by Allegra Gray
Well, she’d thought irreverently, thank heaven they’d only been observed in public conversation.
Bea could recall nothing particularly scandalous about the few moments they’d been outside, long enough only to climb the stairs and wait for the butler to open the door. Had she somehow given herself away—stood too close, or gazed too directly? Whoever reported for this morning’s column must have thought so.
Amazingly, a full hour had passed before Beatrice’s mother, Lady Margaret Russell, had arrived on Bea’s doorstep in high dudgeon.
They’d barely made it to the family salon before her mother rounded on her, eyes blazing.
“Please, have a seat, Mama,” Bea said, mustering both stamina and patience for what was to come.
Lady Russell waved a sheet of paper in her direction. Bea recognized it immediately as that morning’s gossip sheet. “I’m far too agitated to sit just yet. Why, Sarah is yet unmarried. How can we hope to make her a respectable match when the talk of the ton is your scandalous behavior?”
“Mother, surely you are overreacting. You know how the gossips are. Truly, there is nothing so harmful in that paper.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Overreacting?” Lady Russell’s chest puffed with indignation.
Bea sighed and tried a different tack. “So what if I have attracted Monsieur Durand’s attention? It is of little consequence.”
“I beg to differ. Half of London is speculating as to how far that attraction has gone. They know you are sitting for him, but what else might you be doing?”
“Half of London is jealous,” Bea countered. Thank God her mother hadn’t the slightest comprehension of what else Bea had been doing. Lady Russell would not have cared in the least that the British Foreign Secretary himself had requested Bea’s help—or that her extraordinarily unladylike behavior may actually have helped ensure the downfall of a rogue Emperor, and saved the life of her good friend.
Bea sighed and stuck to what her mother would comprehend. “I’ve been asked to sit for a famous painter. Most of the women who speak so scathingly do so because they were not extended the same invitation.”
“And why is that, do you think?”
“I cannot say, Mother, but surely you would not have had me turn him down.”
Lady Russell pursed her lips. “Do not try to deflect me, Beatrice. I know you too well to believe you’ve done no more than pose innocently to be painted. What I don’t understand is why? You’ve always been a good girl, respectable. I should have known the tide was turning when you insisted upon living alone. Who ever heard of such a thing?”
The familiar twinges of guilt pricked her, but Bea pushed them away. That was the old Bea—and the old Bea had never had any fun. “As I said, Mother, there is no cause for such concern. Just consider. A year ago no one would even speak to Elizabeth Medford. Yet all that has long since been forgotten, and she is at the pinnacle of society.”
“Exactly.” Her mother leaned forward. “Elizabeth Bainbridge’s scandalous behavior earned her a marriage proposal from a duke. A risk, to be sure, but not an unwise one. But you, daughter, are having an affair with a commoner. ’Tis hardly comparable.”
Bea’s hands fisted in her skirts, but she raised her head and looked her mother straight in the eye. “Philippe is hardly common. In fact, he is the least common man I have ever met. He’s incredibly talented and intelligent. His work is revered throughout Europe. Is nobility all that matters to you? Titles and stuffy responsibility? Well, I’ve done all that for you once, Mother. It never brought me happiness.”
Lady Russell was silent for a moment. Then slowly, she seemed to deflate. “It was never my intent to cause you unhappiness, Bea.”
Some of Bea’s ire dissipated as well. “I know, Mama.”
“Still, I can hardly condone you flaunting your indiscretions before all of Society.”
Bea sighed. “Mother, I refuse to promise you I won’t speak with Philippe, or meet him. After all, there is his painting to complete. But I shall endeavor not to, as you say, ‘flaunt my indiscretions.’”
“Well. That is something, I suppose. I’d best take my leave. I promised Sarah a trip to the milliner’s today.”
Bea saw her mother to the door with an awkward embrace. Relief settled over her. They would never see eye to eye on this matter, but she’d stood her ground. And she’d made it clear she would see Philippe again. Given his abrupt departure the previous day, she hoped that was true. Her heart couldn’t bear it if it wasn’t.
Philippe settled into Lord Owen’s London home, going through the motions of arranging the studio: setting up canvasses and laying out brushes. The sunny breakfast nook-turned-studio offered excellent light. But he did not invite Bea over for a sitting.
He knew she hadn’t actually betrayed him. Yet logic had nothing to do with the betrayal in his heart. How could Bea have kept such a secret from him?
He could understand—to a point—why she’d felt unable to tell him about her work for the British government. But why would she hide the fact that she wrote poetry?
Little things made sense now…the Wordsworth poem she’d quoted that captured the exact sentiment of finding the abandoned rose garden…or, for that matter, the way she’d known, intuitively, how to guide him to exactly the perfect place in which to set her portrait. Had she been secretly laughing at him as he called her a muse, knowing that in truth, she was a fellow creator?
Once again, he’d been left out. She’d told him now, but how could he trust himself to love a woman when every time he turned around, she’d assumed a new identity?
