Disputes over colour aside, I can assure you my guidance has given her a wardrobe both flattering and fashionable. You needn’t fear your bride embarrassing you in that regard. And I hope you won’t mind my addition of a few articles of my own to her account. I feel it’s a fair price for the continual head-ache she has given me over this past fortnight—but she’s an innocent darling, and means none of it.
When not supervising her choices in the House of Worth, I, along with my dear Lady Pelham, have spent my mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights chaperoning your fiancée all over Paris to visit every single technological marvel or engineering feat or scientific exhibition she can discover. You’ll be happy to hear she finds a great deal of joy in them. I, on the other hand, have absorbed not one single word of scientific enrichment. Instead, I have acquired a much deeper understanding of what is truly meant by the French idea of ennui. I have also, by exercising every inch of cunning I possess to its fullest extreme, convinced her to attend some more artistic programmes—the museums, the galleries, the salons, and even a few private tours of painters’ and sculptors’ studios—but she appears as immune to the arts as I am to the sciences. The effort has exhausted me, and I fear I cannot keep up the fight for much longer. Do forgive me, Lindsey. The cultural education of your future wife must be abandoned.
I hope this letter finds you well. Give my best to your dearest friend. Lady Pelham wishes me to pass along her regards for you both, and of course Emmeline’s passion cannot be overstated.
Your loving sister,
Rowena
Lindsey glanced over to Aubrey. “What news from Emmeline?”
A pink tinge came to the tips of Aubrey’s ears. “She’s enjoying Paris very much. Gathered a few new ideas for electrifying the mill.” He held out some of the papers in his hand—for Lindsey now realised Emmeline had stuffed many pages into the single envelope—and in doing so revealed far more diagrams than prose. “And sends her best to you, of course.”
Lindsey chuckled.
Aubrey joined him, then trailed off with a thoughtful expression. “You haven’t told them about the riding accident, have you?”
Nothing in Aubrey’s tone bespoke the least interrogative intention, yet Lindsey’s own guilt resounded regardless. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet. I wanted to wait until…”
“Until you knew the final outcome?” Aubrey suggested.
“Until I could reassure them of your full recovery,” Lindsey corrected, gentle yet firm. Though the obverse result had run through his mind over and over again throughout Aubrey’s fever, now that his Aubrey was safe, he couldn’t bring himself to even begin to think of the possibility. “I must confess myself more than happy to deliver them the good news.”
Aubrey laid down the papers and reached out his hand. Lindsey took it without a second thought. Aubrey brought their clasped hands to his lips and kissed their interlaced fingers.
“Halloway told me he’s nearly done with his painting,” Aubrey said, gazing idly down at his own fingers tracing Lindsey’s palm, as if unaware how thoroughly he’d melted Lindsey’s heart just a moment prior. “Says he’s just got the face left. Do you suppose he could capture my portrait from my bedside?”
Lindsey blinked, a little stunned by the sudden change in topic. “I suppose he could.”
Aubrey’s contented smile usually banished all possible concern from Lindsey’s mind. And yet, even as he made a game attempt at returning the smile, his thoughts ran on. Unaccountably so, in his opinion. What did it concern him, that Aubrey would model for Halloway from his sickbed? Aubrey need do no more than lie supine, which he would do already, and would continue to do for as long as Dr Pilkington prescribed bed-rest. Since Halloway only required Aubrey’s face, Aubrey’s body would remain safe and snug beneath layer upon layer of bedclothes and blankets. There wasn’t anything worrisome about the matter—never mind how badly the last modelling session had ended.
“By the time he’s done with it,” Aubrey said, startling Lindsey out of his troublesome thoughts, “I might be well enough to return to the stables.”
“Return to the stables?” Lindsey interjected in a voice not quite under his own control.
The bewilderment which had vexed Lindsey these past few moments now appeared on Aubrey’s face. “Yes. Get back on the horse, as the saying goes. In this case literally.”
Lindsey, his throat tight, replied, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” Aubrey’s brow furrowed in confusion, total bewilderment in his tone.
