swear, I won’t ever lie to you again, Eleanor.”

  She stepped up to him, placing her hand on his chest as if to assure herself that he was real. “You swear it?”

  “Here’s my final bid, Eleanor. When the world went dark in that stairwell, I wasn’t even thinking of the paintings or colors or any of the earthly sights I’m going to miss. I was just thinking of you. And when I realized you were in that blaze, nothing else mattered. Not my pride, not legacies and ridiculous quests for immortality or truth and beauty; just you. You are everything I want, and without you, there’s nothing but darkness.”

  “And with me?”

  He smiled, a flash of his old humor returning. “I shall just cheerfully pretend I can’t afford candles and distract myself by endlessly exploring your body with my eyes closed.”

  She gasped, but he recognized the spark of heat that flared between them as she reached up to touch his face, the cool blades of her fingers soothing his skin. “How bad is it, honestly?”

  “It’s like a black cloth over my head, but there are small holes in the fabric. Here and there, I can see perfect little spots of the world, but they are too small to serve. I’m not sure … I’m wrenching my neck in every direction to try to peer through and see what’s in front of me, but—it’s bad enough, Eleanor. It’s bad enough to render me useless.”

  “You’re not useless. You can paint.”

  “I cannot think of it now. No, I can’t paint.”

  “You must.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to. If you can see anything, then you can see enough to try, Josiah Hastings. Promise me that you’ll at least try.”

  “And my reward for risking abject humiliation and committing aesthetic suicide?” he asked warily.

  “Me.”

  He tightened his arms around her, reveling in the feel of her against him. “I’d try sharpshooting for a reward like that.”

  “I love you, Josiah Hastings.”

  “Even if I’m blind?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Doesn’t it make some difference? If you’re to master your own fate, it hardly seems fitting to tie yourself to—”

  “The benefits far outweigh the disadvantages, Mr. Hastings. I won’t have you speaking meanly of yourself … and stop quoting me! It’s very cheeky of you, sir!”

  “What benefits?”

  “Well”—she paused as if to organize her thoughts—“you won’t see me age, so I will always be young in your mind. And since at least some of that pride is sure to linger, you’ll want me with you more often than not. I can be quite helpful at making sure you don’t purchase any more chestnuts for a guinea.”

  “I meant to do that!
” he protested lightly.

  “You did not!” She pressed a finger against his chest. “Josiah, may I remind you that seconds ago you swore not to lie to me ever again?”

  “Very well, I didn’t, but that’s not to say that I want to condemn you to a life of being chained to me like a dog, Eleanor.”

  “I … am … not … a … dog.” Each word was underlined with a brisk tap of her foot. “Did you come here to win me or not, Josiah Hastings? I said I loved you and have received nothing but arguments for it! You speak of sacrificing your pride, but I swear you are digging in as if to prove that you’re impossible enough to frighten me off!”

  He released her and stepped back to put a blackened hand on the back of one of the chairs. “I am making a mess of it, aren’t I? I was going to declare myself and beg you to marry me. But I can’t even see your face and I’m distracted by all of it—the smell of smoke, worry over your safety, and this Jackal nonsense and the price of chestnuts.” His grip tightened until she could see the white of his knuckles. “You said you loved me, Eleanor. It’s all I’ve wanted for weeks, but finally hearing it … I’ve never been so terrified in my life. And I’m including over a year in an Indian dungeon and this evening’s insane mishaps.”

  “Terrified?” Eleanor asked, gently moving closer to place her hand over his, soothing the tension of his hold on the fabric. “Am I so frightening a proposition?”

  “I can’t see what’s ahead of me, Eleanor. Literally and figuratively. What promises can an honorable man make? That day when Madame Claremont accused me of selfishly taking you for my own wicked ends, I hated her because a small part of me knew she was right. You were rightly suspicious of me, Eleanor. And now that this darkness has caught me at last, I’m afraid because I don’t know how I’m going to … be. A lifetime of practices and habits have deserted me.”

  “What are you saying, Josiah?”

  “What if I turn into a humorless troll? Banging about my factory building and bemoaning my fate?”