by Kelly, Julia
“Well, if the venerable Cappleman approves . . .” said Lana.
“I’ve asked Norris to bring in a few chairs. I hope you don’t mind us sitting in here.”
“Of course we don’t mind,” said Lana. “It’s a lovely room. Much better than that cupboard you used to hole yourself up in.”
It had been a cupboard, and even after fitting it with a temperamental coal stove she could still feel the damp seeping in on very rainy days.
“With all this glass it might actually feel warm during the summer,” said Anne.
Christine peered through the glass ceiling to the thick blanket of clouds overhead. “I don’t miss sticky summers in New York, but I wish I could have those first spring days again.”
“We have spring here. It’s when the rain becomes slightly warmer and you might see the sun for more than thirty minutes,” said Lana.
“And then it snows or hails,” said Christine.
“Precisely,” said Lana.
Anne, who was standing closest to the workbench, touched one of Ina’s sketches.
“Go ahead,” Ina said with a nod of encouragement.
Anne held it up to the light, her index finger tracing the long line of Hero’s back. “Will this be your next work?”
“If I ever get started.” Ina moved several of the sketches around, searching for one that would show the figure in full. “Here, this will give you a better idea.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful but so sad. Who are they?” asked Anne, cradling it against her palm.
“Hero and Leander. The myth says that Leander fell in love with one of Aphrodite’s priestesses, Hero. They’d lived in cities across the Hellespont from one another, so every night Hero would hang a lantern in her tower and Leander would swim to her. One night there was a storm and the wind blew Hero’s lantern out. Leander lost his way and drowned. When she saw his body she threw herself from her tower so they could be together.”
“May I?” Lana asked, her hand stretched out. When Anne handed the paper to her, the lady turned it so Christine could see.
“This is going to be a large statue,” said Lana, glancing at the marble before them.
“My largest yet,” said Ina.
“A commission?” her friend asked.
She shook her head. She’d never won a commission before, instead gifting work to friends, but after the exhibition perhaps.
“It’s a secret,” she said.
“Really?” Christine leaned in. “Do tell.”
She chewed on her lip, suddenly nervous about doing something so bold as to try to fool the entire Royal Sculpture Society. Yet these were her friends—women who’d always supported her. Next to Gavin, they were the most important people in the world to her. She wanted them to know.
“I’m going to submit to the exhibition in June,” she said.
A grin spread across Lana’s face. “Finally. But how? Women aren’t allowed to enter.”
She shrugged. “I’ll use my initials. Many male artists do. I doubt it will cause a single raised eyebrow.”
“It’s perfect,” said Anne with a breathy sigh.
“Well, I for one can’t wait to see the final sculpture. And I still say you downplay your skills as a draftswoman,” said Lana, handing the sketch back.
“I’ve always been jealous of your ability to draw and sculpt,” said Christine.
Ina shot her a rueful smile. “And I’ve always been envious of your voice. What is your next performance?”
Christine sighed. “All Mozart. I have arias from Così fan tutte and Der Rosenkavalier for this recital. I’ve been promised there will be a new production from Paris to perform next season, with a role that’s perfect for my voice.”
Ina pressed her hand to her friend’s in silent commiseration. The theater owner, Barnard Collins, refused to cast Christine—a well-regarded and popular singer all across Britain—in anything but recitals. His excuse might be that the concerts required nothing more than Christine and an accompanist and were, therefore, far more profitable than staging a full production, but none of them doubted the craven man also wanted to avoid the scandal of placing a black mezzo-soprano opposite a white tenor.
“What is the opera called?” asked Anne.
“Carmen, but I’m not hopeful,” said Christine. “Mr. Collins always finds a way to back out of his promises.”
“Well, we’ll have to hope that Carmen becomes so popular he’d be a fool not to bring it to Edinburgh and cast you in it,” said Lana. “And maybe persuade Ina’s Mrs. Sullivan to suggest as much to Mr. Collins.”
“At this point, I’ll gladly take anyone’s good word if it means a production,” said Christine.
Cups rattled on the tea cart as a maid pushed it in followed by Norris carrying a chair under each arm. The butler made a little circle around the sofa Ina had commandeered for the space, and the ladies sat down to tea.
“You’re my first visitors,” said Ina as she prepared the pot. “So far Mrs. Hart’s cooking has been excellent, but I have yet to sample one of her teas.”
“If it’s as good as it looks, I’m sure we won’t have any trouble at all,” said Anne.
Ina handed cups around and relaxed into the comfort of this ritual they’d repeated many times before. The only difference was she was in her own home, entertaining on her own terms. She didn’t have to worry about her father taking a rare turn around the house and stumbling on them chattering away. Even better, her aunt couldn’t frown when her friends stayed for hours.
Of course, that also meant her friends could speak without fear of being overheard.
It took Lana exactly one sip of tea before fixing Ina with a stare. “Well?”
She lifted her cup to her lips and tried to pretend she didn’t know exactly what her friend wanted from her. “Well what?”
