Throw His Heart Over

by Sebastian Nothwell

  The sea of men spat Aubrey out in a corner of the room sheltered by a fern in a jardinière. Behind the fern stood Halloway, already in conversation with the gallery owner. From the delighted look upon Halloway’s face, Aubrey deduced the gallery owner had just delivered the news of the painting’s sale.

  “How much?” Halloway asked.

  Again, the gallery owner proved the soul of discretion, leaning in to whisper the amount.

  Halloway, not quite as flamboyant in expression as his other half, didn’t do anything so outrageous as whoop or applaud the answer. But his eyes went very wide, and his eyebrows flew almost to his hairline, which in him was the equivalent of another man waving his hat over his head in triumph. In the next moment, his features had calmed, and he replied with a wry smile, “I wouldn’t accept a penny less.”

  The gallery owner chuckled along in good humour. But when Halloway further enquired just who had purchased the painting, the gallery owner shook his head and murmured something which to Aubrey’s ears sounded very much like, “…wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Halloway recited, echoing Aubrey’s own thoughts.

  The rest of the conversation was lost to Aubrey as just then an errant elbow from the crowd jostled him, and he turned to join the jostler in the customary exchange of “terribly sorry” and “beg your pardon.”

  The jostler, however, lost his voice in the midst of his “excuse me” and instead stared open-mouthed at the burnt side of Aubrey’s face, which had remained turned away from him until this very moment.

  Aubrey coloured and begged pardon again with perhaps less congeniality than prudence recommended. He wished he had his hat to hand, though covering his face with it would hardly make him stand out from the crowd less. The best he could manage now was slipping back into the sea of men and letting its currents toss him where they willed. Snatches of conversation flowed around him.

  “—truly more akin to if Zeus had dropped Ganymede into Vesuvius—”

  “—already sold! And if that shocks you, wait until you hear the price—”

  “—well of course it’s shocking!” came a familiar voice from the edge of the room.

  Aubrey stumbled to a halt and whirled around to find the source of the outrage. There, leaning coolly against a wall with his nose in the air and a half-circle of competing Aesthetes surrounding him, was Graves.

  “But sir!” one Aesthete protested. “You cannot possibly consider it beautiful—!”

  “And why not?” Graves snapped. “What is beauty? That which compels one’s attention, which demands response, which arrests the casual observer and forces him to confront that which will not allow him to tear his gaze away—is this not beautiful? True beauty leaves one awestruck and breathless, forever changed. One need only glance about this very room to know that Icarus Fallen fulfils every one of these requirements.”

  “You would have us believe you consider train wrecks and industrial disasters beautiful!” scoffed another Aesthete.

  “In their own way,” Graves replied easily.

  “Then we may toss ‘ugly’ out of the dictionary, for we have no further need of it, when ‘beauty’ may serve just as well in its stead!”

  Graves curled his lip. “Certainly not, for then I would have nothing with which to describe your offensively forgettable poetry.”

  This sent a chortle around the half-circle, eventually even encompassing its target, though he conceded uneasily.

  “But the burns, Graves!” one earnest Aesthete insisted, worrying his monocle between his fingertips.

  “What of them?” Graves shrugged. “Are they not beautiful? Do they not demand attention? Do they not have the ebb and flow of a sea in a storm? Does their swirling pattern not remind one of the very foam which birthed Venus? Does their roughness not off-set and accentuate the exquisite form of the remaining flesh through contrast? I tell you they are as beautiful as the whole, and the whole would be wanting without this most vital part.”

  Aubrey knew such words were more likely the result of Graves’s affection for the artist rather than any genuine appreciation of the model. Still, as he caught Graves’s eye above the crowd, he nodded in thanks, and found the gesture returned with gravity.

  Perhaps, Aubrey thought as he turned away to exit the gallery, Graves had bought the painting. For all his faults, his devotion to Halloway proved undeniable. He might very well purchase the artwork at an astronomical sum as a mere gesture of support.

