by Sophia James
‘No.’ They had had this conversation a number of times. ‘I do not need you there and from what I have read of the workings of a private commission it would be very odd to take an onlooker.’
‘But the whole thing is odd and you should not be risking the chance of discovery. There might be others there.’
‘He has said there would not be.’
‘He might be able to see through your disguise.’
‘Can you?’
‘Well, no. If I did not know any of this, I would barely recognise you myself.’
‘The painting shall take at the most four mornings. Twelve hours. After that I’ll have a good amount of money for Papa and Mama and me to live on. My reputation with Mr Ward will stay wholly intact as well and so hopefully more sales of work will follow.’
And I will know exactly what I am facing, for better or for worse.
‘I have already said to Papa that I can help, but he won’t accept it.’
‘Because it would be Roy’s money, Maria, and Papa is too proud a man to take it.’
‘Proud and foolish and if any of this leads to a problem for you I shall berate him for ever. I do hope you are not late back and if you need me at any time...’
‘I won’t.’
‘Roy said if Winterton hurts even one hair on your body he will kill him.’
Privately Flora wondered if her sister truly believed in this absurdity. Roy was slight and short whereas everything she remembered of the Viscount was the exact opposite. ‘I will bear that in mind.’
There were tears in her sister’s eyes.
‘Trust me, Maria. Please.’
The brown curls jolted up and down as she nodded and then the butler was there with Florentia’s coat and hat and she simply followed him out.
* * *
Winterton’s town house on St James’s Square was far grander than any she had ever seen before. Certainly the Viscount must be somewhere at the very top of the social tree and climbing higher by the moment if the tales Maria told were anything at all to go by.
Suddenly Flora felt less certain, the clothes she wore that had seemed like a shield at home were now only thin layers over the heart of her deceit. But it was too late to back out and when the man waiting at the bottom of the wide steps leading up to the house asked her to follow him in she did so.
Once at the front door a different and even sterner-looking servant indicated a chair just inside the reception hall and, taking her prepared canvas and the small satchel filled with paint and charcoal, Flora sat down to wait.
* * *
Thirty minutes later she was still there and the bravery garnered over years of hurt had dissipated into a much lesser force beneath the heavy ticking of a clock in the corner.
The same servant finally returned, his face as dismissive as before. A mere artist was not to be bothered with or coddled, she supposed. She was surprised she had not been dispatched around to the back door when first she had come, reasoning it would be the carriage, no doubt. Anyone who arrived in his lordship’s own conveyance was probably to be treated with some amount of care.
The room she was now taken to was darkened, the curtains pulled and a single candle glowing on the desk behind which a figure sat quite still.
‘Thank you for coming, Mr Rutherford.’ A hand gestured to the seat in front of him but he did not come to his feet.
Florentia sat as carefully as she could and as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness she saw exactly what she had hoped...and feared.
James Waverley, Lord Winterton, was indeed her kidnapper.
Still undeniably beautiful, but dishevelled somewhat, one pale and clear green eye wholly shot with red and his bottom lip split at the corner.
Her heart began to thump rapidly and she hoped the movement did not show through her clothing. The cloth at her neck felt as if it might rob her of all breath with its tightness. Please God let the asthma stay at bay, she found herself thinking, the catch in her throat worrying.
‘I have been indisposed, Mr Rutherford, and I apologise for keeping you waiting.’ The Viscount said this quietly and the voice was nothing like the one she remembered. It was hoarse and scratchy and deep.
Tipping her head by way of response, Florentia sniffed without decorum. The lump in her throat was so large she thought suddenly that she might just begin to cry. In deliverance? In shock? In the solace of seeing that he was alive and that her father had not killed him after all.
Years of guilt and anger melded into this one moment of utter relief. She swallowed a number of times to try to find a balance, uncaring as to what the Viscount might think of her and glad for the dimness in the room.
Another clock above the mantel beat out the seconds. This house was full of clocks, she thought, the sound of time passing, life disappearing by the second. Or rediscovered, she mused, the stoppage of life between them now running on again with a different rhythm, another truth?
The hand nearest to her lying on the table held deep bruising, the fight echoed on his face. The violence of such lacerations made the room seem smaller. Last time she had met him there’d been blood, too. And force.
He’d spoken again and she made herself listen.
‘I thought to set your easel up here in this room, Mr Rutherford. It’s the one I feel the most comfortable in.’
‘I would need much better light, my lord.’ Lowering her voice, she liked the way her words sounded. She breathed through her mouth as an extra measure and made certain to cough. Four times.
‘I promise that the curtains will be pulled back when next you come.’
He smiled as he said this and Florentia’s whole world stopped. The memory of him was so strong that she lost her train of thought, fumbling with her glasses as she jammed the spectacles on tighter just because she needed a distraction.
