by Jane Ashford
“In what sense, Aunt?”
“What sense! There seems to be very little sense involved.” She scanned the circle of faces. “You’ve been snooping around the opera dancers. Very much against my advice and inclination.” They sat with the silence and stillness of rabbits under the eye of a hawk. Miss Grandison’s glare settled on her niece, and bored in. “Are you aware that your father—” She hesitated.
Miss Ada Grandison sat straighter. She managed to look innocently inquisitive. “Yes? Papa?”
“Has been showing far too much interest in these very same opera dancers,” Miss Julia Grandison replied.
“Is that not an improper topic for me to discuss, Aunt?”
“Don’t speak to me of improper! As if you cared anything about that. I have gone to great lengths for you, Ada. I said nothing to your parents about your ridiculous ‘investigations.’ I think I am owed a debt of gratitude. You should be only too glad to help me.”
“Help how?”
“By telling me the truth!”
“I don’t understand what you mean. I don’t know—”
“You know a great many things you shouldn’t!” exclaimed Miss Julia Grandison. “Things your mother would faint to hear of. I know that…a certain opera dancer was mentioned during that theater visit I countenanced the other day. Mentioned in…association with your father.”
Arthur wondered who had told her this. He couldn’t believe it was anyone present. Unless someone had let it slip? Or confided in the wrong friend?
“Merely give me the name of this dancer. That is all I require. I will know what to do then.”
“And what is that?” asked Miss Ada, with commendable fortitude. Arthur knew the answer—revenge. Miss Julia Grandison thought she had found the lever she’d been searching for to pay back her brother.
“I don’t remember,” said Miss Ada. This time she was less convincing.
“Will you thwart me?”
“I don’t want to cause trouble for Papa.”
“Even though he is lower than a worm?”
Miss Ada looked conflicted. “I don’t think he is that.”
“He is careful to show you his good side.”
The girl shook her head. “I won’t tell tales on my father, Aunt Julia. I don’t think you should ask me to.” She frowned as if caught out. “Even if I knew any.”
The older lady held her gaze for a long moment. “Very well. Perhaps you’re even right.” She started to turn away. “I’ll get the name elsewhere.”
“What if I tell Papa?” asked Miss Ada.
“Do so and welcome. In fact, let us go now. I should like to see his face.”
Miss Ada declined the opportunity.
“What are you doing here?” asked her aunt then. She looked around the dilapidated space. “It is hardly a pleasant spot to sit, even on a warm day.”
“We’re interested in the workings of the theater,” replied Miss Ada.
“Indeed?” Miss Julia Grandison’s keen gaze swept over them all once again. Arthur felt evaluated and dismissed. Then the lady shrugged and bid them farewell. Everyone let out a relieved breath when she was gone.
“Should I tell Papa she is asking these questions about him?” Miss Ada wondered. “How would I bring up such a subject?” She turned to Arthur. “Would you do it, sir?”
Arthur tried not to shudder as he shook his head. “We are not well acquainted. Your father would be offended.” This was quite true. Mr. Grandison would certainly resent the interference, once he got over being aghast at Arthur’s effrontery.
“Oh.” Miss Ada considered the matter. “I’ll get Peter to do it.”
There were some dubious looks at this, but no objections. Arthur didn’t envy the young duke, but at least Compton was, or was about to become, a family member. He might have some bare excuse to broach the matter.
The young ladies took their leave soon after this. Tom and the señora moved back toward their workplaces, and Arthur followed. “Why is Miss Grandison so angry at her brother?” the señora asked.
Arthur told her the story of the punch-bowl humiliation in their youth.
“And he has never said he was sorry?”
“I don’t believe so.” Miss Grandison would have mentioned that, Arthur thought.
“The churlish, dog-hearted clotpole,” said Tom, more in the spirit of experiment than in anger, it seemed.
“So he deserves to pay,” said the señora. “But perhaps not so dearly as the large lady seems to intend.”
Arthur nodded. They paused inside the workshop door. “May I watch you paint for a while?” he asked her.
She looked surprised. “Why would you wish to?”
“I appreciate mastery in all its forms.”
Her cheek reddened a bit. “Mastery is…”
“The proper word for your ability.”
Tom grinned and gave them a nod before walking off. The señora looked uncertain. “I suppose,” she said finally.
“I promise not to disturb you.” Inside, Arthur took a seat well out of her way. The señora put on her long apron and picked up a brush. She began adding a herd of tiny cows to the distant hills of the scene before her.
“My wife liked to paint, particularly outdoors,” Arthur said.
The señora’s brush went still and then resumed.
“Flowers were her favorite,” he added. “She used to say that if one could properly depict a rose, one could paint anything.”
She seemed attentive, but perhaps that was for her work and not for him.
“This was long ago of course. Nearly twenty years.”
She said nothing.
“Did your husband like your paintings?”
This time her brush stopped. She glanced at him and away. “I don’t care to talk about this.” She went back to painting.
