by Jess Russell
Why did he paint devils?
Chapter Seven
April’s mantle of blue-gray frost ebbed and then disappeared to be replaced by the glistening wet and new-green earth of mid-May, and still Lord Austin did not come to sit for his portrait. Each delay sorely taxed the marquess whose shouts could be heard throughout the castle. Anne’s own frustration with the mundane routine of tending her charges echoed Lord Devlin’s.
Fittingly, Lord Austin arrived as spring finally touched the highlands. After more than a month, he came bearing smiles, painting supplies, and more importantly, he brought hope.
The summons came to attend Lord Devlin and his brother in the marquesses’ cell.
Armed with knitting and a Bible, she slipped inside and took a seat in the far corner closest to the fireplace.
Lord Devlin stood in the middle of the room tethered to that hideous chair. He touched his brushes as if they were living things. He stroked them over his cheeks and lips. He feathered them down his neck—his eyes closing in a kind of private ecstasy. The humming feeling within her body could be nerves, but she knew deep down it was more than simple anticipation. It was being in a room with him. Hadn’t she felt the same feeling, only more acutely, during their one-sided interview when she had been brazen enough to rise and touch his chest—to feel his heart beneath the swaddling he wore. And her heart had answered his. She had never felt so alive, every fiber of her answering every fiber of him.
As it did now. His gaze locked on her.
Her heart jolted as her knitting needles stilled. She ducked her head desperately stabbing the last loop of wool. Fingers shaking, she cast the thread too wide. The yellow yarn snarled.
Stop. She must stop this line of thinking. Of feeling. This beautiful man would never be interested in her outside the walls of this madhouse. She was nothing. Besides she could not lose her position.
Even now, she could feel his smile on her as she wrestled with her tangled mess.
“Ah, Miss Winton,” Lord Austin spoke. “How nice of you to provide our entertainment.”
A blush stole over her as she pressed herself into the back of the chair.
The marquess now rolled vials of paint between his long fingers, his wicked smile still on her. Next, he took up a beaker and unstopped it. She felt the sting in her nose, the oily taste on her tongue, even from across the room. But the marquess inhaled deeply, smiling through his cough. It must be turpentine.
“Dev, enough.” Lord Austin lounged, as well as one could, in the straight-backed chair. “You know that stuff is not good for you. And stop staring. You are frightening Miss Winton.”
But Lord Devlin did not seem to hear, or, if he did, did not care. Finally he relinquished his hold on her, and satisfying himself that all his tools were in place, he took up a charcoal and faced a large square of paper.
Once again she took refuge in her knitting, trying to look industrious, but stealing a glance or two when she thought him immersed.
“Turn to the right.” Lord Devlin ordered his brother. Lord Austin shifted. “No, your other right. That’s it. Now, head down. More. More…there! Yes, just there.” He began to furiously sketch.
Her knitting needles stilled.
He was a ballet of movement, so forceful and energetic. His black hair had escaped its queue and brushed his shadowed cheeks. Chin tucked, his unflinching gaze raked over his brother, his lush lips pulled into a firm line. Every part of him wholly focused on his subject.
What would it be like to be the object of such intense concentration?
“Blast, Austin, you’ve moved again.” The marquess strode forward to adjust his brother. The chain links snapped taut, and he stumbled.
Both she and his brother half rose from their seats.
Lord Devlin made a staying motion. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He rose, dusted his knees, and then sat. “Austin, would you kindly settle your arm thusly.” He dangled his hand off the arm of the chair, so effortless, the curve of his fingers so full of grace.
“I will try, Dev. But I warn you, I must have entertainment. Either you must talk with me or Miss Winton must provide some relief from this tedium.”
She dropped her knitting and bent to retrieve the Bible from the bag on the floor next to her.
“It must be Miss Winton then, for I have no energy to spare you.”
“Very well.” Lord Austin turned to her.
