by Sophia James
‘Drawing is not an exact science, sir. The interpretation of your face does not lie only within what is seen.’
‘You try to look inside?’
‘You quoted Shakespeare yesterday and I can see that your many books are well loved and used. Those things are a part of who you are and should be reflected in a portrait. But there is danger in you, too, and a contrast if you like. Stillness against energy. It must be hard to be so very noticeable when there is such a lot you want to keep hidden, Lord Winterton?’
He tried to keep his face clear of surprise. ‘Are you a soothsayer, Mr Rutherford? A man who might think to read people’s minds?’
‘Bodies tell stories as succinctly as any words. The skin holds tales as surely as the eyes and face hold history. Even hands have a narrative to impart.’
He watched her straight on. ‘Uncomfortable truths. Are you surprised when you are wrong?’
‘Are you saying I am, my lord?’
‘Age must be fairly definable, heartbreak less so. What if I told you my life has been a comfortable and joyous one thus far, without any trial or tribulation?’
‘I might congratulate you out loud on your luck, but I doubt that I would believe you. Tragedy makes each of us stronger and I can see you are that, my lord. Strong, I mean. Perhaps you have had to be?’
He began to laugh because this was one of the most illuminating conversations that he’d had for a great deal of time.
‘And what of you?’ he asked after a moment. ‘Has the loss of some great hope made you who you are? Has it boosted empathy?’
Winter saw the lad’s eyes in full focus as he tipped his head, the pupils flaring over the top of heavy glass.
They were the blue of summer skies and gentle seas. But apprehension danced across the colour, striking shards of shock at the darker edges even as the contact was lost.
He felt his heart quicken in response as some far-off memory tried to reform and appear.
‘Secrets define us, my lord, like small sharp pebbles caught in a shoe. You have yours and I have mine. To be rid of them is to tread a pathway differently.’
‘Do I know you, Mr Rutherford?’ He hated the way his voice sounded, foreign and tight.
‘Know me as the artist or know me as the man?’ There was no kindness in such a question. ‘I do not imagine either would be possible for I rarely visit London, my lord.’
But Rutherford’s hand shook as he clutched the charcoal and real anger crossed his brow.
‘Of course.’ James settled back into quietness, but something had changed between them and he could not quite work out what it was.
* * *
His eyes were no longer relaxed, she thought, no longer languid or threaded in humour. He’d remembered something, she was sure of it, the first finger on his left hand rapping out a rhythm against the wooden armrest on the chair.
She wanted to leave, to escape, to be far away from those probing pale eyes that saw everything, and nothing.
If she cried it would be over. If tears escaped from her eyes and ran unheeded beneath her glasses down to the skin at her cheek she would be exposed. So instead she gathered her courage and tried again whilst she still could.
‘Do you think on the whole you are a good man, Lord Winterton?’
‘As opposed to an evil one, Mr Rutherford?’
That small humour heartened her. ‘Nothing quite so damning, I imagine. More of an overall summation of your character, if you like.’
‘Then, yes.’
She relaxed, pleased for his answer. ‘And do you believe in fate?’
‘The concept of fate based on the belief that there is a fixed natural order to the universe that can never be changed, no matter how hard you try?’
When she nodded he went on.
‘Oedipus struggled to escape his fate and couldn’t.’
‘Do you think that was because he was forewarned?’ She asked the question lightly, but a lot rested on his answer.
‘You are asking me, Mr Rutherford, if I believe man’s character is his fate.’
‘Perhaps I am.’
‘A fatal flaw. Like Hamlet. Unchangeable. Constant. Set in stone?’
‘The idea that no matter how much one endeavours one cannot change one’s destiny?’ She looked towards the books all lined up at one end of the room. ‘You have shelves and shelves of Shakespeare and wasn’t he the master of proving that fate, not will, pre-determines the order and course of events.’
‘Anything you do is pointless and will not be made different, no matter how much you wish it?’ He shook his head and the light caught the gold threaded through darker shades. ‘No. I myself don’t believe in that sort of fate.’
His fingers were alive now, as he spoke, not the quiet things that they had been before. Eloquence and intelligence had a certain line that whispered beneath the skin. Wiping out the charcoal, she began anew with her drawing, the energy within quickened, different marks appearing.
‘In all of my reading in the subject, Mr Rutherford, characters aware of their fate inevitably try to escape it?’ He finished that sentence in the cadence of a question and she could not help but to find an answer.
‘Because She is a motif in folklore that draws people in and keeps them under her spell.’
‘You see her as a woman? Fate, I mean?’
‘I do.’
‘Capricious? Often unfair?’ His voice held laughter.
‘Confident. Unfailing,’ she returned, with the same sort of humour. ‘A power applied by the truth of certainty.’
‘A feminine muse who does not take kindly to her hand being forced?’
Florentia heard the regard in the words just as strongly as she felt the pull of his intellect, though his words cut close to the bone. Her hand had been forced by his on the road all those years before and it had brought her here to this moment, in disguise and hiding, the trust she had held in people shattered and torn.
