by Jo Goodman
“A few hours ago. About nine, I think. Mrs. Gardner brought Sir Arthur by this afternoon while you were out. Took him up to see the studio.”
“Did she?”
Hobbes nodded as he limped toward Restell. He brushed Restell’s caped greatcoat with his hands and smoothed the line of it across his shoulders. “I think she was hoping to see you before you went to the club. You didn’t return home.”
“I changed clothes at Ferrin’s. It was merely a convenience. It required rather more time than I allotted to secure the final commitment from one of the guests. Mr. Charters was in no way eager to favor me with his company.”
“Understandable.” Taking a step back, Hobbes surveyed his work with a critical eye. “I take it the evening went well?”
“Very well. It could have only been more agreeable if I’d thought to have tar and feathers at the ready.”
“Humiliating for the Allworthy pups, was it?”
“Quite.” Restell looked out the window. “It is taking long enough with my horse. I could have walked to Covington Street by now.”
“I’m sure it will be here directly.” Hobbes barely had the words out of his mouth when Restell announced he saw the groom. The valet’s farewell fell on deaf ears as Restell departed the house in much the same fashion as he had arrived.
Emma heard her husband entering the house and was immediately reassured. She excused herself from her uncle’s bedside and hurried into the hallway to greet Restell. She placed a finger to her lips as he came around the landing. He immediately slowed his pace and spoke quietly when he was upon her.
“What happened?” he asked, taking Emma’s hands. Her fingers were cold. When he bent to kiss her, he found her cheek and lips were barely warmer.
“He’s had a stroke, Restell. I sent for Dr. Bettany earlier, and he confirmed it. It is too early yet to know how he will go on. It is his right side that’s been affected, so one can be a bit hopeful, I suppose.”
“Hobbes told me there was a fall.”
She nodded. “That’s what was in Marisol’s message. He collapsed on the stairs coming down from his studio. I don’t know why he was even there so late.” She shook her head as though to dismiss her frustration. “It’s not important. Come, Marisol and I have been sitting with him. He mostly sleeps, but when he awakens he is so bewildered that it is painful to look upon.”
“Then he is glad of your presence, I’m sure.” Restell followed her into Sir Arthur’s bedchamber. The large bed dwarfed the artist. Never a robust gentleman, he was made frail and diminutive by the thick bedcovers and ornate bed head. Restell approached the bed a step behind Emma. He nodded to Marisol, but when she did not acknowledge him, he was not at all certain she realized he was in the room. Her blue eyes, usually lambent in their outlook, were without expression. Indeed, she seemed to look through him but without the penetration of a sentient being.
Emma took up her chair again, and Restell drew one away from the fireplace and brought it to her side. The ashen cast of Sir Arthur’s face was truly frightening. He possessed little more color than the pillow sham he lay against, and the dark frame of his hair merely emphasized it. He watched Emma slide her hand toward Sir Arthur’s and slip her fingers under his palm. Marisol, he noted, sat stiffly in her chair, seemingly incapable of offering comfort for the depth of her own grief.
“When did he last wake?” Restell asked.
“It’s been an hour.”
“How long ago did Dr. Bettany leave?”
“Just afterward. He examined him one last time and said we should make him comfortable. He can have a bit of bread and broth, though I don’t expect he’ll want it.”
Restell removed the handkerchief from his pocket and rose to wipe a string of drool that had escaped the right corner of Sir Arthur’s mouth.
Her husband’s kind attention raised Emma’s grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said as he sat again. “It is much appreciated. By my uncle most of all. He cares greatly for his dignity.”
Restell knew that was true. “Why didn’t you send for me? I would have left the club.”
Emma regarded him with some surprise. “I did. I merely supposed you couldn’t leave.” She looked at her cousin. “Marisol? Did you send someone to Lytton’s with my note for Mr. Gardner?”
