‘Have you thought of what happens if you catch up to her? You’ll profess your love, she’ll resist because she loves you, too. You will have the same arguments I suspect you’ve already had all over again because nothing has changed. Ask yourself, what will be different this time?’ Nothing. His mother was right. He could not go to Artemisia empty-handed. He needed to go to her with obstacles overcome.
His mother nodded towards the pocket of his coat. ‘Do you still carry that journal with you? This might be a good time to use it.’ She rose, tall and regal, less brittle than she’d been, and made her way to the escritoire in the corner. There was a certain life to her this morning that Darius found heartening. ‘I am going to write a letter to my future daughter-in-law while you plan how you’re going to win her back.’
‘What about Father?’ Darius asked, drawing out his journal. He didn’t want to leave things this way with his father.
‘He will have to find his own way, Darius. Just as you have found yours.’ She smiled softly. ‘Time does heal a great many things. Give him that, Darius, and I think things will come aright eventually.’ But it wouldn’t be tomorrow, or next week. It might be years. He could not make his father change his mind. ‘Focus on what you can effect.’ His mother smiled from her desk.
Yes, a plan. He could effect that. He began to write, his own mind focused now on something other than his grief. What obstacles had to be overcome? What solutions were needed? Artemisia would want to win not just a battle, she’d made that clear enough. She would want to win the war. For that there were things she’d need, and allies, and he could get them for her. She just needed to be a little less stubborn and accept them, as a wedding gift.
There was some satisfaction in seeing that list take shape, but it was not a guarantee of success. They would take time. They would not be accomplished overnight. What needed doing was monumental and he would have to act quickly. He did not want Artemisia to think he’d let her go. He would see this through. For him, for her, for them.
* * *
Viscount St Helier had become a whirlwind of activity. Even society noted it. By day, he was present at every art exhibition great or small, talking with artists, with patrons, with critics, anyone of note in the art world. By night, he attended every ball, talked to men of import and danced with their daughters. Only the most astute among society had noticed the spark that drove him was darker, more desperate, than a simple search for a bride. He was a man with a goal, a man driven to lengths for a purpose.
In late July, he spent a week in Seasalter, making undisclosed arrangements with Owen Gann regarding the use of an abandoned property near the Stansfield farmhouse. Then he had packed his trunks and disappeared from society as the Season ended. There were rumours he was taking a short tour of the Continent before winter. Some speculated it was to acquire art from private collections. Perhaps he was on an errand of his father’s, after all—there’d been a noted encounter between the two of them at White’s prior to his departure.
Rumour wasn’t entirely wrong. There had been a heated encounter. Not about art, though. He was going to the Continent to do some collecting, but again, not technically about art. He was going to collect Artemisia just as soon as he could find her. When he did, he was going to lay his heart and her dreams at her feet and hope it was enough. If it was not, then and only then would he give in to the despair he’d worked feverishly to hold at bay.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bagnoli, just outside Naples, Italy
—late August
Someone was watching her work. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling from something other than sweat and sand. She was not unused to the sensation. She’d become something of a local sensation in the time she’d been here. It was not unusual for the village children to come down to the beach and watch her paint, or play nearby in the sand as she worked.
But these eyes felt different. Intense, as if they were studying her and not the painting itself. Intense, as if they were a pair of burning black eyes that could sear a hole in her heart. She’d not let herself think of that specific pair of eyes for a long time now. They were part of her past. Darius Rutherford was not coming for her. There was no purpose. Even if he did come, she would only have had to send him packing. This was her life now.
Whoever was here was coming closer. Today, she was alone on the beach and not expecting any company. Apparently, company had found her anyway. She did not like uninvited company. Artemisia reached for her walking stick, a thick, club-like, handleless cane of hawthorn she kept handy in case she needed to be stern with the stray dogs so common to the areas around Naples.
‘Whoever you are, I suggest you keep your distance. I am armed.’
‘And dangerous. Woe to any man who crosses you.’ The warm laugh froze her for its familiarity and for its ability to conjure intimacy after months of trying to forget it.
She turned slowly, using every second to steel herself against the sight that would meet her eyes. Darius was here. Why? For what reason? What could coming here now accomplish? There were questions and anger. Why now when she’d put her life back together?
She had a small villa on the hillside that caught the breeze off the sea. She painted on the balcony sometimes. She went into Naples and exhibited her work with other artists on occasion. No one cared about her past here. There were people who remembered her father and were happy to extend their acquaintance to his grown daughter. But more than that, they knew nothing of her, only her art. All of that was suddenly at risk the moment she raised her eyes.
She gave herself the luxury of staring at him for a long moment before she spoke, plenty of time to take in the changes of a summer. He was a study of dark and light: his black hair, his eyes, his skin tanned from the Italian sun, his body dressed in what would pass for dishabille in England, no jacket, no waistcoat, no cravat, only a white linen shirt open at the neck showing off the tanned vee of his chest, and buckskins and bare feet. It was an intoxicatingly sexy look. ‘Darius, what are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to see you.’ He came closer, each step reminding her of the power of his presence. His confidence was still the same, only magnified. There was an ease to his step. ‘How are you, Artemisia? I’ve missed you.’ To his credit, he didn’t try to kiss her, didn’t try to presume upon their past.
