by Liz Tyner
Chapter Thirteen
Melina’s fingers traced the delicate lace at the capped sleeves of the dress the seamstress had brought that morning. This gown was more colourful—only because the brown was darker and the ribbon bows at the sleeves were pink. The dress fit better, too, and the fabric was silk. Her birthmark showed at the edge of her bodice, peeking out, reminding her of her link to her sisters. She had asked the seamstress to make sure the mark showed.
When Warrington first saw her in the garment, he took a step backwards.
The step might have concerned her, except the look in his eyes could have lit a candle, and it caused an answering flame to spark deep within her stomach.
And she felt stronger, just from the way he looked at her. A woman might grow used to such attention. She walked towards him. He smiled. Even the silk against her felt more luxurious when his eyes brushed over her.
Warrington hurried her to the hackney. He’d said a chaperon wasn’t necessary, as they’d keep the shades drawn in the carriage and not be in public.
As the vehicle lumbered along, Melina could not help stealing glances at the street. The houses. She could not believe a world of so much opulence and then, sometimes, such sad people trudging along. And young boys dressed in tatters. Running freely. Without parents nearby.
The vehicle stopped in front of a home and she looked out. She had to gasp to get a breath of air.
‘Is a king’s home as big at this?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from the grandeur. This creation was someone’s masterpiece. Birds flew from a small fountain and a tree had low branches spreading out gracefully, like welcoming arms. Each blade of grass looked exactly as if an artist painted it.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘And as far as I know Hawkins doesn’t have a country house, only this one.’ He moved out of the conveyance and reached back to lend her his hand.
‘I would say it is enough.’ She put her foot on the lowered platform from the side of the hackney and slid her gloved fingertips into his outstretched hand. ‘I was impressed when I saw your home. Five families could live in the town house. The whole of Melos could live in this one.’
‘But Hawkins doesn’t truly own it. His wife’s family does.’
Melina stopped her footsteps and looked to Warrington, raising a brow. ‘So could she toss him from it?’
‘I doubt it would be that simple.’ He put a hand at her back. ‘Besides, it doesn’t matter. A woman who wants to make her husband unhappy does better to stay at his side.’
She moved up the steps of the grand house—comparing the mansion to the rooms she’d lived in her whole life.
Melina stopped for a moment, thankful the knowledge of her father’s life never reached Melos. At least, she hoped her mother never knew.
While she remained at the door, unable to move forward, Warrington stood beside her, one palm on the small of her back. He reached towards the gleaming knocker. He gave two quick raps.
She sighed, movement exaggerated. ‘The poor man. Living in a sad state such as this. Nothing to do all day but the one thing he loves. He didn’t travel to Melos for revenge. You don’t leave riches to live as he did. He is truly mad for his art.’
He patted the small of her back.
When the butler opened the door, Warrington gave the servant a nod. Warrington’s hand slid to Melina’s side as he walked into the house. He moved between her and the butler, and she had no choice but to step with him. Melina noted the scent of paint. Even after artwork dried enough to be hung, it could be months before the lingering smell of the pigments left it. And she imagined in this house, the scents never completely left.
The entrance was crisp and even the plants she saw placed near the windows knew to grow straight and tall. Not a one leaned one way or the other, or dared a yellowed leaf.
The butler’s face took in awareness of Warrington’s commanding stride and his determined entry into the house. The servant’s eyes narrowed.
Warrington gave the servant a card.
‘Lord Hawkins is not at home,’ the butler intoned, ‘to anyone.’
‘I must see him—about a painting of his.’ War’s voice—soft, a jagged caress of the words. ‘I might wish to purchase it if he has it.’
The butler’s eyes never changed emotion, but a muscle in his jaw tensed. He appraised Warrington, and Warrington moved his body forward, letting strength add volume to his words.
‘I am the Earl of Warrington,’ he said. ‘Tell Robert I am here.’