Marisol did not answer immediately. She turned her head slowly in Emma’s direction as though moving against an invisible force. “Of course I did.” She patted the pockets of her apron, frowning when she heard a light crinkling sound. She reached inside and found the folded note Emma had given her. Her lower lip trembled slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s all right,” Emma said quickly. “He’s here now. I merely wondered. I suppose this means Mr. Charters does not know, either.”
Marisol’s hand returned to her pocket and came away with a second folded note. “I thought he didn’t care,” she said. There was a clear tremor in her voice.
“Mr. Charters was with me at Lytton’s,” said Restell. He knew Neven hadn’t intended to tell Marisol. “So he wouldn’t have received your note at home. Shall I go for him? It is no bother.” He was already on his feet when Marisol nodded. Squeezing Emma’s shoulder, he said, “It will seem less than a moment that I’m gone.”
Emma very much doubted it, but she let him go anyway.
Over the next fortnight, Sir Arthur began to make what the physician called a cautious recovery. What made it cautious, Emma supposed, was that it occurred in increments so small as to be noticeable only to the most vigilant eye. He did not speak in a manner that was understandable to her. Marisol seemed to comprehend him, though, and would snap at the maids to fetch another blanket, pillow, or a damp flannel, depending upon her interpretation of the guttural utterances coming from the left side of her father’s mouth.
Emma spent more time at number Twenty-three Covington than she did at home. She rose early and went straightaway to her uncle’s, often remaining at his bedside throughout the morning. She read to him from books that she knew he enjoyed and encouraged Marisol to do the same. In the afternoon, Emma made a point to answer Sir Arthur’s correspondence. Marisol often looked it over but never offered to assist. Emma did not mind as her cousin was clearly not up to the task. Marisol wandered about the house like a wraith, appearing unexpectedly at odd moments, uncharacteristically silent except for directing the servants.
Lady Rivendale was a frequent visitor. She made certain Dr. Bettany’s orders were followed precisely. She oversaw the footmen as they exercised and massaged Sir Arthur’s limp arm and leg, and she arrived with food prepared by her own cook to entice Sir Arthur to eat. Emma observed that it mattered very little that Sir Arthur did not try to speak in her presence. Lady Rivendale worked both sides of any conversation and never failed to win her own argument.
Emma returned home each evening increasingly tired, increasingly discouraged, and as Restell noted, increasingly worried. On Sunday night, a full fifteen days since Sir Arthur’s stroke, Emma fell into bed beside him and simply lay there unmoving. Restell set aside his book and gave her his full attention, lightly brushing back strands of dark hair that had fallen across her forehead and cheeks. The first evidence that she was still conscious was when she stirred as his fingertips passed over her temples. He shifted his position so she could rest her head in his lap. As he began to massage her temples, he heard her surrender a small, satisfied sigh.
“Will you not stay at home tomorrow?” he asked. “Even Dr. Bettany says that Sir Arthur’s recovery is not hastened by you being ever at his bedside.”
Emma’s eyes remained closed. “I know,” she said quietly. “He has said as much to me. I wish I could believe he was right.”
That surprised Restell. “Are you so powerful, then? I confess, I hadn’t realized.”
“No,” she said. She shook her head to emphasize the point and winced at the sharp pain the movement caused. Biting her lower lip, she waited for the pain to dull. “Not powerful at all.
Most often I feel perfectly helpless, but I’m aware that he rests well in my company. The maids have remarked on it. You have been there on occasion at the end of the day when I am about to take my leave. Can you say you haven’t observed his agitation?”
“No,” Restell said. “I cannot, but I didn’t realize that it occurred every night. You have never said so before.”
“I suppose I thought it would pass. Or that I could bear it.” Tears slipped beneath her lashes. Before she could brush them away, she felt the soft pad of Restell’s thumb doing it for her. “I am afraid for him,” she said. “And I think he is afraid for himself.”
“Have you spoken to Marisol about this?”
“Several times. I do not think she hears me. She listens, but she doesn’t hear. I cannot fathom her mood of late. She had a terrible row with Mr. Charters this afternoon.”
