by Jo Goodman
For a while restraint offered reward. The pitch of everything was sweeter, sharper, and more defined, and for all those reasons it could not last. They teased it out as long as was possible, but in the end it was what lay just below the surface that they wanted.
Closing their eyes, they dove headlong into it.
Emma woke with a start. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Restell was still sleeping beside her. They had managed to fit themselves moderately well onto the narrow chaise by curling like spoons, though she had no memory of how it had been accomplished. Even the memory of drifting off to sleep was unclear. She recalled drowning in pleasure but almost nothing after it. The lack of memory didn’t frighten her. She hadn’t lost herself in time, merely surrendered to her need for sleep.
Looking up through the skylight overhead, she observed the waning moon. The slender crescent appealed to her. In a flight of fancy she saw a celestial hook, a place where God might hang His nightshirt. One corner of her mouth curled as she considered where He might place His slippers.
Beside her, she sensed Restell stirring. His arm tightened around her waist, then relaxed as he found his bearings. Her hair was pushed aside, then she felt the familiar warmth of his lips on her nape. Her hum of pleasure ended in an abrupt yawn that was wide enough to make her jaw crack.
Restell chuckled. “However long we slept, it wasn’t long enough.”
She merely nodded. When he didn’t move, she didn’t, either. She was completely at her ease in the shelter of his arm.
Restell used his dressing gown as a blanket, covering Emma’s legs where they were bared below the rucked hem of her shift and robe.
His thoughtfulness touched her. “Thank you.” Emma pointed to the overhead skylight. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to paint that moon. Perhaps a sky at night. It is not as dark as one thinks of it. Have you noticed? So many shades of blue…and the light…it’s brilliant, isn’t it? The light is always a challenge. Uncle Arthur has mastered it beautifully in his work. I want to learn more from him in that regard. There is so much that he can teach me.”
“Then you are not his indentured servant.”
Emma’s dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I am confounded by your ability to be so deeply skeptical of your fellow man, yet remain confident that goodness will prevail.”
“It confounds me as well, but there you have it.”
“I am Sir Arthur’s student, Restell. He is my teacher, my mentor. It is true that I am useful to him and that he’s taken advantage, but painting for him is a privilege, and I do it out of my deep respect for the body of his work. You have seen that his hands are stiff, the knuckles swollen. Some mornings he can barely unfold his fingers. He makes the climb to his studio to preserve the illusion that he is painting, but he often reads and rests while I work.”
“And offers criticism.”
“When warranted. He cannot only give praise.”
Restell suspected there was little enough of that. “He is jealous of your skill, Emma.”
“He is mourning the loss of his own. In his place, I don’t know if I could be so gracious.” Emma carefully turned over so she could face Restell. Her knees bumped his, almost dislodging them both. When they were balanced again, she said, “There is something else, Restell, that you should know. I believe it is worth considering.”
“Oh?”
“Time. I have been contemplating time and memory. It’s occurred to me that I have no sense of either, or rather I have no sense of either in regard to my abduction to Walthamstow.”
Restell considered this. He’d always known her memory of the abduction was incomplete and that what she recalled was suspect. He had not considered the element of time. “Go on.”
“I have been plagued with the notion since our wedding night. Or rather, what occurred later in our dressing room. Do you know I never once inquired of the innkeeper or his wife as to the day? I wrote to my uncle, he sent Mr. Charters, and that was the first I knew I had only been gone a few days. I never questioned it. It seemed to me that no time at all had elapsed, and conversely that I had been away from London for much longer. Under Dr. Bettany’s care I spent days in a drugged sleep that was not so different from how I recalled my abduction.”
Emma propped herself on one elbow. “I think I was gone from London much longer, Restell. Mr. Charters lied to me.”
“If you’re right, Emma, then he was not the only one. Sir Arthur and Marisol also knew the truth. The length of your absence did not go unremarked once you were returned. I asked questions about it myself.”
“I know. I imagine they conspired to protect me, then found they could not back away from the lie.”
“Protection? From the truth?”
“Why not? I’ve been afraid to face it, else why can’t I remember everything? It supports their thinking. You might inquire of Dr. Bettany. He could have advised them to do just that.”
Somewhat urgently Restell sat up. “It doesn’t matter what their motives might have been, it’s more important to discover if there was indeed a lie told to you.” He stood, put on his dressing gown, and strode toward the staircase, expecting that she would follow.
Emma caught up to him halfway down the stairs. “Where are we going?”
“To find your maid,” Restell said. “She is the one person in this house who knows the truth, if you can but convince her to tell you.”
It required cajolery and conviction on Emma’s part to press Mary Bettis to speak up. The maid was conscious that she had displeased her mistress but clearly afraid to reveal what she knew.
“They told me I shouldn’t mention it,” Mary said. “And you were so confused, I didn’t know I was doing harm.”
“No one will know that you told me. I shall say I recalled it on my own.”
Mary’s dark eyes darted between Emma and Restell. “Sir Arthur sent Mr. Charters and me soon after your missive arrived. My recollection is that you were gone just the two days then. I thought we’d go to Walthamstow and return straightaway, but you were in such a state as broke my heart. I suppose that’s why Mr. Charters didn’t bring you back as quickly as he might have.”