‘If you could begin your life again, Lord Winterton, would there be things you would do differently or change even a little bit?’
He shifted at that and uncrossed his legs, sitting straighter, the fingers on one hand playing with the ring he wore on the other.
‘Who would not admit to that, Mr Rutherford? Who would not relish the opportunity to have a second attempt in getting it right? There have been things...’ He stopped and she saw a flat sadness in his eyes, the empty desolation of honesty. ‘The Realms of the Lost Chances...?’
He said it like the title of a book or a song. He said it without any attempt to hide the sorrow in his voice. He also said it like a man who knew these things would never come to pass for him and something inside Florentia turned and changed.
Amazement. Wonder. The chance to speak with all her heart and soul and wit and to be answered back in the very same way. No limit in the opinions, no careful edging around truth. It astonished her this conversation, this discourse full of diverging thoughts, which echoed promise and honesty.
She wanted to know more about him, his place of birth and the people who had formed him, but did not quite know how to ask.
‘What would you change if you could?’ His question came through the growing silence.
‘My brother’s death.’ She was astonished she had said that right out loud. She had never spoken to another beside her parents and sister about Bryson at all.
‘How old was he when he died?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘And you? How old were you when this happened?’
She clenched her lips and teeth together so that she would not say. Sixteen years, two months and nineteen days. The exactness of it cut into her heart like a sharp honed blade.
‘Were there other siblings?’
‘There were, Lord Winter
ton.’
‘And your parents?’
‘My father is unwell. Mama nurses him. A martyr, if you will. A woman of duty.’
* * *
The words of Maria Warrenden rung out in memory. She had said almost the exact same thing of her parents at the Allans’ ball when he had asked after them. A coincidence? He thought not.
Could Rutherford be some adopted son of the Hale-Burtons, a foster child or a bastard one? Every question he formed about the man demanded tenfold other questions and then more on top of those ones.
The sun was climbing now and the beams from the window fell across them both. Frederick Rutherford’s cheeks were as bare as a baby’s bottom, no stubble or fuzz upon them.
Perhaps he was even younger than he had said? Perhaps he was barely out of the schoolroom, but trying to make some coin for a family who were hurting?
The price tag on the painting was ridiculously high. High enough to keep the young man’s parents in food, heat and lodging for at least a year if they were frugal?
The answers were beginning to line up in a way that worried James and he dearly wanted to see Roy Warrenden and his wife again to ask them some questions.
‘I shan’t begin the painting of your portrait today, my lord.’ Rutherford said this just as James thought he might not speak again. ‘I need to look at the lines of the work and know that they are the ones I want to continue with before I apply colour.’
‘Can I see what you have done so far?’
Rutherford shook his head and brought out a cloth to drape around the canvas.
‘It is bad luck to look at a work before it is finished.’
‘Like a bride,’ James said when he saw him frown. ‘The groom should not see his bride before they are married,’ he added, wondering why he should have used such an example when there were so many other better ones available. ‘The last freedom. The final independence.’
Frederick Rutherford blushed, as red as a beetroot, from the throat to the hairline, a brilliant firelight red. ‘You don’t believe in marriage?’
‘Well, I never married so presumably not.’ He found himself saying this almost out of anger. Once he had believed he would marry. Once he had felt whole enough to become a half of someone else.
‘The Warrendens are happy.’ This statement surprised him.
‘And you know them well?’
‘Well enough to see that of them, at least,’ Rutherford answered, bending to the bag he carried, the one of canvas and leather, buckled in silver. ‘I cannot come tomorrow. The next morning suits me, though.’
‘Then I shall see you on Thursday morning. Do I wear the same clothes that I am in now?’
‘It does not matter about what you wear. I will change it anyway.’
‘I see.’
‘The room will look different, too. You will be somewhere else, I think, in another place entirely.’
James could not help but be amused. ‘When would you like to be paid?’
‘Not yet,’ he returned quickly. ‘If you pay me it will ruin everything. You will own what I make and I am not sure if...’
‘You want to give it to me yet?’ He finished the sentence and put out his hand. But it was not taken. Rutherford merely tipped his head once and then turned away from the windows and the light, the canvas clutched carefully under one arm and the oversized satchel under the other.
‘Goodbye, my lord.’
Then he was gone, the door shut behind him, the lingering smell of linseed and lavender the only things left behind.
* * *
Rafe Carmichael turned up an hour later and he didn’t look happy.
‘London squeezes the life out of me, Winter. It’s the air here, I think, and the lack of green. All I can say is thank God for the gardens Arabella planted at our house.’
‘I’m hoping Atherton Abbey may bring me the same sort of refuge, Rafe. I signed the contracts yesterday.’
‘Bella said you would do that, but I didn’t believe her because you have never stayed anywhere for more than a few months in all the years I have known you.’
‘I think it’s largely to do with my unstable childhood.’
‘I had heard your mother was...difficult?’