She stood, Bible in hand. “Lord Austin, you mustn’t move—”
“Blistering Hell!” The marquess threw his pencil and ripped the sheet of paper from his easel.
****
“Well?”
Anne smoothed her skirts as she stood before Doctor Hives to give her report. “I do not believe Lord Austin is the best choice of model for the marquess.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows and made an impatient gesture for her to continue.
“Lord Devlin seems to require absolute stillness in his subject. I am not sure his brother is capable of such quiet. And neither of them seems to appreciate my reading from the Bible.”
“Did the marquess become violent?”
She did not hesitate. “He threw his pencil, ripped up—several—pages, and once stood upon the seat of his chair.”
Doctor Hives nodded slowly, dipped his pen, and made a few notes. “I suppose one must allow for the artistic temperament?”
“The sketches seem to be going well. He is so beautiful—” She stopped herself.
Doctor Hives looked up from his notebook. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at her. “Yes, I’ll warrant half of England is in love with Lord Austin Drake,” he said, with more than a bit of disapproval. Or perhaps jealousy? “But unfortunately he is not the heir.”
Happy enough to let the doctor think she had been speaking of Lord Austin instead of his brother, she said nothing.
“What of the marquess? Is he agitated? Does he pace or stare for long periods at nothing?”
“Yes, to all. But I do not think it goes outside the perimeters of being in the throes of creation. His frustration is mostly with his brother. And the light.”
“The light?”
“Yes, I am surprised Lord Austin has not spoken to you about it. The marquess must have northern light, and a lot of it. Apparently it is imperative before he begins the actual painting. Besides, sir, if I may offer an observation.” She waited for the doctor to nod. “I do not think it is good for Lord Devlin to sleep in the same room with the smells of turpentine, especially with only one small window for air.”
****
To give Doctor Hives credit, the very next day the marquess’ studio had been moved to the North Tower. One could almost see the village to the west, curls of smoke from its chimneys lashed the clouds, and if the wind was right, one might hear the toll of the church bells. And to the east lay higher mountains still laced with snow. There were no bars on these windows. If one chose to escape they would not do so and remain alive.
Several pieces of furniture had been brought in, a large table, several chairs—one that actually looked comfortable. Lord Austin would perhaps use it when he posed. A fainting couch and a screen in the corner concealing the chamber pot completed the furnishings. Opposite the windows, a blaze crackled and spit in the firebox.
“Why are you here at Ballencrieff?” The marquess stood well away from his easel, his brush dangling uselessly from his left hand.
How long had he been watching her?
Yarn snagged and then tangled. She fumbled and the inevitable happened, she dropped a stitch. Now two.
“What did you do to be punished so?” he said frowning.
She looked down hoping to catch her lost stitches. Useless. She lay the ruined knitting in her lap. The door stood open just as Lord Austin had left it when he went in search of food. He had declared if he was to be subjected to such torture, he must at least have nourishment. Ivo lounged against the wall intent on the mouse he kept in his pocket.
“Surely someone as
good and virtuous as yourself could have secured a more favorable place.” The brush flicked like a testy cat’s tail against his lordship’s thigh. The muscles rippled as his feet shifted.
To buy time she made a show of marking her place in her stitches.
“Miss Winton?” the marquess repeated.
“It was time to go.” Where was Lord Austin?
“Hmmm. To leave the nest? I am sure there is a story behind that answer.”
She forced herself over hurdles of memories that sprang up, leaping beyond one of happiness, another of pain, reducing fifteen years into a few carefully chosen words. “I was tired of teaching.” Not a lie.
“Tired of teaching? So you consigned yourself to a house for the insane somewhere just south of the Arctic Circle? Perhaps you are the one who is mad. I cannot imagine Lady Tippit and Mrs. Nester provide much stimulation.”
“No.” She stared down at the yellow tangle of yarn meant to be a cap for Mrs. Nester’s coming babe. How to remedy this mess?
He went back to his work, giving her a reprieve.
