by Kelly, Julia
A long pause fraught with unasked questions stretched between them, broken only by the hum of machinery underfoot. Finally, Eva said, “I’ve resisted asking this of you for a very long time out of respect for your privacy, but tell me truthfully: what is between you and Miss Duncan?”
That question was the one that had been his constant companion for years, plaguing him most at night when the city was quiet and he was alone with his thoughts. For he was the idiot who’d fallen in love with his best friend.
It had happened so gradually he’d hardly noticed at first. He’d been young when he’d arrived in Edinburgh to lick his wounds after the disaster at Oak Park. Already out of Cambridge but green enough to still be mistaken for a student at the university, he’d struggled to find his place in the drawing rooms of the city’s fine houses and the salons of its preeminent intellectuals. But then, inexplicably, Arthur Duncan had heard through one of his few friends that Gavin was interested in Horatio McCulloch’s landscape paintings. The scholar had summoned him to his home, and the two men, one middle-aged and the other just out of school, had spent hours together debating the merits of Scottish genre painting versus historical works.
He’d met Ina when she knocked on the study door and asked her father about some minor detail of household management. Her father had been short with her, but she’d smiled at Gavin and he’d noticed a streak of white dust marred her otherwise presentable light blue skirts. Her father had muttered something about her playing at being an artist and then launched back into a screed against the Pre-Raphaelites.
It had been quite by coincidence that Gavin had stumbled upon Ina’s studio a few weeks later. The door to the servants’ stairs had been open, and he’d heard the repeated tap-tap-tap of chisel on stone and the soft swish of a rag smoothing dust away. Intrigued, he’d grabbed Cappleman, the Duncans’ butler, and asked about the sound.
“That would be Miss Ina in her studio,” Cappleman said. “If you’ll follow me, sir.”
Down the stairs they went until they passed the kitchen and stood in front of a half-open door.
“Mr. Barrett to see you, Miss Ina,” said Cappleman before stepping aside and revealing the room’s occupant.
Gavin would never forget his first glimpse of her in her studio. She stood over a twenty-inch-tall block of marble, dust clinging to every inch of her. A broad linen apron covered a set of plain old clothes, and her bright red hair was slipping out of the pins on top of her head. She was wild, unconfined, and utterly fascinating—a total departure from the put-together and polished ladies he’d known his whole life.
“Can I help you?” she’d asked, trying to push a lock of hair out of her face. All she succeeded in doing was smearing dust on her forehead.
“You’ve got a little . . .” He gestured to her forehead.
One tool in each hand, she glared at him. “Mr. Barrett, if I’m not covered in the stuff by the end of the day, my work has been a failure.”
He looked her over from head to toe and then nodded. “Then I’d say you’re succeeding spectacularly.”
There’d been a pause, and then Ina had burst into laughter. She was fresh air sweeping through a house that was somber with scholarly seriousness. With a grin, he’d dropped onto a little stool in the corner, and, although she’d complained she couldn’t work with him there, she was soon carving again.
Over the years, they’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm of friendship as he’d set about building himself a life in Edinburgh. She continued to cobble together classes from whichever artist was traveling through the city and willing to give an ambitious young woman his time. He wrote a novel. She carved her first truly accomplished piece—a small Venus that stood sixteen inches high and seemed to glow with vitality. Then, sometime after Ina’s eighteenth birthday, Gavin strode into her studio as on any other day and was struck by a horrible realization: his friend, mischief-making enabler, and confidante was quite beautiful. Arrestingly, heart-stoppingly, life-ruiningly so.
That day had been the first step in a long descent into hell.
Knowing that he had little to recommend him as a suitor and wary of risking their friendship by declaring his attraction, he’d set about building an impenetrable tower around her, walling her off so that he could never get to her no matter how tempted he was. It helped that she was the princess locked away who refused to let down her hair. She didn’t want to marry. That much had been clear from the moment her aunt began parading her by eligible men. None of them would do. None were as important as her work.
