by Deb Marlowe
She returned to Mrs. Spencer’s and changed back into a girl, taking time to wash thoroughly and spend time on her hair. When she descended, the lady herself beckoned her from a corner of the shop. “Do join us, my dear Miss Headley. This gentleman is asking after you.”
“Mr. Larson!” she said with pleasure and a quick curtsy. “Have you come to select something new for your wife?”
“I have, Miss Headley. And she places me entirely in your hands, as she says you did such a marvelous job choosing for her last time.”
“We have cuffs and ribbons that will match that collar,” Francis began.
“I had a notion,” the gentleman interrupted. “And I hope you will not find me too forward. It is just that, my wife has been a trifle lonely since we came to Edinburgh for my training. It would cheer her immensely to meet another young lady from London, and so I was wondering if you might join us for dinner tonight?”
“Thank you, I would be happy to, if I hadn’t already made plans.”
He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“But tell your wife I should love to meet her another time. Perhaps she can visit here at the shop and we can arrange something?”
He nodded, but all of the good cheer seemed to have gone out of him. After a moment he bowed and took his leave.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Spencer said. “He never did pick another piece for his wife. I hope she won’t be disappointed. Ah, well, come in the back with me, my dear. There is tea and I’ve good news to share! I’ve had a letter from Emily.”
“How nice.” Francis followed along, sat at one of the sewing tables and accepted a steaming cup.
“She’s coming for a visit and bringing that handsome husband of hers too. In just a few weeks time! I do hope you will still be here to meet them.”
She sighed. “It isn’t looking likely. The situation with Caradec is . . . difficult.”
“Well, he is a man, dear. They are all difficult.”
“That’s true enough.” They laughed a little. “I am sorry to miss your daughter, though. I wasn’t at the ball where she made her revelation, but I heard all about it from Hestia.”
“Oh, I’m sorry too. I know the two of you would be fast friends,” Mrs. Spencer said with a chuckle. “She’s full of spit and fire, just like you. And she’s always had the soft spot for an underdog.”
“Speaking of which—I’m on my way to speak to Janet Grant and her mother. Are you sure you have a place for the woman?”
“You did say as how the girl and her mother were both well spoken and neat—and that their clothes were well-mended?”
“I saw them both several times, and they did seem so.”
“Well, then. The mother must be a decent needlewoman, then, aye? I’m in need of one. My embroidered ribbons and sashes have begun to take off here as they did in London. If I’m to hire someone and teach them anyway, it might as well be where it can do the most good. Your Hestia has shown me that, at least.”
Francis ducked her head. “Yes, Hestia’s an inspiration to us all.”
“And you tell the woman that if she’ll need shelter as well, then there are rooms upstairs still unused.” She sipped her tea. “I enjoy having my own little apartments around the corner, and they would be welcome to use the rooms across from yours.”
“You are very generous.” Francis leaned over and laid a hand on the other woman’s. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Spencer merely smiled and patted her. “The thanks go to you and Hestia, my dear, for showing me how to go on. I’ve been so very happy to come back here and open a shop again, but I admit, my happiness only increases at the thought of sharing it. Now,” she said briskly, “why don’t you run along and fetch young Janet and her mother and bring them back here? We’ll learn all about each other and see if we are a fit. I’ll have a fresh pot ready—and I’ll send Jasper out for some cakes. Won’t that be lovely?”
“It will. Thank you, again.” She stood. “I’ll return with them shortly.”
She left out the front door of the shop. She and Geordie had spoken to Janet last night, so she knew that she’d be in front of St. Giles today with her flowers. Oddly enough, she felt glad that Caradec was not involved today. Scots were a proud people. The situation with the girl and her mother was still precarious. Rhys would undoubtedly end up in a bad temper at her interference and none of them needed him complicating things.
She heaved a sigh. Because if that didn’t spotlight their unsuitability, what did? Still, she held out hope. He could learn. And if this worked out well, it might even help her case. Determined, she picked up her step.