Her life was indeed a tangle. No opportunities for real healing, a terrible attraction for a marquess who would never return her feelings, and nowhere else to go in this wide world. In four years she could have paid off her debt to Ardsmoore School with a little nest egg to try to study, perhaps in Edinburgh. But Madge Barrow had put those dreams to a sure death.
“Would you care to watch?”
She ducked her head caught staring. Again.
“I do not mind. Some painters do, but I suppose my ego is such that I enjoy an audience.”
Rising, she pulled her chair around to the side of the canvas, making sure to be well out of his way.
“I will not bite. And as alluring as those knitting needles are, my chain only goes this far.” He took three steps toward her until the chain lengthened out over the floor. “You see? Even if I were to lunge,”—he did so—“I can barely reach your boots peeping out from beneath that hideous frock.”
She nearly pulled her feet beneath her. He would only laugh. Though on second thought, she would like to hear him laugh, a real delighted laugh, not the raw bark he would make when he deemed something worthy of humor.
She’d situated herself perfectly. She could see the painting, but also view his face. Emotions flowed over it, like ripples in a pond; down into his body and into his arms and then into his hands which held multiple brushes. A furrowed brow or a jump in his jawline would translate to a staccato jab of his brush. Next, chin up, eyebrows raised, lips slightly pursed and a most delicate flick of his wrist. Then, a long sweep where his whole body and sometimes even tongue would follow.
“What?” he said to the canvas.
She shot up straighter in her chair, unsure if she was meant to respond.
“What are you thinking?” He turned to address her. “You are distracting me with those bewitching eyes of yours.”
Bewitiching? She did not like to be teased. She stood to move her chair away.
“No!”
The chair thunked to the floor. Ivo grunted and shuffled to his feet.
“Damnation.” He raked his hands through his already wild hair. “Why must you act like some scared rabbit? Pardon.” He took in a long breath. “What I meant to say is please do not go away, I would very much like to know your thoughts.”
Settling again, she allowed one of the questions rolling in her head to tumble out. “How do you see those colors?”
He looked back at the painting. “Where?”
“There, the wall.” He had been working on the white of the wall which made up part of the background. “It is white. I would paint white, and it would be dead and utterly cold. But you have not painted just white. You see beyond the thing that it is into what it holds; all its possibilities. How do you see that there is lilac and green and even blue?”
“Because there is,” he said simply as if anyone could see those extraordinary colors.
She bit her lip. “You cannot know how illuminating your wall is to me.”
“You know, little Owl.” He cocked his head, an odd look on his face. Had her question displeased him? “You are a bit like the color white. At first glance white is thought to be inconsequential and even plain. But that is wrong. White is never just white. White contains all the colors in the rainbow. It is the queen of color.”
He must be teasing her again, but when she glanced up, he did not look as if he were jesting. Warmth stole over her entire body like a hand sliding into a pocket.
The door slammed closed. “You both look as if you have a secret. Have I missed something?” Lord Austin had returned.
Chapter Eight
Hives certainly was stepping up the game—whatever it was. First the painting, then providing a studio in the North Tower. And now Dev, dressed in his finest was to be exhibited before Ballencrieff’s more benign menagerie. Austin stood next to him just outside the door to the withdrawing room where the doctor would be analyzing Dev’s every twitch and fart.
Very well, he’d play, put on his best manners and perform like one of those drugged and dulled tigers. A tamed pussy cat, that’s him.
For the twentieth time, he pulled at the hideous vest, another kind of strait-waistcoat, only in cheap brocade instead of heavy canvas. God, how he despised wearing these castoffs.
Hobbs, who acted as footman on the rare occasion the Hall needed such a person, waited by the door. At Austin’s nod, he opened it, announced in a rather theatrical voice, “Lord Devlin and Lord Austin,” and then stepped aside, ducking his head.
They all looked like a bunch of startled peahens. Well, all except his Owl. She was a study in calm. Though, on second glance, she did fidget with the keys at her waist. Maybe not so cool after all.