‘So difficult she killed herself. It was a statement, I think, for her loathing of my father.’
‘An effective one then. How old were you?’
‘Fourteen. William was seldom sober afterwards but he was sometimes kind. For that I owe him at least an overdue reprieve of the soul.’
‘The man who was mentioned the other night when you were attacked. Perkins? I have been doing some looking and it seems he is the son of a small northern lord. He drinks at the Red Fox Inn in St Katharine Dock usually on a Friday afternoon.’
‘How much did that information cost you?’
‘I will call it square after sharing a bottle of your finest brandy and giving you some advice.’ He waited as the glasses were found and the tipple poured. ‘Find a wife like I did. Find a woman who surprises you and who does not allow your soul the chance to fail. Bella said to tell you that she went to a soothsayer in Covent Garden yesterday and offered up your name and a drawing she had of you. The old gypsy, who can read the fate of even those who are absent, said you need to look into the places you least expect to find love and that the one you will marry has already come into your life, but you have not seen her yet.’
James laughed because he could not help it. ‘You believe in this rubbish?’
‘I found Arabella in a brothel. If a fortune teller had tried to tell me such a truth, I might have laughed, too. Harking back to the prophesy, Winter, who has surprised you and challenged you lately?’
‘Frederick Rutherford.’ James’s answer came without thought and he swore beneath his breath.
His regard for the reclusive artist resurfaced. If he breathed in deeply he could still smell lavender and hear the strange cadence of his husky voice. Nothing felt safe any more. He felt as if Rutherford could see into the very shadows of his soul.
‘Will you visit Perkins?’ Rafe changed the subject of the conversation as sharply as his wife did and he was glad of it.
‘I will.’
‘Take a knife, then. It’s a quieter bearer of death than a pistol and from all that I’ve heard of him the man is dangerous.’
‘You’re instructing me on battle, Rafe?’
‘More like warning you, for I know you are far better at the art of violence than me. I do, however, want you settled at Atherton with the wife who you will be surprised by after you find her in a place you least expect to.’
James smiled and swallowed a good-sized sip of the smooth brandy.
* * *
Her sister met her as she came up the steps and followed her into her room, though she did not speak until the door to her chamber was locked and there would be no chance of any curious ears listening in.
‘I thought you were never coming home.’
Florentia took off her hat and dragged the heavy wig from her head, spreading her own hair into the air in relief as she sat. ‘A portrait is not an instant thing, Maria. It is made up of layers and every one of them is as important as the next. There is no hurrying of it. Today was the base layer, the beginning.’ She flung the wig down on to the bed beside her.
‘Was it difficult?’
‘It kept changing, that was the trouble. Lord Winterton is one thing and then he is another. Like quicksilver.’ Standing, she took off her boots and wriggled her toes before stretching out her feet. The height of the inlaid leather was uncomfortable and heavy and the back of her legs ached in a shared empathy with her insoles.
‘You mean mercury?’ Maria’s voice was high. ‘Isn’t that a poison?’
Florentia laughed at her sist
er’s horror. ‘But it sits next to gold on the periodic chart. What does Roy think of him, Maria? Of Winterton?’
‘He sees him as a friend. He says that he is to be trusted if he gives his word otherwise we should never have agreed to this charade of yours. Not for all the tea in China nor for all the money in his overflowing accounts.’
‘Did he tell you anything of Winterton’s history? It could be helpful. In my work...’ she added lamely, because lying to her sister was not something she did well.
‘He said that the Viscount had a difficult childhood. From what wasn’t said I think Winterton has been lonely for a very long time. He was also a soldier in the first Peninsular Campaign under Moore. A part of intelligence, Roy thinks.’
‘Do you know a Mr Rafael Carmichael?’
‘The steel baron? He is married to a woman who was a courtesan.’
‘Arabella Carmichael. I met them yesterday at St James’s Square.’
Maria began to frown. ‘You didn’t tell me that. My God, Florentia. They sound like fast people and people who might guess...’
‘My secret?’
‘There is more to it than that, isn’t there? You would not keep this up if it were only for the production of a portrait. There is something you’re not telling me.’
‘Do you believe in Fate, Maria?’
‘The sort of Fate that makes you sad for ever, you mean? The sort that takes you away from life because you have been dealt such a rum hand?’
Maria walked to the window. ‘Your world is tiny, Florentia, and it has been for years, but everything is a risk, don’t you see, every step you take, every place you go, every person you meet. It can either turn out well or it can turn out badly.’ She shook her head. ‘I asked Roy the same question about Fate once and he thought that perhaps it is really your own will bending everything that happens into what you think you deserve?’
The power of her sister’s reply was unexpected. ‘You were talking of me?’
Maria nodded.
‘Well, now I think I deserve better.’
‘Good.’ Her sister’s smile was disarming. ‘And if it takes dangerous people to drag you out of obscurity who am I to complain about it, for you look happier and more vibrant by the minute. But remember, I will always be here for you when you do want to talk about what you are really up to and perhaps I can even be of help.’