Lindsey didn’t have an answer. He had only his useless hands clenching his own knees. Then Aubrey’s fingertips alighted upon his wrist. The tender warmth of them gave him strength enough to meet his gaze again.
“I’m not afraid,” Aubrey began. “I want to build upon what I’ve already learnt, before I forget it all.”
“I cannot in good conscience condone it,” said Lindsey.
Aubrey’s soft brown eyes flew wide at his firm tone.
“You nearly died,” Lindsey continued, his voice not quite under his own control. “You’ve barely survived as it is. And when I recall that I am responsible for introducing you to the means of your own destruction—!”
“Lindsey,” said Aubrey.
“You cannot deny this,” Lindsey countered. “I suggested you take up horseback riding. Over your own protests, I encouraged you in its pursuit—”
“Lindsey,” Aubrey said again.
“Purely for my own satisfaction!” Lindsey continued. “For my own selfish sake, I put you in such danger—!”
“Lindsey,” Aubrey said a third time, and put a hand on Lindsey’s shoulder for good measure.
Touch stopped Lindsey’s tongue where mere words could not. He shut his mouth and gazed down upon Aubrey with a pleading expression.
“I want to learn to ride,” Aubrey said, gazing seriously up into Lindsey’s face with his dark and beautiful eyes. “Just as much as you wanted me to learn. I made the decision to try, with full knowledge of the associated risks. And I refuse to let you martyr yourself for my own folly.”
“You’ve broken three ribs!” Lindsey protested.
“Cracked,” Aubrey corrected him. “And we both know I’ve already survived far worse.”
If Aubrey intended this assertion to calm Lindsey, he had erred. The recollection of what had befallen Aubrey in the Rook Mill boiler explosion served only to heighten Lindsey’s dismay.
“When you came home from hospital,” Lindsey began, then stopped himself. “No, I must go further back. When the explosion at Rook Mill occurred, and you were wounded in it—I couldn’t go to you. It wasn’t safe for either of us. But still I felt… All I wanted was to be with you. To hold you. To keep you safe and make you well. To know you were alive, and if your condition took a turn for the worse, to be beside you as you…”
Lindsey broke off, his words choked by a raw lump in his throat as tears came unbidden to his eyes. He raised his gaze to the ceiling and blinked furiously to keep them at bay. His breaths came ragged—he felt that if he opened his mouth again, he’d be helpless to hold back a sob, or worse—yet there remained so much more for him to say. With considerable force of will, he steadied himself and continued.
“I wasn’t there for you. And I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering alone. I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering at all. And yet, we remained apart, for both our sakes, until you came home from hospital.” Lindsey’s eyes yet burned; he screwed them shut. “I cannot express the relief I felt—the joy I had—to hold you again. To know you were safe. To be with you once more.”
With his eyes shut, he couldn’t see Aubrey’s face, couldn’t trace through expression how his words were taken, what effect they had upon the listener. He forced them open. A scalding-hot tear fell down his cheek. He kept them open regardless, needed to see.
Aubrey gazed upon him with an expression of perfect bewilderment—and no small amount of concern. His
pale brow furrowed, his lips parted, his wide eyes reflecting Lindsey’s misery back upon himself.
Lindsey struggled to conclude his argument. “I was so happy to have you once again. But even then—I never saw your wounds. Never undressed them. Never witnessed what the explosion had done, not really.”
“Because I wouldn’t let you,” Aubrey replied, his words dulled.
“No—I mean, yes, strictly speaking, you wouldn’t, but—” Lindsey fought for the words required to make his point. “I’ve seen your scars. But I’ve never seen your injuries. I never saw you freshly wounded… until now.”
A spark of comprehension lit Aubrey’s eyes, yet the concerned furrow remained upon his brow.
Lindsey hurried to speak on, lest he be interrupted. “It’s not that I find fault with you for it—It’s only that I find I haven’t the strength to see—” He stopped himself, took a deep breath, and finally admitted what he himself had not realised until now. “It shocked me, to see your bruises. It worried me, to come upon you lying helpless on the ground in the storm. It frightened me,” and here his voice cracked again, “to turn in the saddle and find you’d vanished from my side.”