She hadn’t gone far, though, before she felt it. Her instincts were finely honed. That tingle at her nape . . . the raising of hairs along her arm . . . someone was watching her.
She kept moving steadily. She knew better—far better—than to act like prey. The other side of the street held a larger concentration of pedestrians. She crossed as soon as she was able and lost herself in the crowd. When she reached a corner, she turned along with a group of clerks, pausing only long enough to look back.
Her heart stopped—and then pounded harder than a thoroughbred with the bit in its teeth.
Caradec.
Triumph surged through her first. Clearly, he was as affected by yesterday’s events as she was. She hadn’t sought him out, so he’d come looking for her. Surely that meant something?
But exasperation followed hard on elation’s heels. She had to fetch the Grants and she didn’t want him involved until things were more settled.
Suddenly, she bit back a grin. He’d set the challenge for her, earlier. And she’d found him repeatedly. Now, they would see if he could keep up with her.
A narrow close lay ahead. She picked up her skirts and ducked into it, swallowing a laugh as she went.
What in seven hells was he doing? Never in all of his days had Rhys chased after a woman. Now he was literally running Francis down in the street.
Damnation, if Andor or any of his friends could see him now . . .
But everything had ended in such confusion yesterday. He’d been flying so high, with Francis by that stream, lost in heady sensation and throbbing passion. Then Malvi had showed up and he was still reeling from the plummet down from those heights.
Francis had gone so still, and grown so dismissive. A shock—seeing that fey countenance without its usual stream of quicksilver expressions. The lack had settled like a cold weight in his gut—and kept him tossing and turning in his bed last night. He’d had to come by today and try to make things right.
He’d seen her set out from the shop, but he’d been too far away to call. He’d followed instead, but the streets were crowded. It occurred to him that she might be on another errand of interference—the sort inspired by Hestia Wright. Irritation instantly soured his mood. He knew Francis’s intentions were good, but like his mother, she likely wouldn’t be around long enough to understand all the ramifications her actions might have.
He increased his pace as she crossed the street and strained to see where she went. It was difficult to spot her amidst the hustle . . . and right then something else occurred to him.
She was trying to lose him.
The minx! Was a day going to pass that she didn’t throw another challenge at him? She would learn soon enough that he was more than able to handle any of her shenanigans.
Grimly, he set a more aggressive pace. He pushed his way through a passel of dark clothed businessmen and saw her duck into a narrow close. He followed, but she was as fast as she’d claimed and there was no sign of her when he reached the stairs at the end of it.
He climbed and at the top emerged onto a smaller street. It looked more residential, save for a kirk that lay to the left. Just as he looked that way, he saw a flash of green going around the corner of the church.
He raced in pursuit—and skidded to a stop as he encountered a small, walled cemetery. Such a thing would never give her pause or even cause her to ch
ange her course. Gripping the gate, he caught sight of another in the corner on the far side.
This one was locked—but it wasn’t so high. He scrambled over it and stepped out onto the well-groomed grass, maneuvering his way around the monuments. They were of a large variety and he passed ancient looking stones, a round mausoleum and a tall, thin obelisk.
Not until he approached two curious pedestals did he pause.
Something flashed in his head at the sight. His heart pounded as he examined them closely. Each was a square pedestal as tall as a man, topped with a large, detailed cap. The front of each featured the name of the departed and a profile. Man and wife. But, truly fascinating, the rest of the surfaces were covered with carved images that must be meant to represent their interests and the story of their lives.
His bore a Masonic image, as well as some others that looked vaguely pagan. The sides were carved with a skeleton and a mortar and pestle, as well as a rifle and a quill.
Hers featured a large, complex image of a three-masted sailing ship. A journey? A cross and a dove to represent her faith, yarn and needles, a pianoforte.