His hair was longer now. Much longer. It touched his shoulders and fell down his back, a heavy swathe of light browns and gold. The scars that had once been visible would now be gone entirely. His skin was darker, too, as though the lands he had travelled had been warm ones, brushed with summer. The hue suited him, suited his pale eyes, suited the shades in his hair. The years had been much kinder to him than they had been to her, she thought, and frowned at such a notion. The dimple in his chin was deeper.
‘I wondered if you were a figment of someone’s imagination, Mr Rutherford, because so few have ever seen you. I also wanted to ask you some questions before we started.’
‘Yes, of course, my lord.’ Subservience was a further disguise, a way to lead Winterton away from her true identity and as all the pieces of her ruse seemed to come together Florentia forced herself to relax. His grim frown heartened her. Please don’t smile again, she thought, and glowered back.
‘How is it you know Lady Warrenden?’
A different question from the one she had thought he might ask. Very different entirely. The chills down her spine returned in abundance.
‘The Warrendens live near me in the country, sir. In Kent.’
‘So you know the family well?’
‘They have a penchant for my work, my lord.’
‘Who does not, Mr Rutherford? It seems as if you have many admirers here in society.’
‘Not as many as you seem to have garnered, Lord Winterton.’
He looked at her directly and raised an eyebrow. ‘I haven’t seen you at any of the soirées of the Season across the past few weeks. Do you not enjoy the pleasures of society?’
Averting her eyes, Florentia coughed for a good twenty seconds. ‘I am more interested in painting,’ she managed when she had caught her breath. ‘I fear it takes up most of my time.’
‘A passion then, this craft of yours?’ He lowered his voice and gave her a quote. ‘Of all base passions fear is the most
accursed.’
‘Shakespeare?’
‘One of the Henry’s, I think. I forget which.’
‘Henry the Sixth, sir.’ Her answer was quiet. She had not expected him to rattle off Shakespeare so easily, a soldier with blood on his hands and danger imprinted into every line of his body. A man who was still fighting for his place in the world by the looks of him. The bruise under one eye would be worse on the morrow.
‘You are both a scholar and an artist, then, Mr Rutherford?’ He sounded amused.
When she gave no reply he stood and poured her a brandy. At least she thought it was such by the colour.
My goodness, she had not thought of this trap. A man would drink with another man and, as a woman who seldom sipped at anything stronger than a punch with very little alcohol within it, she was more than unsure as to what she should do.
Be the character, she thought, and lifted the glass to her lips. The heat of the brew warmed the blood from her toes to her hairline and after a moment or two she started to feel decidedly light-headed.
This would not do at all. Another lapse in her concentration and he would begin to wonder. Already she could see a frown of puzzlement on his brow as he watched her.
She resorted to the coughing again, taking the large kerchief Maria had procured from her pocket and blowing into it, the sound hideous and fabricated.
The longer this went on the harder it became. She felt like an insect under a microscope, peered at and questioned, everything about her turned on its head. Did he suspect? Could he know? The horror of discovery made the effects of the alcohol seem more heightened than they actually were. How many sips did one need to take to become drunk? It was frightening to feel the control she’d always had loosening.
* * *
Mr Rutherford barely looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom with his smooth cheeks and his thinness. He also looked as though he should be in an infirmary somewhere laid out on a bed with camphor and peppermint.
Peppermint. The memory of the debacle in the carriage resurfaced and James swore under his breath. God, his head ached, his knuckles stung and the lucky strike the adversary had landed last evening had broken some blood vessel in his eye so that the whole thing was a violent showy red.
He had not wanted to meet Rutherford this morning for shafts of light hurt his vision, but Mr Ward’s last words had prevented him from simply cancelling the appointment.
‘The lad is brilliant, Lord Winterton, so brilliant that he does not know it, the brilliance that comes from inside and not from any formal education. This painting could be worth twenty times what you will pay for it within a few short months, you mark my words, but if you frighten him off he will not be back either.’
That warning now irritated him. So far everything he’d learnt about the lad was baffling and contradictory.
‘Have you always worn spectacles, Mr Rutherford?’ The thickness of the glass made it seem as though the fellow was only one step away from blindness.
He nodded. ‘Since I was young, sir.’
James noticed that he had pushed the brandy aside as though it were a danger, knotting his fingers together on the desk before him. Small hands and very smooth. There was a good-sized scar across the top of the thumb. When Rutherford saw his interest he immediately dropped them out of sight.
‘A strong tipple does not help you creatively?’ he ventured, thinking of those artists he had met in the Americas who swore the contents of a bottle allowed them their best work. The moustache above full lips looked awfully out of place amidst the smooth skin of youth. He wondered if it could be false.
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty, sir. Almost twenty-one.’
He’d been caught at that age by the French in the battle for Madeira and when he’d finally got free four days later he thought it would have been better if he had simply died.
‘Do you have family?’
‘I do, sir, they live in Kent.’
James saw hesitation and tension cross into what little he could see of the blue eyes. Was Rutherford afraid? Was he overwhelmed? Was the drink starting to make inroads?
He raised his own glass.