“What do you mean, Mary? We left Walthamstow soon after you arrived.”
“Yes, ma’am, but we didn’t go far. Mr. Charters set you and me up in a hostelry south of the village, then he disappeared. I wouldn’t let myself think we were abandoned. He promised he would return, and I took him at his word. It was the proper thing to do because he came back right enough and we left the following day.
“Where do you suppose he went?”
“I can’t say as to that, but he smelled of spirits on his return. I expect after seeing you he was a man in want of a pint. Lesser of two evils, that.”
“What is the other evil?” asked Restell.
Mary Bettis didn’t blink. “Murder, sir. Mr. Charters looked as if he could do murder.”
Chapter 15
After Emma made her farewell to Mrs. Stuart she waved off Whittier and the carriage in favor of walking. It was not as if she was entirely alone, she realized. It was only a good beginning. Some twenty yards behind her McCleod would be following, and Restell’s driver would not abandon her for more than a block at a time.
She opened her parasol and rested the shank against her shoulder while she twirled it absently, her thoughts still on her brief exchange with Mrs. Stuart. The Tintoretto that hung in Mrs. Stuart’s morning room was indeed a copy. It was not, however, the painting that Emma had first examined when she encouraged the judge’s wife to seek out Mr. Charters for an appraisal. As a copy, it was not a clumsy effort, and even though she was largely unfamiliar with the body of Tintoretto’s work, she could recognize certain similarities to the copy that hung in Lady Rivendale’s music room. Tintoretto and Sir Anthony Eden painted hundreds of years apart, but their forger was from this century. She had no doubt now that they were done by the same artist.
Emma paused beneath a horse chestnut at on
e of the entrances to the park. She could leave the sidewalk in favor of the crushed gravel path and take the diagonal route to the park’s far side. It was a fair, sunny day and she ached to do what was unexpected. Mr. Whittier would have to take the long way around as this path was too narrow for the carriage, and McCleod could not follow too closely lest he be mistaken for a footpad.
Her stomach turned over as she set her toe over the park’s threshold. Her heart jumped once before it settled into a rhythm that was quick but not uncomfortably so. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. The linen canopy of the parasol spun like a top as her nervous fingers twirled the handle.
Decision made, Emma did not permit herself to think better of it. She forged ahead, pausing only when she realized her steps were more in the way of a forced march. She was crossing the green as though she’d begun a military campaign. The image raised a small, tentative smile. She was not yet the young woman she aspired to be, the one who crossed the park in a gusting wind and laughed gaily at the tug on her bonnet and the fluttering of her skirts.
This journey was her Waterloo. Emma set her eyes forward and continued walking, and by the time she reached number Twenty-three Covington, she was flushed with the excitement of victory.
Emma was shown straightaway to the library where her uncle was taking care of correspondence. “It is a glorious day,” she said, sweeping into the room. “I was certain I would find you in the studio.” She advanced on Sir Arthur’s desk and kissed his cheek when he turned to look up at her.
“You are in fine color,” he said. “I must say, I approve. It is becoming, Emmalyn.”
She smiled warmly. “I came by the park, Uncle. I mean, I walked through it on my own. I should not be so pleased with myself, I suspect, but it has been ever so long.” She could not fail to miss her uncle’s frown nor the concern in his eyes. “My driver was not far distant, and McCleod did not stray. Still, it was almost as if I were alone. Do be happy for me.”
“If that’s what you want,” he said, “then I am.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at his correspondence. The pile of letters on the tray was quite high. “Do you require some assistance?” she asked. “I have no objection if you would rather make short work of this rather than paint this afternoon.”
“You are good to offer. I would rather paint, but this is pressing me. Marisol has promised to make my replies, but she is invariably occupied elsewhere. The wedding, I think, is much on her mind.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, the wedding.” She picked up several letters and began to fan through them.
“You have some reservations, I collect. Is it because you had feelings for Mr. Charters?”
Emma almost dropped the correspondence. She set it down carefully and gave Sir Arthur her full attention. “I suppose denials will not serve. I am learning I give my thoughts away too easily.” Sighing, she moved away from the desk and sat down on the nearby sofa. She folded her hands in her lap to keep them still. “I didn’t realize you knew that I once held Mr. Charters in affection.”
“I knew. Marisol knew as well. She set her cap for him anyway. I am sorry for that, Emmalyn, though I wonder if I should be. You seemed to accept his defection rather too stoically for my tastes. Mayhap I was wrong, but I questioned the depth of your feelings that you could surrender him so easily.”
“It did not occur that I should fight when clearly his affections were engaged elsewhere. Is that done?”
“If you learned that your husband has a mistress?”
Emma did not hesitate. “I would run her through.” She saw him nod, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes, and realized the full import of what he’d said. “You’ve heard something?”
“Marisol told me. Might I know if it’s true?”