Rhys stared. He ran his fingers over the weather worn carvings. Yet it wasn’t the unusual monuments that held him fast. Somehow the shape and the very idea of them had broken something loose in his brain. His breath heaved short with excitement. He dropped to his knees, fumbled with his bag and pulled out his sketchbook.
Finally.
There, blazing in his mind, he saw it.
He knew how he was going to paint Francis.
Chapter Fourteen
Monsieur’s daughter was a married woman. A childhood accident had rendered her barren, the doctors said. She was to act as caretaker for my child while I was away . . . on business.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Francis arranged the last of Janet Grant’s flowers in a vase and set it amidst a display of lacy, fingerless gloves. Behind her, the girl trailed her mother and Mrs. Spencer toward the narrow stairwell.
“Ye’ve overswept me, ma’am,” Mrs. Grant was saying. “An honest job—and rooms as well? It’s more than one has a right to expect.”
“You are welcome to them,” Mrs. Spencer assured her. “Miss Headley will be leaving us, long before we’re ready for her to go. Jasper will appreciate having the choice to stay here to watch the shop at night, or to spend his evenings with me.”
“Or out and abroad,” Francis called.
“Don’t give the lad any ideas!” Mrs. Spencer scolded.
“It’s not certain we’ll even need the rooms,” Mrs. Grant said hesitantly.
“Yes, it is,” Janet spoke up. ‘Ye ken verra well that Uncle will be spittin’ mad at the idea of ye takin’ on work. No use pretendin’ he won’t.”
“Oh, I’ve no wish to cause trouble,” Mrs. Spencer ventured. She paused with her foot on the first step.
“It’s my uncle that’s caused the trouble—and we’re that grateful to find a way to get away from it,” insisted Janet.
Francis saw the girl’s mother drop her gaze and then nod in agreement.
“Janet is likely right,” she said, her voice lowering.
“Well, then. It sounds as if this will work out for the best—for all of us. Let me show you those rooms.”
Francis sighed with satisfaction. The two women had got on well over tea and Mrs. Grant had indeed proven to be a competent needlewoman, and eager as well to learn from her new employer. Janet was happy at the thought that her career as flower seller might not be as necessary, once her mother was earning a good wage.
“Perhaps I’ll find a job in a shop as well,” she said enthusiastically. “I’d stay warm and dry all day, no matter the weather.” Her baby sister crowed suddenly and she brightened. “Or perhaps I’ll watch small Helen for mum. Maybe even take in the care of another baby for extra coin.” She sighed happily.
But now that the first steps had been taken for the Grants, Francis found her mind turning again to Caradec, where it had been trying to drift all day. Where was he now? Was he furious with her?
“Mrs. Spencer, I need to go out,” she called up the stairs.
“Fine. Be careful, dear,” her hostess called back.
“I will.” She drew on her pelisse and set out.
She didn’t find Caradec at the Hound and Hare. He was not to be found along High Street or the major sites, or even the places they’d spent time together. Wandering along, she tried to recall at what point she’d lost him this morning. She’d been full of pride after giving him the slip, but no one appeared to have seen him since. Could something have happened to him? Could he be hurt? Set on by thieves or taken up by constables? Surely not. He was likely just hiding from her, again.
She checked in again at the inn, but they’d had no word. At a loss, she decided to retrace her steps this morning and ask after him.
She bypassed the cemetery the first time, but when she’d paced all along her path, she went back. Using the special twist of the bar that held the lock that Angus had shown her, she disengaged it and went in. She didn’t hear anything unusual. Stepping carefully, she wound her way between monuments, and then, as she came around a small mausoleum, she found him.
Stock still, she stared.
Seated on the ground, surrounded by a dozen crumpled sheets of paper, Caradec muttered to himself as he scribbled furiously in his sketchbook. His brows were lowered, his fingers flying. As she watched, he rose up, took a corner of the sheet he’d been using, held it against a tall monument and rubbed a square of charcoal over it.
