by Emma V Leech
Lottie snorted at the idea. “Don’t be such a silly goose. As if you could. You’ve never offended anyone in your entire life!”
Eliza stared her at in disbelief.
“Oh, well, I’m different. We’re sisters, we’re bound to bicker, and you know I enjoy a good argument and you will provoke me by being so… so….”
“What?” Eliza demanded, her tone one of indignation.
“Bloody perfect!
“Lottie!” Eliza exclaimed in shock.
“See?” Lottie said triumphantly. “Even Mama swears when she’s terribly cross.”
Eliza huffed. “Well, why did he do it, then? He practically gave me the cut direct and yet yesterday, when he first saw me, I….”
“You what?”
Eliza shook her head, frowning. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m being foolish and reading too much into it, I’m sure.”
“Well, it was odd.”
“What was odd?” piped up a little voice.
“Oh, good morning, Cat,” Lottie said, holding out her hand to the little girl.
Cat took it, falling into step with them. “Do you mean Mr Demarteau?”
“Oh, good lord, did everyone see?” Eliza demanded in horror.
Cat shook her head. “Oh, no. Everyone else was too hungry, but I’d had breakfast hours ago. I only came back to see Fred and tell him to meet me in the stables once he was done. If he can move after eating so many sausages, that is.”
“He does like sausages,” Lottie said with a fond smile.
“I think you must remind him.”
“Of sausages?” Lottie asked, frowning.
“What? Oh, no,” Cat said, shaking her head. “Of someone he loved.”
“Who did Fred love?” Eliza asked in alarm.
“Not Fred!” Cat sent them an expression of pure exasperation. “Mr Demarteau. I think he must have loved someone who looked like you. Perhaps she died in the reign of terror. She might have been an aristocrat and had her head cut off, and he’s still pining for her.”
“My goodness, child, what an imagination you have,” Eliza said, laughing even though her hand went to her throat. “The revolution was over forty years ago. Just how old do you think he is?”
“Quite old,” Cat admitted.
Lottie spluttered. “Darling, he can be no more than thirty-five at the very most.”
“That is quite old,” the girl protested, which sent them both off into peals of laughter.
“Oh, I’m so glad you came, Cat,” Eliza said with a sigh. “I feel so much better.”
Chapter 4
Dear diary,
I am certain there is something going on.
Eliza wishes to speak to Cassius alone, but he is avoiding her and Lottie is as jittery as a cat on hot coals whenever Cassius is around. Eliza can’t keep her eyes from Mr Demarteau and Mr Demarteau will leave a room the moment she enters. Meanwhile, everyone can see that Eliza has caught the comte’s eye and he intends to court her.
Oh, this will be vastly entertaining. Better even than Mrs Radcliffe!
―Excerpt of an entry to the diary of Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ Barrington, youngest daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu.
30th June 1838, Holbrook House, Sussex.
“So, this is where you are hiding.”
Cassius looked up, an unwelcome flush of heat making a slow crawl up his neck. Eliza was framed in the doorway of the summerhouse, her trim figure backlit by the bright afternoon sunlight outside. Her words made something hot and uncomfortable squirm in his belly, for although she was teasing him without a hint of reproach, he had indeed been hiding from her.
“Mother has given me leave to use the summerhouse as my studio,” he said, gesturing to the chaos of packing boxes filled with paints and art materials, and the stacks of canvases he had brought back from France piled against the walls.
“It makes a perfect studio,” she observed with a nod, looking about her with interest.
“Yes, the big windows make it wonderfully light and the view over the lake is one I shall never tire of. It is away from the house, too, and free of distractions.”
“Oh,” she said, hesitating on the threshold. “I—”
“Oh no!” Cassius said in a rush. “I never meant you. You could never be a distraction to me, Eliza. Er… I mean….”