‘I’ve been here all along.’ There was a bit of a bite to her tone. Again the question came—why now?
He gave her a breath-taking smile. ‘I couldn’t come empty-handed or it would have been for naught. We would have had the same old arguments.’ He paused, his eyes making her hot. ‘It’s nearly dinner time. Would you join me at the local trattoria and let me tell you what I’ve been up to?’ He winked. ‘I hear they have a good red.’
‘We’ll be the talk of the village tomorrow.’ But she was already packing up her things.
‘I don’t mind.’ Darius set about helping her, folding up the easel and storing her papers in a case. He paused, considering. ‘Do you? Is there someone you’d prefer didn’t know I was here? You needn’t worry. I have no claim to you. I expect nothing.’
But he wanted a claim, she saw that clearly in his eyes. ‘No, there is no one, there’s been no one.’ She’d had offers, of course, but it had been too soon. It might always be too soon.
He smiled, relief easing his shoulders. ‘I have not been with anyone since you left.’ His dark eyes were solemn. ‘You nearly broke me when I discovered you’d gone.’ His voice was quiet, barely audible above the gentle susurration of waves on the shore. ‘There were days when I thought about giving up, when I didn’t want to get out of bed, empty as it was.’ His voice was raw with emotion. She reached out a hand to him automatically. He took it and didn’t let it go.
‘But you did because people were counting on you,’ Artemisia surmised softly. How was it possible that they hadn’t touched for four months and yet it was
so natural to do so? How was it possible she’d thought she might be over him? Recovered? She was not.
‘Yes. People were counting on me.’ He looked out over the sea. ‘Are you terribly hungry?’ He smiled when she shook her head. ‘Come walk? I’ve come to like Italian sunsets and we were always good at beaches.’
‘We’re a long way from Seasalter.’ Artemisia gave a nervous laugh. They were being so careful with one another, both of them unsure of their reception.
‘All of your paintings sold from the show,’ Darius said. She nodded. It seemed the right place to start, at the very place where they’d last seen each other. Then he began to unfold his plans. ‘It was a lot of money. I used it in your name to open an art school for girls in Seasalter.’
‘You opened a school? For girls?’ Artemisia could barely choke out the words. His announcement had her reeling. It was overwhelming, really. That he’d spent the intervening months doing this for her, for others.
‘Actually, you’ve opened it. I’ve just started it. I don’t want to mastermind your dream, I just want to be part of it with you, alongside you. It was your dream, after all. You are its architect.’ His eyes were thoughtful. ‘I think that’s where change has to start; with education. One woman raising attention to an issue and causing a scandal lasts only so long, then it’s put away again, the issue ignored until next time. That doesn’t change anything. But mobilising a community, like the art community, does bring change.
‘When female artists walk among that community in proportion to its population, with their heads held high, with training and with intelligence and pride to speak their minds and share their opinions, that’s when change will come. It won’t happen next year. It might take a generation or two, but some day, no one will think twice about a woman’s nomination as an Royal Academician.’
Artemisia swiped at tears. Someone understood at last and that it was this man touched her beyond words. ‘Tell me about it. Where is it, this school that will change England?’
Darius smiled. ‘Owen Gann helped me locate a building near the farmhouse, an old fishery that is now vacant.’ Artemisia nodded again. She knew the property. ‘Addy is even now recruiting students. The school will need you, though. Those girls will need you. You are their inspiration.’ He raised her knuckles to his lips. ‘They aren’t the only ones. I need you, you are my inspiration, too. I never would have thought about a school for girls, or even known there was need for one if it hadn’t been for you. We are not finished, Artemisia.’
No, they weren’t. The tingling of her hand where his lips passed was further proof of that. But how could it end differently? ‘And earls’ heirs who want to paint? Is there room for them in that new world, too?’ she asked softly.
‘Yes, I think there might be.’ He smiled, but they weren’t out of the woods yet.
‘And your family? Where do they feature? Because they must, Darius. I left as much for my art as I left for you. You’ve already given up too much for them. I could not be the source of another rift.’ A hundred art schools couldn’t change that. ‘You’re still heir to an earldom.’ His parents, the people he loved, still had expectations.
‘Yes. That hasn’t changed. My parents have come to understand that while I will always respect the interests of Bourne, I will make my own choices when it comes to my wife. In fact, my mother has written you a letter.’ He patted his coat pocket. ‘My father will come around. I won’t promise it will be easy, but I do promise it will be done. Not in a moment, not in a week, but I think over the years, it will be accomplished.’ He gave her a wicked smile. ‘I think grandchildren will go a long way in easing that path. But before there are grandchildren, there should be a wedding.’ He knelt down in the sand. ‘Marry me. Say yes, Artemisia. There are no more obstacles standing in our way and I want desperately to get off the sand before a wave comes.’