  However, from what Aubrey understood of Graves’s finances, his share of his father’s fortune amounted to little more than a fraction of what society considered truly wealthy, and while he could dole out a portion of it here or there for a fine thoroughbred or a fashionable suit, the price whispered by the gallery owner seemed a touch too rich for Graves. To say nothing of the potential gossip regarding the true nature of the relationship between patron and artist.

  No, Aubrey concluded, Graves had likely not purchased the painting. If he had, he would have brought it up as a point in his argument. With a victorious flourish, no doubt.

  As Aubrey moved through the crowd, he had remained so mesmerised by the question of the painting’s buyer that he didn’t notice Halloway in conversation with the silver-haired gentleman until he’d come within three steps of them.

  Aubrey drew up short and ducked behind a convenient jardinière. While this blocked both gentlemen’s view of him, he could yet overhear their exchange, and he listened intently, his heart beating a panicked staccato against his ribs all the while.

  “…true masterpiece,” the silver-haired gentleman was saying. “I commend you, sir, on forcing all who view it to grieve anew for the loss of Icarus. What subject shall you capture next?”

  Halloway grinned. “I’m rather afraid it depends upon the whims of whoever is fool enough to commission me.”

  “I’m tempted to become one such fool myself,” the silver-haired gentleman rejoined. “Do tell me when your next work is to be exhibited.”

  So saying, the silver-haired gentleman pressed a calling card into Halloway’s hand and took his leave. Halloway thanked him, but the gentleman had already slipped into the crowd. Through craning his neck, Aubrey caught sight of him again just in time to watch him walk out the door and into the evening. Aubrey returned to Halloway as the latter slipped the calling card into his waistcoat pocket.

  “Seems you’ve made quite the impression,” Halloway said when he caught Aubrey’s eye.

  “Who was that?” Aubrey asked, making every effort to sound casual, and not as if he could hardly force the words out around his heart in his throat.

  “Sir Ambrose Lockwood,” Halloway answered. “Patron of the arts. Absolutely fascinated with the Classical.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be quite so surprised at his wanting Icarus Fallen for his collection,” said Aubrey.

  Halloway furrowed his brow. “Does it trouble you?”

  “No, no, nothing like,” Aubrey hurried to assure him. “It’s only…” His gaze wandered across the room towards the painting. “I’ve never had anyone look at me quite like that. In person or otherwise.”

  Halloway, too, considered the painting. “He did seem rather fond of this Icarus in particular. Though I would hope such fondness had at least something to do with my handiwork.”

  “Not badly, you understand,” Aubrey continued, all too aware of the thoughtless non sequitur. “Just… different.” Desire without malice, he thought but didn’t say. Appreciation without a predatory element.

  “I have,” Halloway replied. “Seen someone else look at you like that, I mean.”

  Aubrey’s raised eyebrows implored him to speak on.

  A wry smile tugged at the corner of Halloway’s mouth. “You know the gentleman in question very well. Tall, blond, affable.”

  Lindsey. Of course. At the mere allusion to him, Aubrey felt the knot of anxiety in his chest unravel. An unwitting smile spread across his
face. He conceded Halloway’s point with a nod.

  Halloway looked as if he would say more, but just then another admirer caught him by the elbow, and Aubrey took the opportunity to blend into the crowd once again.

  “—the model is in fact in attendance this very night! I’d thought the burns invented until I caught sight of the poor wretch—”

  Aubrey forced his way between two gentlemen’s backs to escape this last exchange and came out of the crowd near another painting with a far smaller audience. Indeed, most of the gentlemen peering up at it seemed only to do so in an effort to distract themselves from the wait to see the main event. But one of these gentlemen in particular caught Aubrey’s attention.

  Lindsey stood before the painting with his hands clasped behind his back and a contemplative expression upon his upturned face. His golden curls rose well above the roiling sea of humanity. To Aubrey, they appeared as a ray of sunshine breaking through storm-clouds.

  Aubrey, not wishing to draw attention to their meeting, approached him as if he wished to gaze upon the painting rather than speak to the man. They stood side-by-side for a moment, with Aubrey watching Lindsey all the while in his peripheral vision. He thought he’d escaped even Lindsey’s notice, until he detected a sparkle of joy in the corner of one sapphire-blue eye, and heard that beloved voice intone, “Good evening.”