What the hell did he mean? He wondered as Eliza stared at him with a puzzled expression. Except he had been distracted from everything since the moment Lottie had burst onto the terrace and back into his life. He’d been able to think of nothing else but the vivacity he’d seen in her eyes, her obvious joy in seeing him, and… and he could not help but wonder….
Eliza gave him a kind smile. “It must be strange to be home after your adventures. No doubt it will take you a week or so to settle back to it after the excitement of everything you’ve seen and done.”
Cassius let out a breath and picked up one of the small earthenware jars he stored his paints in to keep them fresh. How typical of Eliza to remove any tension, to put him at his ease. It was what he liked most about her, how easy she was to be with, how she smoothed away the wrinkles in life with a soft word, and a kind gesture. It was gift few people possessed.
“Yes. I admit I’m all at sixes and sevens. I seem unable to settle to anything, even painting, so I thought I would arrange the studio.”
“And perhaps arrange your disordered mind at the same time,” Eliza said with a twinkle in her eyes.
Cassius laughed. “Quite so.”
He watched her as she moved about the studio, touching the bristly tops of paintbrushes stuffed in a jar and inspecting bottles of walnut oil.
“Cassius,” she said, the way she spoke his name clearly the prelude to something significant.
His stomach tightened.
“Oh, here you are!”
Lottie appeared in the doorway and Cassius jolted in shock. The sun caught the gold of her hair, shimmering around the edges, giving her the appearance of an angel with a halo of light glowing about her. Heat rushed over him, memories of the Lottie he had known for so long crashing into the vision before him. Mischievous Lottie, causing havoc and making him laugh, teasing him and playing tricks coalesced into this mystical vision that he wanted to paint, wanted to touch, wanted to do bad, bad things with. Longing rose inside him, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs. Cassius dropped the jar.
It hit the floor with a crash and the dozen or so pig’s bladders stored inside burst on impact. Cobalt blue and crimson lake burst against cadmium yellow and viridian, chrome orange and lead white. A rainbow of colour splattered everything from his boots and the empty fireplace to the hem of Eliza’s gown.
“Oh!” she said in consternation, jumping back too late to avoid the patter of ruinous oil paint against the delicate fawn silk of her gown.
“Eliza!” Cassius exclaimed, mortified. “My God, I’m so sorry, I… Damnation, I’m a bloody fool!”
Eliza looked up at him in shock. “It’s only a little paint, Cassius.”
“But it’s ruined,” he said, his throat tightening. “It’s quite ruined.”
“It’s just a gown, Cassius. I have many more, and my maid is a marvel, you know. No doubt she’ll have some clever method of having it cleaned or a way to disguise the damage. There’s no harm done.”
Cassius watched as Eliza hurried away to repair the damage to her gown, too aware he had not been speaking of the dress at all. He would ruin everything, damage a friendship that had lasted their whole lives if he gave into this overwhelming desire for her sister. Cassius looked up to see Lottie dithering just inside the door, wringing her hands together.
“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” she said miserably.
“What?” he asked in alarm, wondering if his feelings were so bloody obvious.
“I erupted in on you like… like an explosion and…” She gave an unhappy huff of laughter and gestured at the mess of colour on the ground. “I always leave a
trail of destruction, though, don’t I? You must remember that much about me. I was always forcing myself upon you both, spoiling your games.”
Cassius did not remember her spoiling anything. Now he thought about it he realised she had made everything more exciting, finding adventure when Eliza would have stayed closer to home. He looked down at the paint for he could not look at her. Each bladder was about the side of a walnut and every one had detonated to create a starburst of paint. He stared down, finding a smile tugging at his mouth as he saw the pattern it had created: a joyous, vibrant blaze of colour against the dull background of the floor beneath. It was too perfect an analogy for the dazzling creature before him and the effect she’d had on the world about her.
“I think it’s beautiful.”
Lottie shook her head, clearly feeling wretched. “You are just being kind. It’s a dreadful mess.”
“No. Look.”