The butler opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Warrington leaned in, shortening the distance between their faces to little more than a breath. ‘You’d want me angry less than you’d want the artist upset.’
The servant stilled and the line of his jaw stiffened, and his eyelids dropped to half mast. She didn’t have to look at Warrington to know how he appeared. She could feel the challenge in him from the tone of his words. The breadth of his shoulders gave emphasis to everything he spoke.
‘Of course. Follow me.’
A stairway rose, with the hand-carved banister made to look like twisting ropes feeling cool under her touch. And candles. She’d never seen so many lamps at the ready.
The servant led them to a sitting room and marched away without looking back.
‘I fancy hiring him right out from under Hawkins…’ Warrington led her to a sofa and pressed a hand on her shoulder, increasing pressure until she sat ‘…except Broomer would have laughed had someone tried that with him. And he would have done something accidental—such as stepping on the man’s foot and crushing his toes.’
He leaned in towards her, touched her chin and turned her face to him. ‘You’re his daughter. His flesh and blood. You have power, too. While it won’t destroy an artist to have it known he has a second family, he can’t relish his other children knowing.’
Her eyes moved to the walls and she saw the painting over the fireplace. Without thinking, she stood, her gaze locked on the artwork. Talons shredded her insides and she gasped. The painting above the fireplace. Melos. The houses with barns at the base. The olive trees. And shadows in the background, children playing. The shape of her mother sitting on a bench, watching the girls. She remembered that painting and the day.
Melina turned. Anger replaced the pain.
As she opened her mouth, Warrington spoke. ‘Quite a good likeness.’ His words flowed with a silkiness Melina had not heard from him before. ‘I am impressed.’ He tipped his head in acknowledgement. He captured Melina’s fingertips.
The rich timbre of Warrington’s voice broke into the fog in her mind. ‘Painted your home on Melos quite well. I can hear the sea in the distance.’
‘How dare he?’ Melina could not take her eyes from the wall. He’d captured her world exactly, and she could see a woman in the shadows—a woman who watched three girls digging caves in the dirt with seashells. ‘My mother.’
‘I suppose some people dare anything.’
She shifted her eyes to the mantel and nodded in that direction. ‘The one candlestick. The one candlestick—he could have sold it and had enough money to feed us for a very long time. I know it was difficult to get funds to us and he had to make the trek himself to know that it was done. But he’d managed enough before, even with a war going on.’ She leaned in. ‘Even with a war. He convinced the seamen he was French when he wished to. A penniless French painter who spoke sparsely because the words twisted in his mouth. A man hoping to make a few coins to feed his family. Neither side must have cared much about an artist.’
She sighed. ‘I am thankful I did not know the truth then. I might have been tempted to tell the sailors on the man-o’-war my father was a spy. Except it would have hurt my mother. She believed him a great artist. She loved him.’ She said the last words and couldn’t stop the derision of her voice when she said the word love.
Her father walked into the room. Melina would not have recognised him had they passed on the streets of London.
Gone
was the scruffy, unkempt look of the island. Now he had the look of a gentleman artist. The only thing unchanged was his turpentine scent from the brush cleaner. He had a cloth in his hands and kept scrubbing at daubs of pigment even as he looked at Melina.
‘Your paintings must be selling quite well,’ she said to her father, realising they were strangers. But maybe they’d always been such.
At first, he stared at her as if he knew he should recognise her, but didn’t—then he looked to choke, and then he stared at Warrington and back at Melina.
‘You.’ Her father’s voice filled with accusation. ‘What are you doing here?’
His eyes—his eyes flashed something darker than when his work was disturbed. They showed the same emotion from the day her sister knocked one of the wet paintings into the dirt and that day had lasted for a fortnight.
He was her father, but not the same man from Melos. His hair, even more streaked with silver than before, surprised her with its perfect grooming. The points of his collar were starched and even the flowing covering he wore over his clothes had been cared for—even though it sported a palette of its own.