Aubrey said nothing. But his hand came up to caress Lindsey’s cheek, and that said far more.
“And to think it might happen again—” Lindsey began.
“You ride out whenever the opportunity strikes,” Aubrey reminded him, his voice gentle.
“I do,” Lindsey admitted, “but—”
Aubrey stopped him with a look; earnest, intense, pleading. “Do you think I don’t worry about you when you do?”
Lindsey balked. It had never once occurred to him that his own sporting activities were anything to worry about. “You’ve never mentioned it.”
“No, I haven’t,” Aubrey concurred. “But I’ve worried all the same. Still, I trust you to know your limits and keep your head about you afield. And I know that if anything should go wrong, I’ll look after you.”
“I’ve always trusted you would,” said Lindsey, which earned him a flash of a half-smile from Aubrey.
“I’m not so worried about myself now,” Aubrey continued. “Because I know I’ve got you. You might trust yourself to look after me. I think you’ve proved yourself more than capable thus far.”
Then Aubrey smiled up at him; his rare, shy smile, raw and brilliant despite its hesitance.
Tears flooded Lindsey’s eyes, blurred his vision, robbed him of the sweetest sight in all the world. Unable to bear it a moment longer, he embraced him, and Aubrey’s return kiss did much to soothe his fearful heart.
~
The revelation of Lindsey’s fears alarmed Aubrey. And yet, as sorry as he felt to cause Lindsey pain, he couldn’t help how it warmed his heart to know the depths of Lindsey’s concern. He channelled the overwhelming force of his sorrow and gratitude into his embrace, wishing he could do more to soothe the worried furrows in Lindsey’s brow. Soon, the very moment he felt able, he would show Lindsey just how much he appreciated his tenderness and care. For now, he had strength only to clasp his arms around him and hold him tight.
The next few nights passed in quiet comfort. Morphine tablets numbed the stabbing pain of his cracked ribs and subdued his cough. Better medicine yet, by Aubrey’s estimation, was the simple joy of Lindsey sleeping beside him, the warmth of his body beneath the sheets, and the familiarity of his long limbs curled around him.
By day, Aubrey continued to rest, though he spent more and more hours waking as the week went by. Lindsey remained beside him for much of it, answering correspondence from a writing-desk on his lap and reading books old and new, to himself as Aubrey slept, and aloud whenever he woke. They took breakfast and dinner together in Aubrey’s sickroom. Lindsey spent luncheon with Halloway, at Aubrey’s urging—it wouldn’t do to neglect their friend. The afternoons, again at Aubrey’s suggestion, he spent riding or otherwise out-of-doors. Aubrey couldn’t bear to see Lindsey grow as pale and wan as himself, or deny him the opportunity to enjoy a truly splendid summer.
Whenever Lindsey went out, Halloway came in to draw Aubrey.
Portraiture modelling proved both easier and more difficult than the full-bodied business. Easier, in that he didn’t have to keep the whole of his body as still as the grave, nor did he have to bare it to eyes and draughts alike. More difficult, in that both eyes and mouth had to remain fixed in place—eyes open and mouth closed for the miniature; mouth open and eyes shut for Icarus Fallen—which meant he could neither read nor converse to take his mind off the boredom of his sick-bed.
Had the artist been any man but Halloway, Aubrey would have perished of sheer monotony. But Halloway’s amicable nature went a long way towards keeping Aubrey amused as he modelled. He knew a hundred dreadful stories from all the parties he and Graves attended: tales of wicked conversational sniping between dowager aunts and ne’er-do-well nephews, elderly confirmed bachelors and youthful braggarts, headstrong American heiresses and their more stoic but no less battle-ready English counterparts. Aubrey’s real struggle soon became keeping a straight face as Halloway told enough humorous anecdotes to make himself hoarse by the end of the day’s work.