It was Gavin who stood by her side through it all, the guard who kept her safe. Defending her from those who thought sculpture was an inappropriate pursuit for a woman. Understanding that this wasn’t an idle hobby but her work. Laughing with her when she needed a companion in her merrymaking. Trying his best to fall out of love with her.
He could feel Eva’s coal-black eyes watching him, and he knew the answer she wanted to hear. Still, he couldn’t give it to her, because saying the truth out loud would open up old wounds that were still raw.
“Friendship. That’s all,” he said.
Eva sighed. “It’s a shame, really. I like the lady more than I can say.”
“She likes you as well,” he said, smiling as he thought back on the few times the pair had met at the theater.
“She’ll make you a good wife, Gavin.”
He could hear the “but” in his friend’s voice, and he hardened his heart against it. “You and Catriona will come to the wedding?”
The wedding. There was going to be a wedding.
But not a wedding night.
He’d been out of his mind to agree to that condition, but surely it would be better to live in a state of denial than to torment himself by tasting the very thing he’d wanted for years. He’d be her husband in name only but her loyal friend in every way possible. It had to be enough.
A clattering at the door made them both turn. Moray was rapping on the glass, brandishing a clutch of broadsheets in his hands.
“Are you finished?” he shouted.
“Lord, give me the strength to endure the company of men,” Eva muttered.
Gavin cleared his throat, trying to regain some of his composure.
She gave Moray an exaggerated wave. “You can come back in, you pigheaded lout.”
The publisher burst into the room. “Tell me everything.”
“No,” said Eva stubbornly. “It’s none of your business.”
Moray cast an eye over the two of them and shrugged. “I’ll have the full story out of him sooner or later.”
“What can I expect to read in the Lothian tomorrow?” asked Gavin with a nod to the papers so fresh and hot he could smell them across the room.
“There’s rumblings that Tsar Alexander II will make a state visit this year,” said Moray. “And there’s a breach-of-promise case that everyone is talking about. A woman named Caroline Burkett is suing her fiancé after he jilted her for an American heiress.”
“She must be desperate,” said Eva. “No woman ever comes out of a case like that unscathed.”
“But they do sell papers,” said Moray, handing his stack over.
The black ink smudged Gavin’s fingertips as he peered at an item tucked away in a low corner. “That new football club that was formed last year looks respectable.”
“Heart of Midlothian?” asked Moray.
“That’s the one. It was about time Edinburgh got its own club. Mind if I take this?”
“Not at all,” said Moray, who was already leaning over the paper-strewn table once again, lost in some nuisance of layout that needed to be resolved.
“Go home and sleep,” said Eva.
“Remember me to Catriona,” he said.
His friend smiled but then bowed her head too, already back in her world of newsprint and column inches.
/> The carriage ride back from Mrs. Sullivan’s was tense but mercifully silent. Ina’s aunt sat bundled up in a corner, disapproval oozing out of each one of her pores. It wasn’t until they shuddered to a stop in front of the house that Mrs. Coleman turned on her niece.
“I suppose this has worked out just as you planned,” said the older woman.
“As I planned?” Ina asked, stunned. “If you mean to imply that I wanted to be ruined and forced to marry—”
“That man has been waiting for his chance for years,” said Mrs. Coleman with a sniff.
The idea was so absurd she couldn’t help but laugh. “Gavin?”
“Mr. Barrett has few prospects and nearly no money. He’s had his eye on your fortune for ages now.”
“You may say whatever you like about me, but Gavin has been my loyal friend for years. He’s sacrificing his own happiness to help me, and I won’t hear an ill word against him.” Her aunt opened her mouth as though to protest, but Ina leveled an icy look at her aunt. “Not a word.”
Mrs. Coleman snapped her mouth shut with a clack as the driver opened the door to help her down and flounced through the house’s open door without stopping to divest herself of her wrap. Ina gritted her teeth and followed her in, nodding to the family butler as she undid the closure of her cloak.