“I am comforted you have asked outright. The assumptions of truth are more troubling. No, it is not true, and lest you think I am deluded, I can tell you that I am familiar with the woman who was seen with my husband. She is most definitely not his mistress.”
“One of his peculiar enterprises, then.”
“Yes,” she said. “Something like that. People seek him to redress all manner of things—just as I did.”
“He has not found your abductors, though, has he?”
“No. But neither has there been any incident since he began to provide for our protection.”
“I seem to recall that you nearly drowned in a fountain. It is more than passing strange that you give it no notice.”
“Mr. Charters was the real victim there. What happened to me was a consequence of circumstance, nothing more.”
“You are quite certain?”
“I am.” She paused as she weighed the points for and against revealing what she knew to her uncle. “I have reason to believe that Mr. Charters participates in activities that might very well cause someone to want to harm him.”
Sir Arthur’s narrow features took on a decidedly pinched expression. “Have a care, Emmalyn. Your tales are no more welcome to my ears than my own daughter’s.”
“It’s no tale, Uncle, but I’ll not say anything else if that’s your wish.”
“You place me in a difficult position, but then you are clever enough to know that. Whatever it is that you wish to tell me, is it the reason you have reservations about Marisol’s wedding?”
“Yes.” Emma could have told him it was one of many reservations she held, but her simple response sufficed. “I did not come here today with the intention of sharing this with you. Frankly, I do not know if it is even wise that I do so. You will have to decide if you want to know.”
Visibly agitated, Sir Arthur rose stiffly to his feet and paced off the length of the room before he turned on Emma. He crossed his arms in front of him and in a tone that was more challenging than directive, he said, “Go on, then. Tell me what it is you think you know.”
Emma was profoundly sorry she had spoken on the matter at all. He’d made it evident that he didn’t want to hear her out. “Is it so important that Marisol secure her future now?” she asked. When she observed a bit of deflation in her uncle’s puffed-up stance, she realized she’d either hit the mark or was not far off. “That is what concerns you, is it not? If you must revise your high opinion of Mr. Charters you may have no choice but to withdraw your blessing, and I think that is what you do not want to do.” Emma lifted her hands in a somewhat imploring gesture. “Marisol is as clever as she is beautiful, Uncle, and more gentlemen step into her path than out of it. Mr. Charters is merely the first to make an offer of marriage. She does not have to settle; neither do you.”
“You may sit in judgment of me,” Sir Arthur said gravely. “Just as your mother did before you. That is your prerogative. Know only that I will not explain myself to you. That is my prerogative.”
Emma felt as though she might cry. The joy that had been hers when she entered her uncle’s home had vanished, replaced by a sense of futility and disappointment. The weight of it seemed to prevent her from rising to her feet. With effort, she held her chin up and met his narrowed gaze. “Forgive me,” she said quietly. “I would not presume to judge you, but I comprehend that you think I have.”
He indicated neither acceptance nor rejection of her apology. His nostrils flared slightly as he took a steadying breath. “I would hear what you have to say, Emmalyn.”
Emma had refolded her hands in her lap. Now the knuckles were nearly bloodless. “Mr. Charters is forging works of art.”
Sir Arthur raised a single eyebrow in skeptical arch. “Forging?”
“Copying, if you prefer.”
“I think you are making too much of it. It is done all the time. You know it yourself. Does he suggest the works are his own?”
“No. He examines a painting and pronounces it a copy, then he paints a copy and exchanges it for the authentic piece. Lady Rivendale’s Eden seascape is one example. Mrs. Stuart’s Tintoretto is another. I cannot say whether there are more.”
“Now you are saying he is a thief
.”
“It pains me to do so,” she said. “I mistook his character.”
“I suppose you can prove this.”
“I believe I have, though that is not to say that I mean to do anything about it. I visited Mrs. Stuart before I came here and saw for myself that the Tintoretto in her possession is not the one I examined when she returned from Italy. It is the same with the Eden work. Do you know the one I mean?”
“In Lady Rivendale’s music room. Yes, I know it. And you are certain it is Charters’s work?”
“He has her original in his gallery. I studied it there. I know it’s the same one she had in her possession.”
“I see. And the Tintoretto? It is there also?”
“Yes, and placed there not so very long ago.”
Sir Arthur pressed his fist against the underside of his chin. “It is not good news that you have for me, but neither is it the calamity I envisioned. There are things that may yet be done to put it all to right.”
Emma thought he sounded a bit like Restell in his belief that situations could be managed. She did not share this with Sir Arthur, doubting that he would find it complimentary in his present frame of mind. “I am glad to hear it,” she said, and she was. “Will you tell Marisol?”
“I will speak to Mr. Charters first. As you apparently have not done so, it is only fair to lay it all before him. You appreciated that I made no assumptions upon hearing about your husband and his paramour. I suspect that Mr. Charters will have the same appreciation for allowing him to make his own explanation.”
Emma did not offer an argument. There was one serious difference in putting questions before Mr. Charters and putting them before her: She was not the subject of any wrongdoing. That had been leveled against her husband and she had only to defend him. Mr. Charters would be in a position where he would have to defend himself. She could not imagine that it would be a pleasant interview.