  Lindsey spoke low, barely above the general murmur of the gallery, but the sound thrummed through Aubrey’s heartstrings, nonetheless. He returned the greeting, still not daring to make direct eye contact until Lindsey settled the matter by turning to engage him in conversation.

  “It seems to have gone over rather well,” said Lindsey, smiling as one who had never doubted it would.

  “You’ve heard, then?” asked Aubrey. When it became apparent from Lindsey’s confused look that he had not, in fact, heard, Aubrey added, “It’s already sold.”

  Lindsey appeared far less surprised by this than Aubrey felt. “Really? What a splendid triumph for Halloway. We should have him over for a congratulatory dinner.”

  Though Aubrey agreed with the sentiment, his own distraction prevented him from responding to the suggestion. “The buyer has chosen to remain anonymous.”

  Again, Lindsey seemed unmoved. “Perhaps he wishes to keep such a treasure secret from prying eyes.”

  Aubrey’s own eyes roved over the crowd with undisguised suspicion. “Have you any idea who…?”

  “Sir Lindsey!”

  Both men turned to find Halloway approaching with a hand outstretched.

  Lindsey clasped it with a warm smile. “I’m told congratulations are in order!”

  “Indeed!” Halloway laughed. “It’s enough to keep me out of the mills for another month, at least. We’re going out to celebrate—Graves and some friends—once all this has died down.” He gestured out across the crowd with his champagne flute. “Probably end up in Pont Street by morning. Care to join us?” His eyes turned upon Aubrey as he extended the invitation. “They’d all be delighted to meet the muse behind the work.”

  Aubrey looked to Lindsey for the answer, only to find Lindsey gazing down upon him with an expression suggesting it was all rather up to Aubrey to decide.

  “I’m—flattered,” Aubrey settled on at last. “But I’m afraid I can’t tonight. Perhaps another time.”

  Halloway turned an enquiring look upon Lindsey, who likewise demurred.

  Halloway’s smile dimmed a little, but he shrugged it off. “Another time it is. We’ll call it a standing invitation. Should you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  Raising his glass, he slipped away into the crowd. Another cluster of admirers quickly engulfed him.

  Lindsey, meanwhile, gave Aubrey a glance of equal parts curiosity and concern.

  “I’m wary of parties,” Aubrey admitted. Though he felt certain Halloway’s party would not revolve around his own objectification, and indeed, Halloway considered him an equal in their joint creative endeavour, still he didn’t think himself equal to consorting with a party of strangers. At least, not tonight. The whole of it—his past life as an object of lust in gentlemen’s clubs, and his reluctance to return to anything resembling such work—remained unspoken.

  And yet, though Aubrey did not speak of it aloud, still Lindsey seemed to understand it. He gave a sage nod and casually brushed Aubrey’s wrist with his knuckles. Aubrey took the hint and clasped his hand. The touch lasted for but an instant, yet poured out a whole embrace’s worth of comfort to Aubrey’s nervous heart.

  “I can get on by myself,” Aubrey said, “if you wanted to go.”

  Lindsey shook his head, a wry smile gracing his lips. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Aubrey could content himself with that.

  ~

  The exhibition lasted through the remainder of the week. Aubrey did not go to view the painting again in the gallery. Yet it did not leave his mind. Even when the exhibition closed, and the gallery shipped the painting off to its new owner, the mystery surrounding Icarus Fallen remained.

  By then, Aubrey had returned with Lindsey to the Chorlton-cum-Hardy house. Miss Owen as housemaid and Miss Murphy as cook both flourished in their new surroundings, much to the relief of Charles. Yet the change of scene did nothing to shake Aubrey’s dogged pursuit of the solution to the Icarus Fallen enigma.

  “Who bought it?” Aubrey mused to Lindsey over dinner the evening after the exhibition’s end—as he had mused many times over since the exhibition opened.

  Lindsey shrugged, as he had also done many times over when faced with the very same question. “An earnest admirer of the arts?”