He held out his hand to her, gesturing for her to come closer. She did, and his breath caught as she placed her fingers upon his.
“See how the yellow has burst over the green and blue, and those little speckles of red and the white over there, like stars.”
Lottie gave a soft laugh of delight and the sound thrilled inside of him. It lit him up, catching at his heart, making him feel lighter, making him feel nothing was impossible.
“Fireworks!” she said, turning to stare at him, her great blue eyes alight with pleasure.
“Fireworks,” he repeated, unaccountably breathless, staring at her as something similar burst in his chest, little blasts of sensation lighting him up inside because she was near him, gazing at him like he had hung the moon. She liked him. Well, he knew she had always admired him, in an awestruck, girlish way. Was… Was this the same, or was it…?
She looked away suddenly and withdrew her hand from his grasp. The distance between them grew as she moved back, heading towards the door. He wanted to follow her.
“Still, it is the most awful mess,” she said. “You should punish me by making me clear it up myself. My mother would, I assure you.”
“I think I shall leave it as it is and let it dry, and then I shall always remember you.”
Not that there was anything in the world capable of making him forget her, or the way she had made his entire world ignite into the most extravagant carnival of colours he could imagine. Had it been only yesterday? And yet she had always been there. He had just not taken the time to notice. Lottie had always been in his life, making him laugh, entertaining him with her joyous nature and her nose for mischief. She was the one who had dragged him and Eliza on escapades, and she was the one who had forced Eliza to think of adventures of her own in a bid to escape her.
“Yes, you may remember me and the dreadful mess I make of everything,” she retorted, with such bitterness that his breath caught.
“Lottie, I didn’t mean—”
“I should go.”
She ran out in a flurry of skirts, but Cassius thought he’d heard her voice quaver, heard something fragile and hopeless in her words that he could not bear.
“Lottie!”
He went to go after her but could not walk through the paint so had to step back and around, squeezing past packing crates, and by the time he got to the door, she was out of sight.
Lottie caught up with her sister, dragging her by the arm. “You must get to Agatha before the paint dries, she might have a chance then.”
“Lottie, you know as well I do there will be no cleaning oil paint from this silk. I just didn’t want Cassius to fret about it. He looked so mortified, the poor man.”
“Yes, and it was all my fault.”
Lottie felt sick. She had been wild with jealousy when she’d realised her sister was inside the studio, alone with Cassius. Though she had not meant to eavesdrop, she had heard the way Eliza had said his name, recognised her tone, and knew she was building up to broach a delicate topic. Lottie knew Eliza had wanted to discuss their betrothal and she had reacted without thinking, wanting only to delay the inevitable. She may as well fling herself in the path of an oncoming train in the hope of stopping it for all the difference it would make. Eliza and Cassius had been on this road for too many years and everyone knew it. If she got involved, if she tried to interfere, she would shame herself, expose herself for the horrid, jealous creature she was and give everyone a disgust of her, especially Eliza and Cassius. It was unthinkable. She would lose her sister and the man she loved and be left alone, with nothing and no one.
Oh, she was going to weep. No. No, she must not.
“It wasn’t your fault either, you silly goose,” Eliza said with a laugh, taking her arm.
Lottie swallowed hard and forced her voice not to tremble. “Of course it was. I made him jump.”
“Nonsense, the pot was slippery with oil, like everything else in the room,” she added, holding up her gloves which bore greasy marks on the fingertips.
“Oh, there you are, girls. Good heavens, Eliza, what have you been doing?”
The sisters looked up as their mother accosted them, staring in dismay at Eliza’s ruined gown.
“A little accident with some paint, Mama.”
Their mother glanced at Lottie.
“Yes, it was my fault,” Lottie said gloomily. There, even her mama knew any disaster was more than likely her doing, even if she never reproached her for it. She was a walking accident just waiting for a place to happen, generally when there would be the most devastation possible.