“Good evening, Cappleman,” said Ina. “Is my father still awake?”
“Mr. Duncan is writing in his study, miss.”
“Did he take any supper?” she asked.
“Some consommé, a beefsteak, and a half bottle of claret in the dining room,” said Cappleman.
Good. If her father had eaten outside of his study, that meant he wasn’t in the deepest of writing spells.
Exhaustion seeped into her bones as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. A faint light emanated from under the study door. He was still awake and at work. He was always at work.
Tentatively, Ina knocked.
“What is it?” came her father’s voice, distant and scratchy with lack of sleep.
“I’m home, Papa.”
The pen stopped its incessant scratching for a moment before picking up again. “I didn’t realize you’d gone out.”
Ina took his response as all the invitation she’d get and entered the study.
“I’ve returned from one of Mrs. Sullivan’s salons.” She addressed her father’s back. “She inquired after your health and asked whether she might not expect you in the future.”
Her father didn’t even look up. “If I were to attend one of Mrs. Sullivan’s salons, I would be required to take time away from my work. It would be an interruption.”
Interruption. The word stung as sharp as an angered bee. She was an interruption. Not a daughter. Just a nuisance. It shouldn’t hurt, not after this many years, but Ina couldn’t help but feel as though every carelessly slung insult chipped away at her heart just a little bit more.
“Papa, I have some news. I’m to be married.”
The pen stopped, and slowly he looked over his shoulder. “To whom?”
Unused to his attention, she clasped her hands in front of her. “Gavin. There was another gentleman who tried to . . . make advances. He was stopped, but there was a maid who saw. Gavin offered to marry me in order to—”
“Will there be any scandal?”
She nearly flinched under his scrutiny. “No.”
That at least wasn’t a lie. There would be rumors—always rumors—and she was certain some people would speculate as to why, after all this time, Gavin Barrett had made up his mind to marry Ina Duncan. Mrs. Sullivan had offered to help assuage some of that, promising to secure them invitations to dine at some of the most important homes in the city. It seemed that the matchmaker’s secret network of happy couples was wide-reaching indeed.
“Good,” he said, turning around again. “Can’t abide people showing up with their prying eyes, trying to get a bit of gossip. Tell Cappleman I’m not to be disturbed. And you can also tell him that I won’t touch another tea tray. I don’t need food. I need time.”
“Papa, I—”
But when he finally looked up from his paper, glasses perched on the very end of his nose, and peered at her as though she were some intruder rather than his daughter, her chest constricted. Rather than containing the fatherly warmth she sought, his expression was vacant. It was as though he could look right through her to the back wall.
“I will tell Cappleman,” she said quietly.
Ina let herself out of the study as quietly as she could and the door closed with the click of metal against metal. She sagged against the wall, looked up at the ceiling, and tried her best to contain the tears that threatened to spill. Temper she could have handled, but this . . . this vacantness was too high a mountain to climb. Her father’s work wasn’t just his first priority. It was his second, third, and fourth too. Ina, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, ranked somewhere near the house that sheltered him and the wealth that supported him. It had been that way ever since she could remember, and she didn’t know why she ever expected it to change.
“Enough,” she murmured, touching the sides of her index fingers to her lower lashes and wiping away the tears. “Enough.”
There was nothing more she could do tonight. Tomorrow she’d have to face the world as an engaged woman.
Chapter Five
INA SAT IN a small room off the entrance of St. Giles’ Cathedral, waiting for her wedding to begin. Lana, Christine, and Anne all stood around her, fussing with her veil and the profusion of roses her aunt had tucked into her bodice to hide the deep V-neck of the evening gown that would serve as her dress. All of the embellishment left her feeling rather like an overstuffed, fussy centerpiece.
“It’ll be a miracle if anyone can see me through all of the blooms,” she said, toying with a petal.
“You look lovely,” said Lana with a tsk of her tongue.