“It is painful to think of them gone,” Arthur replied. “I’ve thought a good deal about grief lately. It never really ends, does it? But it changes over the years. My wife’s death was very hard—a long, bitter illness. It was years before I could speak of her easily. Then, gradually, the bad ending grew less vivid, and good memories came drifting back. There were many more of those, after all. I’m grateful for that.”
She said nothing. The rigidity of her back told him she rejected this topic. He’d wanted to share with her, felt she might have endured similar things. He’d hoped she might say so. And yes, he remained curious about the shadowy figure of her dead husband. More than curious. The fellow haunted his imagination. But he should have listened and changed the subject. Now they were afflicted with an awkward silence.
It would have been interesting to discuss grief with the earl, Teresa thought. He was surprisingly thoughtful. She’d agreed with some of his points and not with others. Her grief over her family had been quite different.
But she couldn’t talk with him honestly. And that had begun to rankle more and more. Calling herself a widow had been so much easier in this new life she’d created. That status smoothed over many things, deflected a variety of questions. Even as it created more, she thought now. And she had no gift for fiction.
No, call it what it was—lying. She’d told a lie, and now she had to live with it. Lord Macklin expected a tale of her past to match the one he’d told, and she had none about her imaginary husband. Nor much inclination to invent one.
“Have you gone forward with your plan to remove cobbles from your yard?”
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “You remember that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Why? How many people—most particularly men—would do so? “Yes, it was done yesterday.”
“Ah, that’s good. I spoke to my gardener, and he has some plants you might like for starting your garden.”
“For me?” She gazed at
him, astonished.
“He’s very good with roses,” the earl added. “And lilies. Of course he doesn’t have as many plants here as he would in the country. But he said he has some fine ones to spare.”
“You asked your gardener to find flowers for me?”
Arthur nodded. “He can send them over as soon your soil is ready for planting. He suggested you might benefit from the services of an undergardener in that regard.”
“Regard,” she repeated.
“Preparing the soil. He thought that ground that had been under cobbles would need extensive cultivation.” She was staring at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns. Had he offended her? Did she see the offer of a few plants as interference? Really, that was unreasonable. He knew that enthusiastic gardeners exchanged specimens all the time. It was the done thing.
A wavering silvery sound rang through the workshop, like an audible expression of the feelings running through Teresa. She had to admit it; she was utterly charmed. This aristocratic Englishman had not only remembered a small detail she’d told him about her plans, but he’d gone out of his way to help her accomplish them. Even his prim way of making the offer—“in that regard”—was endearing. This was a rare man indeed.
The sound came again. On the other side of the workshop, Tom stood with a large wooden mallet in his hand. For a third time, he struck a thin sheet of metal that had been hung in a frame. The shivery warble followed. “That’s done it,” he called. A number of the other workers cheered. Tom grinned and took a bow.
“What an unusual gong,” said Lord Macklin.
“It’s a chime for the fairy kingdom in a new play,” replied Teresa. “They wanted an ‘otherworldly’ sound, and Tom offered to invent one.”
“Naturally.” The earl smiled. “He is an irrepressibly creative spirit. I have so enjoyed watching him bloom.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. As you do gardens perhaps.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t everyone like seeing young people come into their own?”
“No. Many people never notice. And some are envious or annoyed.”
“Annoyed?” He looked bewildered.
“Have you not observed that there are many petty, mean-spirited individuals in the world?”
“Of course, but…” He considered. “Even they will benefit from new ideas and…youthful energies. People who are encouraged to use their skills are happier, and that makes society more pleasant.” He shook his head. “And I sound insufferably pompous.”
“No.” Something in his manner—perhaps the way he treated all people as equals—kept him from pomposity. He was proper, yes. Good manners and the rules of society fit him like his perfectly cut coats. But he was never stuffy or narrow.
“I think perhaps I do,” he replied with a rueful smile. “But I thank you for making me think. I shall try to find ways to say it better.”
She was in love with him, Teresa realized. The knowledge seemed to burst over her, like an ocean wave that knocked one tumbling and then pulled irresistibly toward the depths. But it wasn’t really sudden. The sentiment had been building, bit by bit, over these last weeks. He had added to the flood with each thing he said or did.
Madre de Dios. She’d renounced everything to do with amor years ago. That haunted word was just another term for oppression. It was a deception, a cheat, made you commit all sorts of stupidities and then broke your heart.
But this man wasn’t like the others she’d known. Perhaps he could love in the way the poets imagined. Or was that simply a sad rationalization for her weakness?
She was staring up at him. She saw an arrested expression rising in his eyes. The smoldering heat of the kiss she’d denied him was flowing back. With it came a question she had no idea how to answer. What was she going to do? She had to stop this.
Teresa turned back to her painting. She raised her brush but did not touch the surface. What could it even mean—to be in love? For her, here and now? She had fought to find safety, to take control of her life. Would she throw all that away? Wasn’t that what love would require?