Christine’s eyebrows shot up. “If you have to ask . . .”
Carefully, she sat down her tea and smoothed her hands over her lap. “I thought a lady wasn’t supposed to discuss the details of her wedding night.”
“As though anyone follows that rule,” Lana said with a snort. Pale and angelic though Ina’s friend might look with her wheat-blond hair, she rarely could abide “ladylike” behavior.
“Did you? That is to say . . .” Anne frowned. “What I’m trying to ask—”
“Is whether or not you enjoyed your wedding night,” finished Christine. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Anne, who was already blushing to the roots of her light brown hair, turned tomato red. “Maybe not for you. You’ve already been married.”
“And so is Ina,” said Lana. “Now tell us everything.”
And just like that, all of the anger she’d tried to leave on the other side of her studio’s threshold bubbled up again.
“It wasn’t exactly what a girl spends her nights dreaming of,” she said.
Lana actually gasped. “Oh no. He was lacking?”
“Or maybe he was too zealous with the port,” said Christine. “There are more than a few stories about grooms who were unable to perform their marital duties because of a few too many trips to the decanter.”
“No. It wasn’t that at all,” she said. I wish it had been.
“He wasn’t a virgin, was he? Not that virgins can’t be taught,” said Lana, looking rather pleased with the idea.
“What?” Ina asked with a surprised laugh. “No. He knew what he was doing, I just . . .”
She stared down at her tea, wondering how to explain to her friends everything that had happened, from her awkward request that he get on with his husbandly duties to the passion and pleasure she’d experienced in bed to the crush of disappointment when he’d walked out on her.
And then there were those letters, brimming with love and pain. They were a secret part of himself he’d never even hi
nted at, and she couldn’t help feeling as though he’d betrayed their friendship by not telling her. As though he didn’t trust her.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Lana suggested.
She did, detailing everything from the strained silence at supper to the moment he’d growled that their night was not over.
Christine and Lana exchanged looks.
“Gavin seemed to have acquitted himself quite nicely,” said Lana.
“And enjoyed the task quite a bit for a man who supposedly only agreed to marry you because you were in danger of ruination,” said Christine with a significant look.
She frowned. “Why else would he marry me?”
“Have you never considered that Gavin Barrett might’ve one day wanted to be more than just your friend?” asked Lana.
Ina laughed at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. “Am I supposed to believe that Gavin, my friend of seven years, has been secretly pining for me this whole time?”
Christine shrugged. “Yes.”
“Stranger things have happened,” said Lana.
“He is rather attentive,” said Anne.
“Even if that was the case—and I’m not saying it is—he’s had ages to bring it up, and I’ve never even had a hint,” she said.
“You’re an heiress and he—”
“Has exactly one book to his name and a family everyone knows barely supports him,” Lana finished for Anne. “Every man has pride, and he’s the kind who’d never say anything until he could offer you a good life.”
“Without depending upon your marriage settlement,” said Christine.
“People always speculate about a man and a woman who are friends,” Ina said, brushing the argument aside. “Gavin didn’t even consider me marriageable until Mrs. Sullivan suggested it.”
“Are you sure?” Anne asked.
Yes . . . but for a moment last night perhaps not. She’d thought the passion between them when he’d hauled her to him and kissed her had been unmistakably real, but then as soon as he’d made sure of her own climax it was gone. It wasn’t as though he’d never felt that sort of hunger for a woman before. There was a stack of letters in his room proving he had—only not for Ina.
Ina shook her head. “He might’ve enjoyed what we shared in the moment, but it’s only because he was a man presented with a naked, willing woman.” She held up one hand when Lana looked as though she was about to protest. “And I know this because he dressed and left the house as soon as we were finished.”
“Oh,” said all three of her friends, united in their disappointment.
“But where did he go?” asked Christine.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He doesn’t have a club, and he gave up the keys to the rooms he used to live in two days ago.”
“Where did he stay on the eve of your wedding?” asked Anne.
“With his friend, Mr. Moray,” she said.
“He could be there,” Anne suggested.
“Is it possible,” Lana started slowly, “that Gavin might have a paramour elsewhere in the city?”
A sharp pang jabbed at her heart, and she couldn’t shake the memory of asking him whether there was anyone he loved.
My opportunity for love came and went a long time ago. It’s in the past.
But what if it wasn’t? What if he had regrets of all he’d given up to save her? If there was another woman he loved, it would be cruel to ask him to stay away from her.
Oh Lord, what if he was with her? The woman from the letters. The woman he’d begged to come back to him.
No. That wasn’t Gavin. He’d made her a promise of fidelity. He was steadfast in his vows. He was her husband now.
“Gavin is a good man. I may be angry at him for leaving so abruptly, but I don’t doubt his motives,” Ina said.
“Ask him,” said Christine. “Put your mind at ease.”
She nodded slowly. “Perhaps I will.”
Whenever he decides to come home.