And he did love her. Unlike the reserved English, the French did not hesitate to put a name to their passions. They were also aware that love often brought as much sorrow as joy. Love could be unrequited, love could be torn apart by wars and death…or by distrust. Oh, he’d fallen in love with Beatrice Pullington, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. He wasn’t even really sure who she was.
As for what she’d written, that was no mere dabbling of a poem. She wasn’t the first woman to present him with a poem, but usually such gifts were copied from another author, or at best, amateur attempts that bordered between trite and foolish. Bea’s poem was night to their day. She had talent, deep and pure.
How had he failed, so utterly, to recognize that in her? He, who prided himself on seeing beneath the surface, then rendering what he saw in his art? Yet he’d failed the two most important women in his life.
And if Beatrice Pullington could keep that from him, what else might she be hiding?
The trouble with living with family, Philippe soon discovered, was that they were nosy. Or at least Henry Owen was.
On the surface, the living arrangements proved less awkward than Philippe had anticipated. The house was roomy enough for two men accustomed to their own space, though Philippe’s use of the breakfast room left the formal dining room the only available place for actually serving breakfast. One stilted morning of that, and both men had taken to simply having trays in their rooms.
It was one thing to move in with a father you’d never known, but quite another to figure out what to say to him before one’s first cup of coffee—or tea, in the Englishman’s case.
No, the problem was not lack of space. It was the obvious lack of progress on Philippe’s painting.
And unlike most men, his father did not avoid discussing such topics. Philippe could enjoy a game of cards with Robert Wilbourne, or a fencing match with Alex Bainbridge, without fear of either friend prying too deeply into his thoughts. But Henry Owen, in his efforts to make up for lost time, had abandoned the rules that normally governed the interactions of men.
On the third day of his stay, Philippe was puttering aimlessly in the studio when his father tapped lightly on the door and joined him, coming to stand in front of the easel where he’d propped the beginnings of Bea’s painting.
The older man studied the canvas. “You have made little progre
ss of late.”
“I have made no progress at all,” Philippe admitted. “I haven’t been working on it.”
“Ah.” Henry Owen rocked back on his heels, using his cane for balance. “Where is Lady Pullington? Not ill, I hope.”
“I canceled our session.”
“I see,” Lord Owen said, and Philippe had the feeling he did.
Henry took a seat in the one padded chair remaining in the room, set off in a corner. There would be no escape from this conversation. Philippe tried to summon irritation at the man’s continued presence, but found it wasn’t in him.
Instead, he went back to puttering—polishing palette knives, organizing stacks of sketches that didn’t need organizing.
“She has disappointed you in some way,” his father speculated.
“Not disappointed, exactly,” Philippe answered, uncannily aware that his father’s choice of the seat in the corner allowed them to speak without actually looking at one another. The old man was a smart devil. Philippe set down a tiny jar of pigment. “She’s a poet,” he announced, as though that explained everything.
“A poet,” his father repeated.
“Exactly.” He shoved the jar of pigment an inch to the right, then decided that didn’t please him either, and moved it two inches to the left. He dared a glance at his father, who leaned back in the chair, seeming perfectly relaxed.
“I didn’t know she was a poet,” Philippe admitted.
“Ah.” Now there was a note of understanding in the older man’s response.
“An extraordinary one, no less. And I don’t think anyone else knows.”
“A Gaudet among poets, as it were?” his father asked.
Philippe renewed his appreciation for the old man’s superior perceptiveness, for now he knew exactly why Bea’s revelation bothered him so.
“She wrote this.” He handed the poem, which he’d kept on his person for the past three days, to his father.
Henry read in silence for a few minutes, then looked up. Philippe waited. “Talent, yes,” his father said softly, “as well as an incredible tribute. She loves you.”
“She keeps secrets from me,” Philippe argued. “How can one love and not trust?”
“You walked away, didn’t you.”
It was more statement than question. As such, Philippe didn’t bother to confirm the fact.
Lord Owen shook his head. “The young are ever blind. She came to you, did she not? Tried to share with you, something that obviously meant a great deal to her, and what did you do? Rejected her for attempting to do the very thing you say you wanted her to do.”
Philippe frowned and busied himself once more with the many jars and artist’s tools spread on the table. “When you put it that way…”
Both men grew quiet. Having run out of things to organize, Philippe selected a sketchbook and charcoal. His father didn’t appear to be going anywhere, so Philippe began sketching him.
The older man raised a brow, then shrugged. As Philippe sketched, he began talking again. “I walked away from the woman I loved. It is the curse of the old, to vainly hope the young will learn from the mistakes of past generations rather than making their own. I know that. But I cannot sit idly by and watch it done without at least commenting on the folly. The price of loneliness is terribly high.”
Philippe continued sketching.
“Did you ever think she might be scared?”
“Who?”
“Your lady friend. Or, for that matter, your mother.”
“Scared?” Philippe frowned.
“Not everyone is like you.”
“What do you mean?”
His father smiled. “You live, and thrive, in the public eye. Many do not. Just as nature has many forms, so do people—as an artiste you already know this, and celebrate it. But as a man?” He paused. “Permit me to be frank.”