He could not wait for the afternoon. To pick up his brushes, smell the paints, mix the perfect shade of green. But mostly, to see Anne Winton again.
Austin, as a subject, did not necessarily inspire. And to be fair, his brother clearly had no wish to spend hours posing. But knowing his Owl sat tucked in the corner of the tower, her knitting needles tick-ticking away, or her calm, fluid voice spouting Bible verses, the world seemed somehow right; her serenity spilled from her, flooding the room with an almost liquid calm. Hives would do well to bottle and sell it if it were only possible to capture her charm.
A gasp pulled him out of his reverie. Phoebe Nester, who shared the settee with Miss Winton, nearly leapt upon her nurse’s lap, as she took up a large pillow and attempted to hide behind it. No small task as the woman must stand at six feet. By Jove, the silly chit was defending herself against his person.
Dr. Hives rose and came to her side. “Now, settle, Mrs. Nester. You are among friends, no one will harm you.”
The woman clutched her pillow all the more tightly.
“Lord Devlin!” Horace Beauchamp emerged from behind the drapes by the farthest window. His hands flapped at his sides like a fledgling bird about to leave its nest. He blinked continually behind thick spectacles as he nearly hopped across the room to make his bow.
“Mr. Beauchamp.” Dev nodded. “How goes the project?”
“Oh, your lordship is very kind to remember my work. You are the true scientist, sir. To have been bosom beaus and worked alongside Sir Barton Wainwright—well, I cannot imagine such ecstasy.”
Dev ground his teeth. Wainwright. He should know the name. He should know the man. He was sure he had spent many hours in the fellow’s company, but even though he felt so much stronger of late, try as he might, this black hole in his memory would not heal.
Austin touched his arm. He shook it off with a contemptuous shrug any Frenchman would have admired.
Hives had perked up anticipating some slip.
By God, he would not give the man satisfaction.
“And your planned journey, Mr. Beauchamp?” He pressed, making his words calm and measured.
“Well, I am progressing in spite of the endless hurdles put before me.�
�� Beauchamp’s over-loud and strident voice provided a perfect foil to his own quiet. And just to bring that fact home, he smiled at Hives.
“We men of art and science must forever be mired in the petty business of lesser men.” Mr. Beauchamp glared at Dr. Hives. “I tried your suggestion of using Newton’s formula, f=ma to ascertain the rocket’s thrust, and I believe it will prove fruitful. If only I were allowed a bit of powder and a proper launching area, I am sure I could be on my way in no time.”
Dr. Hives raised his shoulders, his shirt points now flirting with his ears, as he clasped his hands behind his back and rocked up on his toes. His face, as usual, provided no insight into his thoughts. “Mr. Beauchamp, the conservatory is still being repaired after your previous experiments. The glazing of the windows aside, I would not wish to be in your shoes should Mrs. Coates’ orange trees, which had to be moved to the south drawing room, perish.”
“Pish!” The agitated man flapped. “What was I to do?” he appealed. “With no powder I had to improvise and use a catapult. And besides, what are a few oranges next to the pursuits of science? You would never let an orangery come between you and your passions would you, Lord Devlin?”
Dev touched his lips. “Ah, to taste an orange again… You pose quite a conundrum, sir, choosing between the green cheese of the moon, or an orange here on earth. A difficult decision. Savory or sweet…”
Miss Winton froze when his gaze rested on her. Her hand found her keys again, but she managed to hold steady. She took a deep breath and then swallowed. He could not help but smile, but his grin did her in and her gaze dropped.
“Oh, but the moon’s cheese is like manna from heaven, Lord Devlin,” Mr. Beauchamp said, attempting to regain his attention. “When the little men seized me, I cringed at the bulbous green mold. However, when forced to eat it, I could not get enough. I would have remained there with the creatures, but they wanted my brain, you see. I could not oblige them, though it meant forgoing their heavenly ambrosia.”
