by Sophia James
His hair was loose, too. She had not seen it thus before.
He suited it out, the formality of him lessened somehow and the roughness of a man who had been both a soldier and a spy more on show.
She couldn’t ever remember seeing a more beautiful man anywhere. Even the images in her art books of heroes and statesmen had not held the sheer grace of line and strength.
No. Her head shook at such thoughts. She would absolve and forgive and forget. She would move on after this in her life in the knowledge that she had left behind blame and censure.
But there could be nothing else. Their past had seen to the impossibility of that and had not her father spent a great majority of the last years in bed because of Lord Winterton’s ill-formed actions?
She suddenly felt in more of a tangled web than she had been a week ago before she had first met with the Viscount face-to-face. Before this she had concentrated on the disrepute, humiliation and scandal he had sent her into with his foolish and ill-considered kidnapping. She had not understood his goodness and his strength and the way that he spoke with his heart as well as his head. She had not watched him in the sunlight or spoken with him as an equal. She had not seen the secrets flit across his face even as a stronger force of will had banished them away. She had underestimated his truth.
Reaching down to her satchel, she extracted a brush and paint. Carefully she crouched before the canvas and signed her initials in the bottom left-hand corner, finishing with a flourish.
F.R.
Florentia Rowena Hale-Burton. At least such a signature held something of who she was. With another swirl she attached the year. 1816. It had been the spring of 1810 when they had first met.
‘Is it difficult to let your paintings go, Mr Rutherford?’ He asked this softly.
‘No.’ She did not wish for him to know each time she left a piece of her work behind it broke her heart to do so.
With that she reached for the purse and felt its weight. A substantial sum. So many clients squabbled over the price of a work, but he had not. Being wealthy went some way in explaining his promptness, but often it was the richest clients who were the poorest payers.
She frowned as he extracted two glasses from a cabinet and brought forward a bottle of brandy.
‘The world’s finest,’ he clarified and poured generous drinks. ‘It seems only right that we should have a toast to the successful conclusion of your first private commission.’
Raising his glass towards her, he thought for a moment. ‘To unexpected truths, Mr Rutherford, and to the future.’ There was a tone in his words that she did not understand, but she drank anyway and the taste of the drink was astonishing.
‘It’s cognac. A Coutanseaux from 1767.’
‘Old, then?’
He laughed. ‘Not as old as some, but smoother than most.’
‘I did not drink much before I came to London.’ She offered this after a moment of silence as she savoured the taste. If this was to be the last time she was with him alone she wanted at least to enjoy it. ‘Sometimes now I barely recognise myself,’ she added as he looked at her.
‘Is that so, Mr Rutherford? London allows a freedom, I suppose, which is different from that of rural Kent?’
‘Very different, my lord.’
‘And your art is admired by everyone I meet. There must be a certain victory in such praise though my next question must be one that asks is such fame to your liking?’
She shook her head before she could stop it. ‘Once I had the more ordinary hope of living in a house in the country and enjoying a family.’
Once I thought to have children and a husband who would cherish me and love me for ever. Once everything had seemed possible and probable and exciting. Until I met you.
* * *
Was it me who stopped you from realising all of those dreams? he wondered, and turned away, the cognac now only a bitter draft in his mouth and the truth of her hopes lying squarely at his feet.
He was so sick of fighting, so very tired of trying to find the best in each and every situation, the interpretation of which would not break his spirit.
With only a few words from Florentia Hale-Burton the Winterton title could be again dimmed and sullied and he did not think he had the strength to make it different.
The smell of lavender wafted close and he raised his head and reached for it, trying to find courage and tenure.
‘Would you make a painting of the house I have just purchased, Mr Rutherford? I would leave the timing largely to your discretion, but I am willing to pay three times more than I did for the portrait for such an endeavour.’
‘“A foole and his money be soon at debate”,’ came her quick rejoinder and he had to smile.
‘Your general knowledge is surprisingly wide, Mr Rutherford, and very eclectic.’
‘You do not think such a truism might be of use to every man who has the need of thrift, Lord Winterton?’
‘A man like you?’
At this Florentia Hale-Burton had the grace to blush and he was glad of it.
‘Why would you offer me so much for a commission, my lord, when plainly the tariff should be less?’
‘Perhaps because I am one who sees the true value in creativity.’
‘Or...?’ That word was filled with cynicism.
For the first time in a long while Winter laughed out loud.
‘Or... I like you, Mr Rutherford.’
She blushed at that, vividly and satisfyingly. Her charade had kept him on edge for days and it was good to get something of his own back.
‘How long were you there for in the Americas?’
‘Three years. I’d been ill and it was a relief to get on a ship to somewhere else and feel the wind on my face and new possibilities in the air.’
He’d laid in that bed at Tommy’s for nearly eighteen months after the fiasco at the inn, trying to regain his strength and get his body to move in the way it once had. He’d had to learn to speak again for his voice had been lost in the gunshot, ripped away in blood and flesh. It had never again been the same.