“I wore a dress like this for a recital once,” said Christine, the opera singer’s throaty, deep American accent filling the room with warmth.
“Yes, but you need to be seen by thousands of people. There aren’t even a dozen guests at this wedding,” Ina said.
“Gavin’s family wasn’t able to make the journey from England?” Anne asked from her seat, where she was inspecting Ina’s bouquet.
Ina shook her head. “They elected to remain in London. His mother wrote to say that they have obligations and noted the exhaustion of travel on such short notice.”
“No matter that there are railroads all up and down the country now,” said Christine, who was peering in the mirror and patting her tight, ebony curls that she wore piled on top of her head in a series of twists.
“What of his brother?” Lana asked.
“Richard and his wife, Grace, are in London as well,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t help but think they don’t approve. Who doesn’t come to their son’s wedding? Or their brother’s for that matter.”
Lana covered her hand and gave it a squeeze, her clear blue eyes wide with sympathy. “They just don’t know you yet. When they meet you they’ll love you as much as we do.”
Ina sucked in a breath and nodded, wanting to believe her friend was right.
“Now, it’s time for you to get married,” said Lana, while Anne handed her the spray of orange blossoms and white roses she’d carry down the aisle.
She stood and looked at the mirror, out of which a bride stared back. Improbable as it was, she was about to become Mrs. Gavin Barrett.
Her friends hurried her out of the room, and her father stepped up, silently giving her his arm. The long stone path to the altar stretched before her, and her heart pounded fast.
“Are you ready?” her father asked as Lana, Christine, and Anne scurried to their seats. At the head of the church, the priest invited the guests to share in the service.
She glanced at her father. His distant detachment on the night she’d told him of her plans to marry hadn’t changed. He’d laid no obstacles in their way when Gavin had formally asked for her hand. Neither had he objected to the marriage settlement, asking only that the matter be handled through his solicitor so that he not be called away from his work. She suspected her father would’ve declined to attend the wedding if it hadn’t been for her aunt’s insistence that he be there to walk her down the aisle. There must be no hint that this wasn’t a real marriage in every sense.
“I’m nervous,” she admitted as the guests began to sing “Blest Be the Ties That Bind.”
“It’s only a bride’s nerves. You mother was trembling so badly she could hardly walk down the aisle at our wedding.”
She stole a look at him from under her veil. He so rarely spoke of her mother—and certainly not about the good times, before things had become fraught and complicated. Before Ina had been old enough to remember the bitter jabs over breakfast and the stinging snipes at supper.
“Do you miss her, Papa?” she asked.
He grunted again. “Missing her doesn’t do anyone any good.” He must have felt her shrink back, because he straightened and said, “But she would have been glad to see you married.”
“Do you think I’m making the right decision marrying Gavin?” she asked, suddenly desperate to know what her father thought.
“Do you love him?” Arthur Duncan asked, his eyes catching his daughter’s for the first time all day.
“He’s my dearest friend,” she said, and it was the truth.
“Better to be friends than to be in love,” he said. “Love is a fickle thing that has no regard for anyone. Come along now.” He tugged at her arm. “Time to get it over with. I left off in the middle of a chapter on John Wilson.”
They weren’t exactly inspiring words but, guessing from the resolute set of her father’s jaw, they were the only ones she was going to get.
Her hand was clammy around her bouquet, and she could feel everyone watching her as they walked down the long aisle to the singing. It was a more intimate wedding than anyone might have expected for a woman of her wealth, and no doubt there would be much talk of how the rushed nuptials and the small guest list only confirmed that it was a marriage of necessity. However, these were friends. Lana and her husband, Anne, and Christine for Ina; Jonathan Moray, Eva Wilis, and Catriona Thorburn for Gavin. Mrs. Sullivan for them both. Even Ina’s aunt had softened her disapproval that day, unable to resist the charm of the wedding she’d been tasked with delivering when she’d become Ina’s chaperone so many years ago.