She wanted the tension in her body to fade, but she shuddered deep within her heart. The man she’d known on the island was gone for ever. He might have never lived.
Her father looked back over his shoulder and spoke to someone in the hallway who Melina couldn’t see. ‘Leave us.’ He tossed the paint-splattered cloth to the floor. ‘Why…’ The words came out as if jerked from his soul. ‘Why are you in my home?’
She could see the next words forming in his mind to tell her to leave, so she sat. Warrington stood beside her, staring at the other man.
‘My muse will be destroyed for days because you have disturbed me.’ Her father raised a hand, as if orating for a crowd. ‘The stem is not quite right on the dog roses and the honeysuckle is lifeless. But my bee orchis is perfect. It truly looks like little bees clinging to the stem and I have captured that.’ He turned to her, smugness in his eyes. ‘No. I will not let you destroy my work today.’
‘I know your work is everything to you, Father. I have no quarrel with that.’
‘You shouldn’t, Melina.’ His grey hair fell across his brow.
‘Truly. I never cared painting came first in your life. Mana didn’t, either. It was the natural order for us. The art came first to you. Always. But she should have been second. I hope you received my letter saying Mana died. She did not recover.’
His eyes flashed, perhaps guilt, but then he shuddered, shutting away the emotion. ‘I knew she was to die. And it would have hurt me too much to see her suffer.’
Darkness clouded Melina’s vision and stole her voice. The image of her mother, eyes hollow, cheekbones with only flesh across them, lying in bed, and the whole world around her falling into nothingness, flared into Melina’s memory. ‘It would have hurt you?’ She controlled her words. ‘How do you think it was for her? To be abandoned when she needed you most.’
‘She understood. She told me to go.’
‘She might have understood. I understood. You would not waste a moment on something or someone if it was not to your advantage. And she may have told you to go, but she wanted you to stay. It would have showed you cared.’
‘My art is from my core spirit. It cannot be interrupted.’
‘But…’ she tilted her head to the side and forced her words calm ‘…think how much your work would have improved if you had had an added measure of grief to draw on. Now you have lost that chance for ever. Your work can never be what it could have.’
His cheeks reddened and his voice rose. ‘That is ludicrous. I have felt grief. I know the emotion well and my paintings show the depth of the human soul.’
‘No. They don’t. They show the depth of your soul and it doesn’t go very deep.’
He jabbed one finger towards her face. ‘You are lying. You are not to speak so to me. I am your father.’
‘Father?’ She filled the word with derision. ‘Father? What does that word mean? Tell me.’
‘I gave you life. And you must respect me for it.’
‘No. I do not. I may have respected you when I was a child, but then I knew no better. I esteemed Mana. The only mistake she made in her life was in caring for you.’
‘I was the best thing for her. She was a Greek peasant.’
‘Worth ten—ten thousand more paintings than you could ever create.’
‘You have no true knowledge of art. You are here crying to me because you are weak. Did you not take care of her as you should? Did you not see that she had what she needed? Are you feeling in the wrong because you did not do what was necessary at the end?’
Melina’s whole body shook. Her face burned and her fingers clenched.
An arm snaked around her waist, holding her. Warrington stood beside her. She caught her breath. ‘We did all we could. And you did nothing but throw colours on to canvas a world away. That takes no true talent.’
‘My painting is art. It was what she wanted. She knew the truth of art. She saw the value of it. You do not. You see nothing beyond your selfish spirit.’
‘Selfish spirit? You left us without enough for food, and yet you live like this?’ She waved her hand.
His nose went up and his lids lowered as he looked at her. ‘It is not mine to give.’
‘My sisters need funds,’ she continued. ‘Proika. A dowry. They should not have to rely on scraping the earth and hoping rocks grow food so we can eat.’
‘I do not give you funds because it is time you each learned to stand on your own legs, not toddle about like children looking for a teat. You should all have wed before now.’
‘We have no dowry.’