‘This was why you waited to come.’ It was all falling into place. The school, the students, putting it in Seasalter. He’d given her her refuge back. He’d proven himself, not just that he loved her but that he respected her objections to their match and he’d systematically set out to overcome them just as he’d set out to win her heart, one trusting piece at a time. ‘Yes, Darius Rutherford, I will marry you.’ She laughed, pulling him up and kissing him hard on the mouth as a wave fell over their feet.
‘Just in time, too.’ Darius laughed against her mouth. ‘I was afraid you’d make me wait until the tide came in.’
‘I think four months is long enough.’ Their kisses became softer, longer, as the sun fell to the horizon.
‘I never want to be without you that long again.’ Darius’s mouth moved to her neck. ‘Will you marry me tomorrow, Artemisia? I passed a church in the village.’
‘Tomorrow? Here? You don’t want to wait and do it in England?’ she murmured. She would be beyond making plans soon. Best settle it now while she had possession of her thoughts.
‘Here. Tomorrow. In the place where you were happiest.’ Darius pulled back. ‘Is it too soon? Do you want time to plan? Women set such store by their wedding day.’
‘It’s not too soon for for ever to start.’ She wrapped her arms about him. ‘Tomorrow night, I’ll paint my husband.’
‘Before or after we make love?’ Darius swung her out of the way of an oncoming wave.
‘During.’ She laughed.
Epilogue
Seasalter, Kent—December
Artemisia Stansfield-Rutherford, Viscountess St Helier, strode thoughtfully through her studio in the Seasalter farmhouse. It was hardly ‘her’ studio any more, she mused, studying the eight bent heads concentrated on their paintings of home. The glass-walled room had become a classroom this past month ever since the Stansfield School of Art for Girls had opened in November, its first term running November through March.
Artemisia stopped beside each girl to study her work, offering a quiet suggestion or a compliment as needed. The pupils ranged in age from ten to fifteen. Today, they were painting their homes from memory and would make gifts of their work to their families when they left in a few days for the holiday break. She stopped beside an easel, studying the girl’s painting. ‘Use a rigger here, Emily, it will help you with your fine detail.’ Emily was one of Darius’s many coups. She was the daughter of a painter who was a royal associate with the Academy and who saw the logic of training a girl with talent to maximise that talent.
Artemisia smiled as she looked across the room at the girls busy and intent on doing their best. Some of them came from artistic families, others came of their own raw skills. Some came on a scholarship, others came because they could pay. Each one, regardless of who their parents were, filled her with warm satisfaction. Eight was a start and it was enough for now. Eight was what the farmhouse could hold until the fishery was ready.
Her great-aunt would have loved seeing all the girls gathered together, filling the bedrooms upstairs, sitting in the chairs around the dining room table with she and Darius at the foot and at the head every night, governing manners and conversations with Addy holding court in the middle. Mrs Harris was certainly thriving. She adored cooking for eleven and Elianora still came up and baked twice a week.
Near the door, one girl stirred, her nose wrinkling in an appreciative sniff, catching the scent of ginger biscuits. Artemisia looked at the watch pinned to her bodice, although she didn’t need to. She, and every girl in the studio, knew what time it was. If it was Friday and there was the scent of ginger biscuits, it was half past three without doubt.
Artemisia dismissed class, following behind the girls on their way through the decked halls of the farmhouse—courtesy of Addy and her insatiable holiday spirit and the Christmas party that would take place tomorrow—to the dining room where a platter of freshly baked and iced ginger biscuits in the shape of little men were piled high on a platter beside a pitcher of cold milk. Addy was already there, seated at t
he table, reviewing sketches from the morning session. Artemisia smiled at her sister over the girls’ heads, both of them laughing at the girls devouring the platter. Girls should have healthy appetites, just like boys.
Addy had been a wonder this autumn. Artemisia was still not sure how her sister had managed to have the school ready upon their return, but she had. She’d even organised the opening ceremonies, complete with an impressive guest list including representatives from the Dukes of Hayle and Boscastle and an appearance from the Basingstokes, who’d offered a scholarship for a girl with a talent for animal portraiture. Artemisia was forced to conclude that Addy was growing up. She was twenty-one now, no longer her baby sister, and more than ready for more responsibility.
Artemisia snatched a biscuit from the platter before they were all gone and took a bite. Somewhere in all the noise of eating biscuits, the sound of the front door opening reached her. It would be Darius and Owen Gann. While she and Addy instructed, the men spent their days restoring the old fishery for a time in the near future when the needs of the school would outstrip the capacity of the farmhouse. Her hand went surreptitiously to her waist. That time would be soon, very soon.
‘Still biting the heads off men, I see.’ Darius stole a kiss from behind. He smelled like hard work and outdoors.
‘Only the small ones,’ she replied with a laugh.
‘Cowards, the whole lot of them.’ Darius chuckled. They’d laughed a lot since they’d come home from their honeymoon in Italy. Even in the face of adversity. Despite the opening of the school, despite the happiness of their marriage, there were still rough edges around their success. There would always be those who resisted change, who chose to stall progress and the opening of minds by sowing dissent. They would never stamp it all out, but they could laugh and they could persevere, and therein would lay their victory.
‘How is the fishery coming?’ Artemisia drew her handsome husband out into the hallway for a bit of privacy, something that was hard to come by these days.
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