“A row? It is hard to believe. I am not certain I’ve heard her speak more than a few words at a time since Sir Arthur’s stroke.”
“She uttered a great many more today, most of them at a pitch that can only be described as shrill. It was fortunate they were in the studio, else the exact nature of their argument would surely be known to everyone in the household.”
“Do you know?”
“I was reading to Uncle Arthur,” she said. “I made it a point to read more loudly. Marisol made no mention of it later.”
“Charters?”
“No. He doesn’t speak to me outside of Marisol’s presence. I quite prefer it that way.”
So did Restell, though he wondered if Charters was being circumspect of his own accord or whether Marisol had insisted upon it. “It is odd, don’t you think, that they were in the studio?”
“No. There are decisions that must be made about which painting should be made available for sale. Mr. Charters went up to look them over. Marisol followed later.”
“You are not painting there, are you?”
“No. The commissioned works that were already begun will have to wait. I cannot finish them for my uncle when all of the ton knows he is bedfast. Even if the ton didn’t know, I would not betray him to Marisol or Mr. Charters. It was a point of pride that neither of them knew how much he suffered with the rheumatism or how it affected his painting. The mornings that he could hardly hold a brush were more than physically painful for him.”
“Do you know what painting Charters chose?”
“Yes. A Windy Day. It’s a perspective of the park.”
“I think I know the one you mean, Emma. That isn’t your uncle’s work. That’s yours. All of it. Sir Arthur showed it to me, and I must tell you that the last doubt I had that you painted was removed when I viewed it. I was there, remember, when those two young ladies surrendered their modesty to the wind in favor of securing their bonnets.”
Emma was sufficiently moved by this revelation to open one eye and look up at Restell. “Oh. You never said.”
“Well, I intended to purchase it for myself. I was unaware that you’d finished it. Now I suppose I will have to meet Charters’s stiff price.”
“I expect there will be bidding for it,” Emma said. “It is all rather ghoulish as Uncle Arthur is merely unwell, not dead. I imagine there is speculation that if he cannot paint again, the value of his work will increase many times over.”
“And I imagine that Charters has that sort of thinking very much in his mind.” Restell tapped the tip of Emma’s nose with his forefinger. “I find it curious that Mr. Charters doesn’t realize you’ve completed any number of paintings for your uncle. That Sir Arthur thought it could be kept a secret from him borders on the ridiculous, and that you seem to believe the same, well, I simply cannot grasp it.”
“Sir Arthur and I have been very careful. I told you it was a matter of pride with him that no one knew. You would have only suspicions if not for the fact that I painted a moment in time that was witnessed by the pair of us.”
“Is Charters an expert or not? He may not be a superior painter in his own right, but the breadth of his collection indicates that he is not a complete fraud. If he doesn’t know for a fact that you’ve been assisting Sir Arthur in less obvious ways than cleaning his brushes and mixing his paints, then at the very least he must have his suspicions.”
Emma laid her hands over Restell’s massaging fingers, stilling them for a moment. “Why wouldn’t he say anything?”
“For the plain reason that it is to his benefit to remain silent. He is going to marry Miss Vega, today’s row notwithstanding, and what will eventually be hers will eventually be his. He is comfortably situated in society and his association with Sir Arthur gives him entry into even higher circles. Given both those things, I doubt that any amount of coercion could compel him to hint at what he suspects or knows.”
Releasing Restell’s hands, Emma permitted him to begin massaging again. “I don’t think I shall ever comprehend the arrangement that exists among them.”
“Arrangement?”
“For want of a better word coming to mind at this hour,” Emma said. “It has always seemed to me that there existed some…understanding…among them.”
“Among them,” Restell said, mulling that over. “Not between them? You are including your cousin in the arrangement, then. It is three, not two.”
“Yes, I suppose I am. It’s always been a triangle.”