Chapter Nine
IT HAD BEEN three days, ten hours, and twenty-two minutes since Gavin had become a married man, yet rather than enjoying wedded bliss, he was sitting in the poky spare office Moray had given him on the second floor of the Lothian’s building. His eyes were tired from staring too long at the stack of page proofs before him, and his back ached from sitting in the same wooden chair all day. Still, it felt good to finally produce work someone would actually read. Even better that the articles he was penning would distract him from the fact that he was avoiding going home.
Things were simpler here in the newspaper’s offices. Here he was just Mr. Barrett to the staff, or Gavin to Moray and Eva. Here the temptation of his wife was an uncomfortable memory rather than a very real presence.
His shame over walking out that first night had only grown in the subsequent days, but if he hadn’t, he might never have been able to let her go. He’d made her a promise that put their friendship above all else, but in truth it was himself he’d wanted to save. He knew how powerful heartbreak could be. He’d healed once before, but that situation had been different. Then, he’d lost only his lover. With Ina he stood to lose his wife and his best friend too.
So for the last three days he’d snuck in and out of the house on Rothesay Place to sleep, eat a little something, and change clothes before escaping back to the newspaper.
His first article had gone over well enough that Moray had assigned him another for the following day. Then another. They hadn’t all run yet, but he was writing again and his work was being read. After the rejection of his second novel, he’d fallen into a slump that had been difficult to pull himself out of. Producing work brought him an optimism he hadn’t felt in years—not to mention a new source of income.
“You’re still here.” Gavin looked up to find Moray watching him, his shoulder resting against the doorjamb.
“I was just reading over some corrections I made,” he said. “My editor is a bastard with markups.”
Moray smirked. “You’re getting better. It usually takes me months to whip reporters into shape, and even then some never learn.”
“I’m sure my tutor at Cambridge would be happy to hear you say that. How is finding Cardwell’s replacement going?”
“I have an idea of who might be a good fit.”
Gavin rubbed a hand over his face, trying to combat a yawn. “Do I know the man?”
Eva strode into the office, her dark green skirts swinging out from her legs. “Have you asked him yet?”
“I was just about to,” said Moray.
He looked from friend to friend. “Asked me what?”
“We want you to join the staff,” said Moray. “You’d be doing some writing, but we also want you to edit.” Eva nudged Moray with her elbow. “Ah yes, and we’ll pay you a yearly salary of four hundred pounds, plus expenses.”
Gavin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Nine hundred pounds, you scoundrel.”
Moray snorted a laugh. “I’m a newspaperman, not a genie granting wishes. Five hundred.”
“Eight hundred,” Gavin countered.
“We’ll pay you seven hundred pounds a year, and that’s our final offer,” said Eva, rolling her eyes at their negotiations.
A grin spread across Gavin’s face. Being married to Ina meant he never had to worry about stretching his monthly coal allowance again, but her money was paying for the house, the carriage, the servants, everything. When she’d asked him if he wanted a valet, he’d clammed up with embarrassment because he hadn’t even thought about hiring a manservant. That was the sort of extravagance he hadn’t been able to afford in years.
Now at least he’d have an income to contribute to the household expenses. He’d be living off of his writing once again—the one thing he’d wanted to do since he’d traveled to Edinburgh all those years ago.
“I accept,” he said.
“Good,” said Eva. “Now that’s settled, what are you still doing here?”
“I swear there’s an echo here,” he said.
“I’ve already given him an earful about becoming as bad as us,” said Moray.
Eva frowned. “I admire your industriousness, but you could do some of this work from home. You were only just married.”
Gavin rubbed his forehead, gearing up for what he was certain would be a lecture from both parties. “It’s more convenient if I work here.”
Moray crossed his arms. “So this wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’ve been avoiding your wife?”
Gavin’s hand dropped to the desk. “I’m not avoiding my wife.”
“Then why have you spent twelve hours a day here for the past three days?” asked Eva.
“Don’t forget, he showed up on his wedding night too,” Moray pointed out.
“Are you avoiding Catriona? Because you’re here far longer than I am,” Gavin shot back, more censure in his voice than was perhaps necessary.
Eva cocked her head to one side. “Sometime she accuses me of it, but no. This is my job. It might irk her, but in the end she understands its requirements.”
“And what would those be?” Moray asked.
Eva shot him a look. “Tolerating working in close quarters with you comes to mind.”
“I should think that would be one of the pleasures of the job,” said Moray.
Eva rolled her eyes.
“I hate to admit it, but my esteemed editor is right,” Moray continued. “Eva’s job requires that she’s here at all hours, putting the newspaper to bed six days a week. A reporter has no such obligation.”
Gavin sighed heavily. “Things are a little strained as Ina and I acclimatize to living together.”
“You’ve been married less than a week,” said Moray. “How can they be strained?”
“There’s a certain level of . . . awkwardness there,” Gavin said.
“Are you suggesting the virginal Miss Duncan didn’t enjoy her wedding night?” asked Moray.