‘To the painting, then.’ He lent forward. ‘Would you mind if we did not begin today, for I have an appointment in an hour that is unexpected and urgent.’
‘Of course, my lord.’
‘Perhaps in private you could call me Winter.’
The lad nodded, a vulnerability and uncertainty about him so touching James wanted to protect him. That thought had him sitting back again. Rutherford’s black hair was scraggly and dull, but there was a beauty about the lad that was fragile and unexpected, a quiet oddness that made him interested in knowing more, a sort of tragic undertone that shouted his life had not been easy.
He would have liked to have reached out and laid a hand across his bony shoulders, just in reassurance. But of course he did not.
‘Is there something special you would require me to wear for the sittings, Mr Rutherford?’
For the first time a true emotion ran across the lad’s face.
‘Wear anything that makes you feel the most comfortable. It is not a showpiece I shall make for you. It will be only who you are.’
‘And you can see that as you paint? Who I truly am, I mean?’
‘Would you want me to, Lord Winterton?’
The room stood still suddenly, so still that James felt his hand grasp the desk he sat at, a giddy feeling that told him all was not quite as it seemed. A sort of feeling that was so foreign he could not quite decide if he was sickening for something or if a lack of sleep had finally caught him up.
The darkness inside him spiralled out through the careful face he managed to portray to society. His wealth had protected him here somewhat, but the forces of change were looming, the danger he had always lived in creeping back through the cracks of manners and propriety. He wondered if he might have a sort of delayed concussion from the blow of his assailant last night and had an image of a painting with the scar at his neck emblazoned with broken hearts and betrayal.
Nothing was safe any more.
He should send Mr Frederick Rutherford away from the house, pay him the money owed and tell him he had changed his mind. But he couldn’t. Something held him connected to this lad, bound by a thought he could not quite decipher.
‘It is not a showpiece I shall make for you. It will be only who you are.’
But who was he now? The truth of not knowing had him standing and bringing this first meeting to a close.
* * *
He obviously expected her to leave, but as Florentia gathered her canvas and leather satchel the door opened and a woman and a man came through, the female throwing herself fully against Lord Winterton to kiss him on the lips and not timidly either. Looking away Florentia waited until he broke away from the caress.
‘Mr Rutherford, may I present Mr and Mrs Rafael and Arabella Carmichael.’ He turned to the others and smiled. ‘Mr Frederick Rutherford, the celebrated artist, is here to paint my portrait. For posterity and prosperity,’ he added, ‘in the words of his agent.’
‘I doubt anyone could do a fine job with a likeness in such semi-darkness?’ The woman stated this with humour in her tone. ‘It would be a wonder if he can even see you.’
Arabella Carmichael looked her over carefully as she said this. She was simply the most beautiful female Flora had ever seen anywhere, each lady of society paling against her vivid colouring. The red in her hair was that of rust and rubies and dying autumn leaves and with her full lips and her flushed cheeks she was all fire and fertility, the colour of joy and summer and success. The sort of red Flora used only sparingly in her paintings, the hue that made every other colour fade into insignificance. Her husband was just as striking. He wore a ruby pin on the
lapel of his frockcoat, a dozen diamonds embedded around the shape of a serpent.
Florentia felt like a dowdy pigeon beside them, swathed in grey and brown and hidden, the patina of her deceit unattractive and ordinary. With the sensuality in the room and an undercurrent of question she wanted to be away and gone quite desperately.
Of course she knew who Mrs Arabella Carmichael was, even sequestered as she had been in the depths of rural Kent. She was a famous courtesan, trained in the profession of serving men with her body and her mind. The man Rafael Carmichael looked as though he had stepped into the room from some old painting as well, all black hair and golden eyes. An engraved silver ring sat in his left ear.
The day felt suddenly flatter, the truth of all she was and wasn’t dragging her into worry. Her ruse felt wrong somehow as she had stood and watched the kiss, the hope and grief in her heart changed to only a more honest understanding.
She had built her kidnapper up as both a martyr and a miscreant, as a man of too much principle and one of none at all, and now she was uncertain as to where the truth lay. The middle ground, the grey without the black and white, the place where Winterton had left her all those years before with so many questions and so many memories?
It was his smile, she thought. It confused her now as much as it had done the first time they had ever met. She wished she had not suggested this painting. She wished she could just leave London and go home. She wished Winterton had not been beautiful and that he did not have the look of a battered angel who needed saving.
She mostly wished she did not care at all.
‘I shall see you out.’ His words as he came over to her. ‘Perhaps tomorrow we could begin earlier. Shall we say at ten o’clock?’
As the others gave their goodbyes the same servant as before came to the door, shepherding her down the corridor, past the chair and the grandfather clock and out into the cool London day.
The sumptuous interiors of the house and the people within it stayed with her on the carriage ride home, but another thought also surfaced.
The masculine gender saw a lot more than a woman was ever allowed to, it was a freer world for them and a much more interesting one. Drink. Sex. A lack of rules and the ability to flaunt them.