Restell made no comment. He looked down at Emma and saw that her eyes were closed again, the shadows beneath them evident in the flickering candlelight. She looked weary beyond measure, yet he knew she would rise early and attend to her uncle on the morrow. She would give her uncle comfort that he did not find in the presence of his daughter. Emma had not said that was the case, but Restell had observed it. Sir Arthur’s agitation did not merely occur when Emma left him of an evening, but when she left him alone with Marisol.
Restell wasn’t certain that Emma had made the connection herself, and he was loath to put it before her. She was better able to share her fears about Sir Arthur than she was able to say anything at all about her cousin. Some of what he knew he had seen firsthand; the remainder came to him from Lady Rivendale. The countess had her own reasons of the heart to be concerned.
Marisol Vega fingered the keys on the pianoforte but produced no sound. She played the tune in her head, neither humming nor carrying the melody in her sweet soprano. She knew every note, every measure, having played it on many occasions for her father. She could not recall if she’d ever played it for Neven. He’d always said he enjoyed her talent on the pianoforte, but he rarely requested that she play for him except when there were others around to remark on her skill as well. His appreciation of her talent, she suspected, was greater when it reflected well on him.
Marisol appreciated the practicality of his position. She was of a similar mind where he was concerned. Neven always looked better to her when he was surrounded by his admirers. Knowing that he was sought out for his cleverness never failed to warm her. How clever she must appear to others, she reasoned, for having caught the attention of such a man. Cleverer still, for having secured his interest when they seemed to have been fixed on Emmalyn.
Marisol spread her fingers across the keys, and she struck a strident chord hard. When the notes faded to nothing, she picked up the threads of another melody in her mind and began to play it without accompaniment.
“I thought I heard you here,” Emma said, slipping into the drawing room. “It was just the one chord, though. Won’t you play something? I believe your father would like that.”
“It won’t disturb him?”
“No. On the contrary. It will give him peace and soften Lady Rivendale’s chatter.”
Marisol winced. “She does go on, doesn’t she?” Her grim smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. She began to play, this time with her fingers fully depressing the keys. “You heard the argument yesterday, didn’t you? No, there is no need to pretend otherwise. I shouldn’t wonder that all of Covington Street heard me. I was shamefully rude to Neven.�
�� Marisol bowed her head and lowered her voice so she was barely audible above the pianoforte. “I think he is going to end our engagement, Emmalyn.”
“Oh, surely not. Did he say so?”
Marisol didn’t answer the question. Instead, she lifted her face and blinked back tears. “Will you speak to him? Please, Emmalyn. He will listen to you. He thinks you are sensible. If you tell him that it is my father’s illness that has made me unreasonable, he will understand. I could not bear it if he leaves me.”
“Marisol. I’m sure you’re—”
Marisol stopped playing and swiveled to face Emma, effectively interrupting her. “Could you bear it if Mr. Gardner left you? You couldn’t, could you? I can see it in your face. Please. Won’t you go to Neven? I know you can persuade him to do what is right by me. You can take my carriage since you sent your own driver off.”
“Now?” asked Emma. “You want me to go now?”
“You must. He left here yesterday with nothing resolved between us. You must know that every moment since then has been a torture. Say you will, Emmalyn. Say you will do it.”
Emma was certain she meant to refuse. Her lips had parted in anticipation of doing just that, so it was difficult to know if she or Marisol was more surprised when what they heard was yes.
Chapter 16
Emma looked around for Jamie McCleod before she stepped into the carriage. She wished the man was not so very good at disappearing. Now that she had given Marisol her word, all the reasons that she should not have done so were coming to her mind. Emma suspected it would unravel the knot in her stomach if she saw that McCleod was close by.
Turning back to the house, Emma observed Marisol watching from one of the windows. The distance separating them was not so great that Emma couldn’t make out Marisol’s anxious expression. Indecision held Emma still for another moment. At her side she sensed the driver’s impatience. The man had begun beating a hard tattoo against his leg with the braided leather handle of his whip. The steady percussion accelerated her heartbeat and within moments her head was thumping with the same rhythm.