  Aubrey carved up his filet mignon with a frown. “Yes, but what sort of admirer? A rich one, we must assume, but there are many sorts of wealthy people. It could be anyone from banker to baronet.”

  “It could…” Lindsey admitted, appearing uneasy.

  Aubrey brought a bite to his lips and chewed thoughtfully. Perhaps the protein fuelled his brain, for he swallowed and added, “My hypothesis is on a more aristocratic bent. New money likes to flash it around, not buy things anonymously and hide them away where no one will see them.”

  “Not an American, then,” Lindsey cut in with a chuckle.

  Aubrey, intent on the problem, could hardly muster the ghost of a smile in response. “No, not American. And not a banker or industrialist, either—unless!” He bolted up in his seat. “Perhaps—no, impossible, and yet—could it be a woman?”

  Lindsey blinked at him. “A woman?”

  “A woman,” Aubrey reiterated, “would have ample reason to keep her purchase a secret. You saw the crowd at the gallery.”

  “All men,” Lindsey confirmed.

  “Yes, and all in an uproar about the indignity and scandal of Icarus Fallen.”

  “I think ‘uproar’ is a strong word,” said Lindsey.

  “You cannot deny there was talk,” countered Aubrey. “Some American heiress may very well have drawn upon her father’s cheque-book to buy something shocking, something scandalous, to show off to her Yankee friends back home.”

  “There’s always talk,” said Lindsey, even-toned as ever.

  “If the buyer has not chosen anonymity on account of their sex,” Aubrey conceded, “then they must be an aristocrat. They are too proud; they do not wish to be seen throwing their money about. They wish to remain demure about their artistic tastes.”

  Lindsey raised one eyebrow quite high, and Aubrey belatedly recalled that Lindsey was, after all, a baronet, and therefore some manner of aristocrat, if only on a technicality.

  Aubrey began stammering. “Present company—”

  The rest of his apology was cut off by Lindsey’s bark of laughter. Continued ripples of mirth shook his shoulders and delayed further conversation.

  “For the record,” Lindsey gasped when he’d recovered himself, “I have never known Graves to remain demure about his artistic tastes.”

  Even Aubrey had to admit that Graves, as the you
ngest son of a Marquess, stood a little closer to true aristocracy than a mere baronet such as Lindsey. Nor could it ever be honestly said that Graves kept quiet about his own opinions.

  The appearance of Charles in the doorway of the dining room interrupted any possible counter-argument Aubrey might have formed.

  “The package has arrived, sir,” Charles announced. “I’ve brought it as far as the foyer, where I thought it best to leave it whilst you determined where in the house you wish it to make its more permanent home.”

  “Splendid!” said Lindsey.

  Aubrey, who’d heard nothing of an expected package until this very moment, cast an enquiring look at Lindsey.

  Lindsey’s eyes sparkled like sunshine over ocean waves. “Would you care to come see it?”

  Aubrey turned his enquiring look upon Charles, who remained as stoic as ever, before he acquiesced to Lindsey’s bewildering offer and followed him out of the room.

  Lindsey lead the way to the foyer. Between the front door and the staircase to the upper storey stood a shipping crate. Though taller than Lindsey, and half again as wide as it was tall, its depth measured little more than a foot. Stray tufts of straw poked out between the wooden slats.

  Aubrey cast another curious glance at Lindsey. “What is it?”

  Lindsey beamed down at him with the look of one with a grand surprise held close to his bosom. “Shall we peek inside?”

  Charles had left a claw-hammer atop the crate, and at Aubrey’s wary nod, Lindsey took it up. He pried a few slats off of one broad side with surprising capability for one not trained to labour with his hands. Tufts of straw stuffing fell out onto the floorboards—some on their own, some helped along by Lindsey’s evident enthusiasm—and between the loosed slats, revealed a sight equal parts unexpected and familiar.

  There, before his very eyes, stood Icarus Fallen.

  Aubrey stared once again upon his own face in repose, rendered in oils by Halloway’s paintbrush, burns and all. He continued staring for a very long moment before he turned to Lindsey.