Taking a long swallow of the cognac, he liked the way it fortified resolve.
* * *
Was he telling her that it had been years until he had got back on his feet after her father had shot him?
Florentia thought that he confessed this in all he did not say and she moved closer, a feeling unlike any other encompassing her.
‘They infer you are a man with secrets, Lord Winterton? Julia Heron said you were a spy.’
‘A long time ago I was. With General Moore in Spain.’
‘Lady Warrenden has heard you carried your particular trade to the Americas.’
‘Then I was a poor intelligence officer if so much is known about me.’
‘I do not believe you would be mediocre at anything you set your mind to.’
‘Do you not?’
He leaned across her now, the green of his eyes bruised with caution and his mouth so near she could feel the whisper of his breath.
‘Your painting was probably closer to the truth of my character than anyone has come in years, Mr Rutherford. As the artist of such a discerning work I am surprised you still allow me the chance of your company.’
A warning that was not quite as hidden as the others he had given her.
‘Why should I not, Lord Winterton?’ She had had enough of meanings under meanings in words, but it seemed he had, too, for he moved away, distance replacing the intimate.
‘I shall pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning, Mr Rutherford.’ He sounded irritated, the bruise under his eye making him look tired. She could see the last vestige of redness in the white.
‘They are your friends? The people with the garden?’
‘Yes. I’ve k
nown them for many years and they have as little patience for the whims of society as I have. Which is a relief.’
Placing her half-empty glass on the table, she turned to go, glad to be departing for she felt uncertain somehow today, of him and of herself.
‘I think you have forgotten something, Mr Rutherford.’
For a second her eyes fell to his lips, pulled by a force that was as strange as it was strong.
‘Your money.’
The sense of those words brought her back and she bit down on regret.
‘Good day, Lord Winterton.’
‘Until tomorrow, Mr Rutherford.’
* * *
Maria had been furious at her refusal to cancel the invitation to the scented gardens, but on arrival at the house just on the outskirts of London Florentia was very glad that she had not done so.
The Viscount had been quiet today, his words few and far between. Even his greeting had been sedate, a fact that she forgot about completely as they alighted from the coach to be met with a myriad scents wafting all around them.
‘The land as you see it was planted a few years ago. The plot was well irrigated and south facing and had been a garden even before they took it over.’
Winterton’s explanation was quietly given and Florentia’s hand fell to the wooden rail that was on one side of the pathway, the patina of it smooth and solid. There was thyme and basil and comfrey. Hyacinths and primrose filled the borders along with lavender and as Flora passed her boots touched the greenery and the scents lifted.
‘It’s beautiful.’
Bending, she reached into a thick planting of lamb’s ear, all woolly and soft, before running her fingers over the pale blue Glory of the Snow. Feathergrass, witch-hazel, borage, evening primrose and pansies completed the tableau, each specimen tumbling across the other in a sensory delight of smell, touch and taste, the sound of wind chimes and a water feature further afield rounding out the senses.
‘It’s Arabella’s masterpiece,’ Lord Winterton explained and Florentia knew exactly whose garden they were now in.
‘The Carmichaels live here?’ She could not help the trepidation that coated her query or hide the worry when Winter nodded. Last time Mrs Carmichael had kissed him fully on the lips and her husband had barely glanced her way. Would they want her here? Would they wish that Lord Winterton had brought someone else who was far more interesting and colourful? As bright as they themselves were? As intriguing?
As the front door opened, however, the woman who stepped out looked nothing like the one she had met in London. Today Arabella Carmichael was buttoned up in a soft blue high-necked gown, a large apron with pockets tied across her modest dress and her hair in a simple chignon at her nape. The red of it was muted and tidy.
‘Winter.’ Even her voice seemed different. Today she kissed him once on either cheek. ‘You have brought Mr Rutherford to see us? How wonderful. Rafe is inside in the library if you want to go through and I could show your artist the secret garden if he has the inclination for it.’
Winterton looked around at her, eyebrows raised.
‘Thank you. I would enjoy that.’
When he turned Flora followed the woman down a path to one side of the house and entered a hidden garden with an entirely different atmosphere. Shaded by trees and planted in green foliage this place was cool, dark and peaceful. A small water feature that ran between the specimens gave an added sense of mystery, as if it were a glade in some far-off forgotten forest or a place devoid of people and their noises.
‘You do this yourself?’ Her eyes flicked to Arabella Carmichael’s hands, gloveless today.
‘Indeed, I do.’ Her palms turned upwards for an inspection. ‘A gardener cannot boast the fine hands of a lady,’ she said and taking Florentia’s fingers in her own proceeded to run her thumb over the skin. ‘Or of an artist.
‘But it is the place that I come to feel who I am, Mr Rutherford. A garden of truth, you might say. Perhaps one day I could ask you to draw it in the way that you see it?’