‘Bah…’ He shook his head. ‘Do not tell me the men of the island cannot overlook that. I am well aware of how they think. You three could each find a husband if you wished. It is only your haughty airs that keep you from it. When you get hungry enough, you will learn what I mean.’
She appraised him. ‘We are better off without you. When you left us, I was angry. I thought we needed you. Now I see. We didn’t. We were fortunate you left.’
‘Melina.’ Her father’s voice sounded the familiar angry bark he used when disrupted. His eyes flashed. ‘You know nothing of life. On the island—it is a different world than England. My marriage to your mother is not legal here and I have no call to support you, now that you are of age. And you have no right to speak so to me. A man has to have a woman. Especially an artist. We must have our senses fulfilled to continue to create. It’s nature. And your mother is dead. My life on the island is gone from me.’
She paused and listened to her own words as she spoke them. Hearing her truth as he heard it. ‘When I was a child, I had hoped I would some day visit England with you. I worked so hard on my speech and my letters. I am here now and it’s not as I expected. You do not have to worry I think of you as my father. One cannot keep what one never had. So I will not miss you.’
Hawkins stepped forward. He stopped only an arm’s length from her and he turned to Warrington. ‘It doesn’t matter who you are.’ His words came out as a snarl. ‘I will not have it. I don’t know what she told you—and how she convinced you to bring her here. Say what you wish—I cannot stop you. But get her out of my home. You will not sully my house.’
‘Melina—’ Warrington said.
‘Don’t talk of this.’ The man spat out the words and then stepped back. ‘Get out. Now.’
Warrington leaned into Hawkins’s face. ‘You don’t deserve her for a daughter and she deserves better.’
Hawkins stepped backwards, to the door. ‘I want her gone.’ The plain words bit into the room. Hawkins couldn’t seem to stand still. He moved a step sideways, huffed a breath and then paced the other direction. ‘Gone. Keep your distance from my family. I don’t want my—’ He turned to Melina. ‘You are most distracting. You always were. I do not know why I ever painted you.’
He’d just given her
one of his most severe cuts—she was not worthy to be captured on canvas.
Moving quicker than Melina thought possible, Warrington grasped her father’s clothing at the neck and pulled the man forward.
‘You will support your daughters.’ His words were a command.
‘No.’ She lurched forward, tugging at Warrington’s arm, but it didn’t move. ‘No,’ she shouted again. ‘I will find another way.’ The statue. ‘I want nothing from him. Nothing.’
She wrapped both hands over Warrington’s sleeve, holding him.
Warrington stopped, jerking his head to indicate the painting. ‘How much for that?’
Her father’s eyes moved up and he looked above the fireplace. ‘It’s not one of my favourites. I can hardly stomach it.’
‘Price?’ Warrington demanded, voice slamming into the walls.
The muscles moved in her father’s face. ‘I plan to throw it in a rubbish heap.’
‘Nonsense. It has small value. Even life has small value—sometimes. Such as yours—now.’
Hawkins waved his hand. ‘You may have it. Burn it. It means nothing to me.’
Warrington released him. Hawkins fled the room. Within moments, a door slammed in a distant part of the house.
‘Warrington.’ She stepped forward, putting her palms flat to his chest, holding firm enough she felt heartbeats pounding through his silk waistcoat. ‘Let us leave. I cannot bear another moment of the scent of fresh paint.’
He moved, taking the artwork under one arm, and put his other hand at her back, walking her through the doorway.
Melina stepped into the hall and a woman stood just beyond the open door, staring. Her hair was pulled into a silver chignon. She wore at least four rings on each hand and each jewel outweighed the finger holding it.
She gave Melina a wavering smile. ‘Hope you had a pleasant visit, dear. My husband rarely sees visitors this time of day.’
Melina caught herself before she said I know. Warrington touched the small of her back, nudging her forward. She took a step, snagging the hem of her dress under her shoe, making a small stumble. Warrington caught her elbow. ‘Careful, sweet.’