“Well, never mind, accidents happen. Do you know, I’ve lost two pairs of gloves since we arrived, and I cannot fathom where the devil they’ve gone to? Sally is dreadfully cross with me.”
She held out her inky fingers and they both laughed. Their darling mama was a writer of some renown, and her fingers were generally ink-stained. She tried to hide them with gloves but, as she could not write with gloves on and the urge to jot down an idea would come over her at the oddest moment, she would take out her notebook and shed her gloves accordingly. They turned up in the most peculiar places. As children, their favourite bedtime story had been one their mother had written about a pair of gloves separated by accident, and the adventures they had endured before they were once again reunited. She seemed convinced they had a life of their own. As a child, Lottie had believed it too.
“Anyway, do run along and get changed. The comte has asked if he might escort you on a walk to the village.”
“Me?” Eliza asked in surprise.
“No, child, I meant to address Harry… of course you! Whyever not? He’s an eligible gentleman, and a stunningly beautiful specimen too, if I’m any judge.”
“Mama!” they said in unison.
The duchess smirked at them. “Girls, I am not in my dotage yet, and I have eyes in my head. Besides, a fellow like that is hard to miss.”
“But isn’t he a little… scandalous?” Eliza said.
Lottie regarded the rising colour in her sister’s cheeks and realised she was nervous.
“Oh, pish.” Mama waved a hand in irritation. “So was your father. You must decide for yourself what kind of man he is, and it is only a walk. Matilda and Harriet and I will chaperone, so it is quite unexceptional. I’m certain Cassius would not have brought people to his home if he believed any ill of them. Lottie, you may come too and keep his brother company. Now, I believe he is rather scandalous, but I shall keep a close eye so there is nothing to worry about.”
“Come along, Eliza. It will be fun,” Lottie urged, refusing to consider her own motivation for getting her sister to spend time with a man who was not Cassius.
Eliza shrugged. “Very well. I shall get changed and be down directly.”
Chapter 5
Dearest Harriet,
You must be so happy to have Cassius back home with you again. At this exact moment I could certainly wish my children in France for there is never a moment’s peace in the castle. I do not mean it, of course, but I should be pleased if they could keep their tem
pers in check for above five minutes together. Four such headstrong young people make the castle appear far too small to hold us all. Lyall and Georgina especially enjoy rattling the old walls, bellowing back and forth at each other. I am more than tempted to take up the offers I have had from many of the Peculiar Ladies and send the lot of them away in different directions. Of course, the moment I do so, I shall regret it and miss them all horribly.
― Excerpt of a letter to Harriet Cadogan, Countess St Clair from her good friend Ruth Anderson, Countess of Morven.
30th June 1838, Holbrook Village, Sussex.
“I’m afraid you will find the village quaint and rather dull after your time in Paris,” Lottie said, looking up at the forbidding features of the man walking beside her as they approached the cluster of buildings huddled about the village green.
“Why would you think so?”
Lottie hesitated, somewhat daunted by the intimidating Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau. His thick eyebrows drew together as he looked down at her and, though she had never considered herself a hen-hearted creature, she found she was not altogether comfortable in his presence.
“Well, let me see… over there are a baker’s and a butcher’s shop, a chandler, a blacksmith and, just out of sight around the corner, you will find a haberdashery.” At his blank expression she hurried to explain. “That is a place where you may buy fabric and small items such as buttons and ribbon and thread. There is the pub, but I imagine it’s not terribly exciting for a man who runs a club such as Rouge et Noir.”
He cast a curious glance in her direction. “What do you know of Rouge et Noir?”
“Oh, a great deal,” Lottie said at once, and then blushed as those dark eyebrows rose. “I mean… that is… Well, Phoebe—Lady Ellisborough—has told us much about it. She so enjoyed her time in Paris, and her description of Rouge et Noir quite captivated us all. I believe she has ambitions to play cards with you again.”
Mr Demarteau smirked. “I believe it is my brother she wishes to challenge, not I.”