Even from here she could see the transfer of the texture of the stone.
“No, no,” he said aloud. “Not right. Blocks, then. The mausoleum? Or the kirk, perhaps.” Turning, he nearly reached the structure she stood beside before he saw her.
“Oh, good!” His eyes widening, he reached out to grab her. “Here, come over here, in the sun. Hurry, before it’s gone.”
She gaped as he backed up a few paces. Turning over to a new page, he began to draw, glancing between her and the page.
“Let your hair down,” he ordered.
She blinked.
“Your hair!” he barked. “Quickly, Flightly! The light is fading. Let it down.”
“No.”
He looked up at her in surprise.
“Caradec! I cannot!”
“What? Why ever not? I must get it right.”
“We are in public,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Oh. So we are.” He heaved a disappointed sigh and went back to sketching.
“Caradec?”
“Yes? A moment, please.”
“What in all the saint’s names are you doing?”
His expression brightened. “Oh, yes. You don’t know, yet! It’s wonderful news! I’ve figured out just how to paint you.”
“You . . . what? We are—” Suddenly self-conscious, she didn’t know what to do with her arms. “Are we really doing that? I rather thought we were just putting it about as an excuse.”
He frowned up at her. “There was never any question of whether I would paint you.” He gestured with charcoal stained fingers. “That expressive face. That hair.” He waved a hand up and down, encompassing her entire figure. “All of your extraordinariness. I just didn’t yet know how I was to paint you. But now I do.”
She supposed she was flattered. She should be, shouldn’t she? It was only that . . . she’d been thinking of that kiss by the stream, those embraces . . . and she’d been expecting him to be eager to do perhaps . . . a bit more of that sort of thing. If he wasn’t angry with her.
He didn’t appear to be angry. He appeared to be . . . distracted. Caught up in his work.
Suddenly, she remembered Mr. North’s description of Caradec when he met him in Leeds. How he’d been in the grip of his muse. “Caradec,” she began.
“Ah.” He held up a hand without looking up. “I thought we were past that sort of formality?”
> “Oh, yes.” She swallowed. “Rhys. Have you been here all day?”
He looked up at the sun. “No. Only since this morning. And I did have to run back for a few supplies.” He sighed and began to sketch even faster. “How did it get to be so late?”
She bit her lip. “The usual way. Come, Rhys. Isn’t that enough for one day? Let’s get you a drink. Something to eat.”
He looked around. “I am thirsty. The vicar gave me a draft of water from the well, but that was . . . long ago.” He dropped his charcoal into a pocket and stretched his fingers. “Very well. The light is nearly gone.” He flipped his sketchbook closed. “Let’s go back to my studio.”
She snapped her fingers at him. “Pay attention, Rhys! I cannot go back to your studio like this.” She gestured toward her skirts. “Not without a chaperone.”
“We’ll have Malvi in,” he said, stretching.
“We will not,” she answered firmly. “Come on, then. There’s a coffee shop around the corner and it is supposed to have the city’s best Cullen Skink.”
“All right. But only if you come to my studio tomorrow.” He glanced at her hair. “And bring hair ribbons.”
“Yes, fine. Pick up your mess, you great lug, and let’s go.”
The next morning, Francis gingerly followed Mrs. Beattie across the threshold into Caradec’s studio.
Makeshift studio, she should say. He’d clearly rented two rooms, and had the pocket wall between them folded back to open the space.
“Come on, then, boy. Don’t know why ye’re so jittery.” Mrs. Beattie clearly had other things to do. “He’s only goin’ to set you mixin’ paints, most likely.”
“He’ll have to learn how to prepare canvas as well,” Caradec said. He peered from behind a massive specimen on an easel, situated over in the corner where he could catch the morning light streaming through the shutter-less windows.
“I’m sure he can handle anything ye need,” Mrs. Beattie said in a neutral voice, whose tone did not match her encouraging nod. “He seems a quick lad.”