Tom struck his gong again. A signal, Teresa thought, but the message was a mystery. Was it a harbinger of change? Did it urge her toward some…indulgence? Or warn her of doom? Abruptly, fiercely, she longed for the first choice. But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t go under.
“Señora Alvarez?”
His voice was like the touch of seductive fingers. “I must finish this painting today,” she said. “I have promised.”
There was a pause. Her heart teetered in the balance. Then he said, “Of course.”
She heard his footsteps move away. She’d saved herself from the clutches of that overwhelming wave. And she was not in the least relieved.
Eight
Teresa was more tired than usual when she reached home that afternoon. Lord Macklin had left the workshop soon after their conversation, but he might as well have been standing close behind her, looking over her shoulder the whole day. With every stroke she’d painted, her mind had wavered back and forth, vibrating between words like independence and ruin, prudence and daring, discipline and desire. Her thoughts had grown more and more jumbled as time passed without her coming near any resolution. She was still trembling.
Eliza appeared in the kitchen doorway as Teresa was taking off her bonnet. “A fellow called while you were out, ma’am,” she said.
“Fellow?” No one visited her here.
“He wanted to wait, but I told him he couldn’t come in.”
So Eliza hadn’t liked this man’s looks. Who could it have been? “Not someone from the neighborhood?”
“No, ma’am. I never saw him before. He was a foreigner.” Eliza held out a square of pasteboard, using only the tips of her fingers as if the object was distasteful. “He left a card.”
Not a thug then, Teresa thought. They didn’t leave cards. But not a gentleman, if Eliza’s judgment was correct.
“He said he’d come back this evening,” added the maid, clearly not happy about the prospect.
Teresa took the card and read it. “Conde Alessandro de la Cerda. I don’t know who this is.” The man sounded Spanish, but she recalled no one of that name. Why had he sought her out? A visitor from Spain was unlikely to be good news. And how had he found her?
“Is conde some kind of title?” asked the maid.
“It is the same as a count.” Which England did not have, Teresa remembered, though it had countesses. The wives of earls. As todos los caminos led to Rome, all her thoughts seemed to circle back to Lord Macklin.
Eliza sniffed. “He weren’t like any nobleman I’ve ever seen.”
Wondering if Eliza had seen any, Teresa put the card down. “He said nothing about what he wanted?”
“He only said he’d be back, ma’am.” She frowned. “I didn’t like the way he looked at me.”
A threatening Spaniard was not coincidence, Teresa thought. It was her fate, the doom that had dogged her existence since she was a girl. Today, she’d dared to dream just a little, and now her dream was to be shattered. She didn’t know precisely how, but she had no doubt it would be. A host of bitter experiences told her so.
She sat down. A Spaniard most likely brought word of her past. There was so little of that Teresa wished to revisit. She would have avoided it if she could. But she didn’t have the means to repel this caller. And it was probably best that she discover who he was and what he wanted.
The knock came at seven that evening. Teresa let Eliza answer it, but there was nowhere for her to wait but the main room. Lurking upstairs and then coming down seemed silly in this tiny house.
A slender man of medium height entered her home. His clothes were rich, though not quite fashionable, his smile sleek and self-satisfied. Black hair, dark eyes, smooth tan skin, an aquiline nose, she recognized him at
once. He was no count. His name was Alessandro, but an entirely common Alessandro Peron. The last time she’d seen him he’d been a member of the household of a Spanish duke. More than a servant, but not really a friend of the grandee. A hanger-on. There was an English word she’d come across—a toady. That fit him. He was rather like a sapo, a toad.
Teresa greeted him in Spanish. This was likely to be a difficult conversation, and she preferred that Eliza have no idea what they said.
“Teresa,” he replied.
She felt a spurt of rage at his disrespectful use of her name and the caressing tone he used to speak it. She hid this. He would want her to react.
“I was so happy to learn that you were living in London. Though surprised at the address.” He looked around the room with a mixture of derision and pity.
“How did you learn?”
He raised one eyebrow.
He had learned that trick from the duke. He did it less well. She began to lose patience. “How did you find me?” She knew no Spanish people here.
“The embassy told me.”
She didn’t believe him. She’d had no contact with the Spanish embassy. Wanted none.
“Shall we sit down?” he asked.
She acceded with a gesture, taking the armchair while he settled on the small sofa.
“A glass of wine perhaps?”
“I have none,” she lied. “What do you want?”
“A cold welcome for an old friend, Teresa.”
“We were never friends.”
He put a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Was I not always pleasant to you?”
Outwardly, with a running undertone of insolence. He was the sort who fawned over those above him on the social scale and spurned those below. She had been a bit of both, so he had indulged in ambiguity. “What do you want?” she repeated.
“I have come to live in England,” he said, spreading his hands. “I wish to establish myself here.”
“As a conde?” Teresa indicated his visiting card, lying on a small table at her side.