“You already are,” Philippe grunted.
Lord Owen chuckled. “True. I am too old for polite trivialities. So I will simply say this: It is time you forgive your mother.”
“Pardon?”
“Solange hurt you by keeping secrets, but I sincerely doubt that was ever her intention. She did everything in her life out of love for you. Her marriage, giving up art—I see now she did those things in order to offer her child a stable home.” At Philippe’s look of skepticism, he added, “Or as stable as possible, given the turmoil of the past few decades in your country. She gave you that.”
Philippe waited, unable to deny his mother had done much to cater to his childhood and later, his budding career.
“Even if you were shaken to discover your roots,” Lord Owen indicated himself with a rueful smile, “were not what you thought, you must know that it was her love that gave you a strong enough foundation not to be destroyed by that.”
“Why was she so determined to hide her past?” Philippe protested. “Surely it was nothing to be ashamed of. Her work was brilliant. She knew how much I admired Gaudet, how much art meant to me, and yet she held back.”
Lord Owen smiled gently. “Perhaps she wished to put the past behind her. She was an artiste, with child and alone. Her work carried a small following, but not one as great as that her son would one day enjoy. I believe she saw Richard Durand’s marriage offer as a rescue, an escape, and that she did not understand the sacrifice he asked her to make until much later.”
“I could never make such a choice—to turn my back on the very core of my soul?”
“Could you not, in her position?”
Philippe was silent.
Lord Owen sighed. “You may not understand her choices, but you must never doubt her love for you.”
“How can I not?” His life had been built on lies.
“Painting was, undoubtedly, difficult for your mother to abandon. In fact, Solange did complete one last painting, though not under the name of Gaudet.”
Philippe raised his head, curiosity piqued. “Under her own?”
“No. In fact, she chose not to share the work with the world at all.”
“How do you know this? I thought you never saw her after her marriage.” And why had he never mentioned it before? Philippe refrained from asking the last question aloud—he’d learned Henry Owen was a man apt to reveal more in his own time than if pressed for information before he was ready.
“I did not see her. But a mention of the painting was in her last letter to me—a missive whose significance I did not comprehend until you arrived on my doorstep thirty years later. I did not respond to that letter.”
“Why?”
“It was painful to think she had moved on. She had not, of course. She had entered willingly, but blindly, into a trap—but her soul remained the same. That I did not respond when she last reached out to me—it is yet another regret to add to an old man’s list.”
“The painting. Where is it now?”
He shook his head. “I know not.”
“The subject matter? Have you any idea?”
“Yes.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “It was you. She could not give up art without at least once painting her son.”
Philippe swallowed. It was, perhaps, evidence of his mother’s love. But love and trust did not always go hand in hand. As an artist he might appreciate the mystery of the fairer sex, but when that mystery crossed the bounds into his personal life, the matter was different. If he hadn’t known his mother, had he truly loved her?
And then there was Beatrice. She meant more to him than he’d ever anticipated; he’d been on the brink of declaring his love just before discovering he hadn’t known her, either.
Or had he? His temple throbbed.
“I’d rather not discuss this any longer.”
“Huh.” Lord Owen grunted. Slowly he stood, gripping his cane. “I’ll respect your wishes, for now. I realize I’ve no right to give fatherly lectures. But I trust you’ll think about what I’ve said.”
Philippe thought about it. Though by nightfall, as he dressed for an evening at W
hite’s, he had found no answers—except on one point. Actually, two. The first was simple. He needed a drink. Several of them, preferably. The second was a bit more complicated. He needed to return to France, to sort through his mother’s belongings and claim her last painting. He prayed he would find it.
As far as forgiveness, there was nothing to be gained in holding grudges against the dead. Whatever her faults, his mother had done her best by him.
Beatrice Pullington, quietly respectable widow, passionate lover, intrepid spy, and brilliant poet, was another matter entirely. About her, he remained as confused as ever.
Hence the need for a drink. He’d agreed to meet Lords Stockton and Garrett at White’s for an evening of cards. In need of a third, they’d invited him, in spite of his admitted lack of skill at gaming. And since Philippe fully intended to get drunk, he didn’t think the question of skill mattered anyway.
Philippe was about halfway to drunk, and two thirds of the way to losing a fortune, when their table was approached by a uniformed constable—not a common occurrence at the respectable gentlemen’s club. The three men shot each other questioning glances.
The constable cleared his throat. “Monsieur Durand. Might I have a word with you?”
Philippe excused himself from the table, a sense of foreboding mixing unpleasantly with the liquor he’d consumed.
“Monsieur Durand, you are wanted for questioning by the British Foreign Office.”
“Pardon?” He’d already been questioned. The Foreign Secretary himself had been satisfied with Philippe’s accounting of rescuing Charity, and outside of that single incident, neither France nor England’s government had ever shown the slightest interest in him.
“You are wanted for questioning,” the constable repeated. “You are a French citizen with known political associations that are of concern to my country’s officials.”