‘A sanctuary.’ The words slipped out before Florentia could stop them.
‘I told Rafe that you would understand and you do. Winter has often used my gardens for his own refuge though I doubt he would admit to the fact.’
‘You have known him for long.’
She laughed, the sound joyous and honest. ‘My parents worked for the old Viscount on his family estate. His mother died when he was fourteen and mine died when I was ten so we had that in common, you understand. The grief of it and the futility. I always say it is the sad emotions that bind people together with a certainty. When I lost my way and went to London it was Winter who helped me find myself again. He introduced me to Rafael.’ She stopped for a moment and then carried on. ‘We came to London yesterday afternoon and I saw the portrait you did.’
‘I hope I caught something that you recognised?’
‘I think you know the answer to that one, Mr Rutherford. But my reply to you would be to ask what you left behind of yourself in the picture?’
‘Pain,’ she said before she knew she had and the other nodded.
‘You were the bird trapped in the cage. The one who held no voice? Do you always do that, Mr Rutherford? Do pieces shear off you in every portrait?’
‘Only in the ones that matter.’
‘And this one did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I am glad for it. Winter has hung the painting in his library above the mantel for it is the room he most often uses.’
So it would not be hidden then. It would be seen.
They had left the grotto now and made their way around to the front of the house. Other small flowering plants grew by the steps and Arabella Carmichael took scissors from her pocket and clipped off some of the buds.
‘Did you know flowers have a language all of their own, Mr Rutherford? Lily of the valley stands for purity and pansies are for thoughtfulness.’ Both the white and the blue blooms were thrust into Florentia’s hands before she knew it, their scent full and heady. ‘They suit you. Entirely. A gift from my garden, but also from my heart.’
Then they were inside the darkness of the house, a room at the back opening into yet another vista and it was here that Lord Winterton and Mr Carmichael sat, a number of small carved tiles on a table before them.
‘Are you familiar with the rune stones? Rafe collects them.’ Lord Winterton asked this of her as he saw her, a certain challenge in his voice, and Mr Carmichael laughed at her silence.
‘I do not use them for magical or divinatory purposes despite Winter’s teasing, Mr Rutherford. An artist like you could surely understand that their intrinsic beauty, feel and age is what attracts me and if there is a shadow of the darkness to one side then it is all the better.’
Bryson had collected bones. Of birds and fish. Of larger animals, too, caught in death unexpectedly. In swamps and rivers. In the caves at Albany, the sandstone loose and heavy. They had been collecting the day that he had died... But Flora shook that away and looked instead at the rune stones, her heart beating too fast and the taste of iron on her tongue.
The strange angular inscriptions on the tiles were perplexing. Flora knew that they were usually cast in a certain direction and that if a question was asked the answer could be found in the way they fell as a pattern.
Am I ever going to be happy again?
For just a second she thought she might have said the query out loud and the fright of such a horror kept her still.
Collections held a safety zone, a way to organise, arrange and present the world just as you wanted it to be. A place where fears were managed and calmed.
Each bone that her brother had ever found was now carefully ordered and sorted in the wooden boxes she had made and painted in her room.
Sometimes when she
was younger she had seen Maria look at her as if she were indeed mad, but their white opaque stillness filled a void inside her that had opened after Bryson’s passing and allowed his death some meaning.
When she caught the golden eyes of Rafael Carmichael resting upon her face, she hoped the stones did not permit him to divine her thoughts.
The normal and ordinary seemed to have passed her by and this had been magnified again by her ordeal at the inn, but as she glanced around the room she saw there were things here in this house that were also unusual.
The backs of all the chairs were notched in patterns not unlike the rune stones and a book that sat open on the table held a raised print embossed into the paper.
On the mantel above the fireplace sat five small marble busts, each depicting emotion. Besides each sat a flower, the single blooms in tall glass vases and newly picked.
Arabella’s language of flowers? She looked down at the buds in her grip.
There were no paintings at all on any of the walls.
‘Did you enjoy the garden?’ Winterton had asked her this. His expression held the hint of something she could not quite interpret.
‘Very much indeed. If I closed my eyes I might have been anywhere.’
‘Or nowhere,’ Rafael Carmichael said as he stood, his hands against the chair. ‘Smells are evocative, are they not? Winter has an aversion to peppermint and nothing will cure him of it no matter how hard Arabella has tried.’
Peppermint.
Every time she smelt it she thought of blood and breathlessness. Imagine what it must be like for him with years of long sickness to remember and the futility of his mistake.
‘So we never plant it.’ Arabella added this and the tone lightened. For a second though Flora had seen in the glance of James Waverley a truth that made her take in breath.
Shame. Guilt. All the things she had hoped for in her years of ruin, though now she did not wish to see them at all.
Perhaps the Carmichaels knew what had happened on the North Road? Perhaps he had told them? What must that be like to have good friends standing by you, through all your trials and difficulties, people you could be honest with and trust?