All the legends of London set the wheels of Aubrey’s mind turning despite the opiate fog, and when a convenient break occurred in their work—Halloway setting aside his sketchbook to flex his fingers and allow Aubrey to stretch his neck—Aubrey took the opportunity to ask a singular question.
“Halloway,” Aubrey said, “why do you live in Manchester?”
Halloway paused in his stretching. “Pardon?”
“Your gallery is in London,” Aubrey said. “Most artists seem to be. And Graves is there as well. Why do you live in Manchester instead?”
“Don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you it was the light?” Halloway replied with a weak chuckle.
Aubrey gave him a blank look. The smog that covered Manchester hardly allowed for breathing, much less sunlight. Though he supposed London was much the same in that regard. “Why not the country, then?”
“The country is expensive,” said Halloway. “Manchester is cheap—relatively speaking.”
“Is that it?”
Halloway’s moustache twisted to one side. “I suppose it is it… but it’s not all, and I think all is what you’re asking after.” He hesitated, then retrieved his sketchbook from beneath the chair. Wordlessly, he flipped it open to a particular page, then handed it over to Aubrey.
Aubrey took the sketchbook, his mind afire with curiosity. His eyes fell upon a page dark with ink, splattered and scratched all over the parchment with fevered intensity, creating an image as heavy as what it depicted; the furnace of a steam engine, stoked by a half-dozen workmen, each bare to the waist. Their muscles rippled beneath Halloway’s cross-hatching. Sweat dripped from their flesh, carving reserves of white through the stippled black soot. Aubrey could almost feel the heat of fire and man alike leaping off the page.
Halloway reached over and turned it.
Another scene of working men, this time constructing a railway, swinging sledge-hammers overhead to slam down upon iron railroad ties. Again their raw masculinity felt palpable, the taste of iron coming unbidden to Aubrey’s tongue.
Aubrey turned the next page on his own, revealing a smelter in the steelworks; a navvy climbing scaffolding on the next; and on the page opposite that, a farrier shoeing a horse standing ready by a cart hauling bars of steel.
“These are magnificent,” Aubrey said.
A wan smile flickered across Halloway’s face. “That’s how I knew.”
What he knew need not be spoken of aloud. It was what all men like themselves knew of their own souls. Halloway had perceived the passion and beauty of working men, and in doing so, discovered something about himself.
“But,” Halloway added, gently taking the sketchbook from Aubrey’s hands, “it is not the sort of subject that sells in London. And London, as you yourself have said, is where all art is bought. It’s wh
ere the money lives—at least, in the season.”
Aubrey contemplated this new insight. “The money prefers Icarus?”
“Classical scenes in general,” Halloway admitted. “And I must confess myself interested in those, as well. Very interested,” he interjected with a suggestive cant of his eyebrows. “But I cannot deny a certain affinity for less fashionable subjects. And if I cannot sell them, I can at least hoard them for myself.” He leaned in to add in a conspiratorial whisper, “And for Graves, as well. But good luck getting him to admit it.”
Aubrey chuckled, though he felt surprised to learn that the Aesthete valued such things.
Dr Pilkington returned at the end of the week to check Aubrey’s progress. His examination concluded Aubrey had recovered well, and could—finally—venture beyond the sickroom. The moment the doctor departed, Lindsey helped Aubrey to dress, then supported him on his arm as together they made their way downstairs to the makeshift studio in the ballroom.
While Halloway had spent afternoons capturing Aubrey’s visage, he’d spent the following mornings transferring this image to the final painting. As such, when Aubrey at last descended, he gazed upon a nearly completed work.
“Fantastic!” Lindsey declared.
“You’re too kind,” Halloway replied with a coy smile.
Aubrey, meanwhile, had lost all power of speech. He’d never seen the like of the painting before in all his days. Not only due to its mythological setting and subject, nor to Halloway’s undeniable talent. But for another reason entirely.
No one in Aubrey’s life had ever before captured his likeness.
They had admired it and expressed a wish to possess it forever, but none had taken the plunge of preserving it. Until now.
Throw His Heart Over Page 12
