Sir Anthony's brows drew together. "Aren't you supposed to be posing for Rebecca now?"
Kenneth glanced at the clock. "Yes, sir. I came down to do some work, but it can wait." He headed toward the door.
His hand was on the knob when he heard Sir Anthony say in a barely audible voice, "Now she's gone, and may God forgive me—because it was my fault."
For an instant, Kenneth became rigid. Then he left the room, feeling sick to his stomach. If what Sir Anthony said was true, may God help them all.
* * *
By the time Rebecca reached her studio after discovering Kenneth's artwork, her fatigue had been replaced by brimming excitement. The picture of the mortally wounded soldier showed remarkable assurance, especially for a man who was essentially self-taught.
No wonder she had felt drawn to him from the beginning. Under his brawn and military bearing, he was as much an artist as she. Shared interests could become the basis of a deep friendship.
She went to her worktable and began to mix the tints that she would use in her afternoon's work. It was a process that she had done so often that her mind was free to question if it was really friendship that she wanted from Kenneth.
For a moment, the thought of marriage flickered through her mind. She instantly dismissed it. Marriage was not for her. Even if Kenneth was interested and willing to overlook her lack of reputation, she would never surrender her freedom. The selfishness essential to an artist would be fatal in a wife.
She supposed they could become lovers. The London art world was a tolerant one. If she and Kenneth were discreet, they could carry on as they pleased. Absorbed in his own business, her father wouldn't object. He probably wouldn't even notice.
But while her upbringing had given her a liberal outlook, her observations had convinced her that affairs could be a messy business. No doubt Lavinia could explain how to prevent pregnancy, but there were other hazards. The fact that a relationship was illicit would not make it any less painful when it ended. And end it would. Kenneth seemed to find her attractive, but she would be of more value to him as a teacher than as a not-very-skilled mistress. And they both knew it.
With a sigh, she finished mixing her tints. Friendship was clearly the best possible relationship. She would simply have to repress any lustful thoughts.
There was a gift she could give Kenneth, as a friend, that would help him develop as a painter. With a smile, she got to her feet. She would have just enough time to arrange it.
* * *
Kenneth arrived for his modeling session dressed in the boots, breeches, and open-throated shirt she had requested. Rebecca caught her breath when he entered the room. There was a darkness in his expression that made him an utterly convincing pirate, a man who lived by his own rules alone. Merciful heaven, how she wanted to capture that!
Wanting to put him at ease, she said lightly, "You needn't look as if you're going to be made to walk the plank." She dusted off her hands. "Before we start, I have something for you."
"A pirate parrot to carry on my shoulder?" he said dryly.
She laughed. "It's a thought, but the Gray Ghost would make short work of a parrot. Come with me."
She led him from her studio to the hall that went to the other end of the attic. They passed the closed doors of half a dozen servants' rooms before she halted and unlocked the final door. After swinging it open, she stood aside so that Kenneth could enter what had been an empty servants' room.
His gaze went over the simple furnishings and single window and came to rest on the easel that stood in the center of the room. Beside the easel a battered pine table held a selection of different-sized brushes and a box containing plump bladders of paint. He glanced at her, his brows lifted questioningly.
"If you're going to paint seriously, you need a studio," she explained. "This is private, and it has a north light. You can take whatever materials you need from my workroom." She handed him the heavy iron key. "It's yours for as long as you want."
His hand closed convulsively over the key, the warm fingertips brushing her palm. "I don't deserve this," he said tightly. "Why are you so good to me, Rebecca?"
Sensing that the question wasn't rhetorical, she thought a moment before answering. "I suppose this is a kind of thanks offering for the fact that my creative path was so smooth. Or perhaps it's what I would have hoped to find if I'd had to face the obstacles to painting that you have."
"I don't deserve it," he said again, something very near pain in his eyes. "If you only knew..."
It was a moment that could easily slide into dangerous emotion. She tried not to stare at the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat. He was surprised. Grateful that she took his dreams seriously.
What would happen if she stepped forward and lifted her face to his?
Clenching her hand into a fist, she turned away. "By the time you've finished posing for me, you'll have earned your painting lessons," she said briskly. "Come. It's time to begin."
* * *
Emotions taut, Kenneth followed Rebecca back to her studio. Several minutes were spent in duplicating the pose of the night before. As she began sketching on the canvas, he thought about the fact that in a matter of hours, he had acquired a teacher, a studio, someone to whom he could speak of his deepest longings. Everything would be perfect—if Sir Anthony hadn't just revealed that he felt responsible for his wife's death. Would the painter have said more if pressed? Probably not; his words had not been intended for other ears.
With grim honesty, Kenneth recognized that he had not wanted to know more. It was quite possible that an argument between two hot-tempered people might have escalated to unexpected violence.
The Seatons' love affairs had provided an abundance of motive. Perhaps George Hampton had persuaded Helen to leave her husband and live openly with her lover, and Sir Anthony had turned "murderous" at the news. Or perhaps Helen had become jealous of the mystery mistress in a way that she had not been of her husband's passing affairs. Or perhaps the mistress had decided to do away with her rival, and Sir Anthony had found out after the fact and ended the relationship, unable to turn his lover over to the law but blaming himself for the death.
Why couldn't these blasted people restrict themselves to sleeping with their own mates?
His reverie was interrupted when Rebecca glanced up from her drawing. "The dangerous expression is good, but try to relax. If you don't, you'll feel tied in knots within a half hour."
He did his best to obey. A more pleasant subject to ponder was whether Rebecca's casually knotted hair would stay pinned up or come tumbling down. Or he could think about her incredible generosity in finding a private space for him to work, except that the topic induced as much guilt as pleasure.
The sofa sagged under the weight of the Gray Ghost, who had materialized from some hidden lair. As the cat flopped alongside Kenneth's thigh in a perfect pose, he remarked, "The Ghost is a born artist's model."
"He's certainly very good at holding one position." Brows knit, Rebecca donned a paint-marked smock. "I've never taught painting, and I'm not sure quite where to start. As I've said before, art is a craft, like making watches or shoeing horses. A painter who is a great craftsman is not necessarily a great artist—but talent without craft will never be great."
"With that explanation, you've already taught me something," Kenneth said. "Assume I know nothing about working with oils, which isn't far wrong."
"Very well." She thought a moment. "The wonderful pictures of the old masters were done with painstaking care, building the final result through many layers of paint. Undercolors often glow through transparent upper layers. Marvelous effects were possible, but it was very slow. The fashion now is for direct painting—using the colors you want from the beginning. It's much faster, and what is lost in depth is gained in spontaneity."
"Is that why your father can be so prolific?"
"That's one of the reasons," she agreed. "He's also very well organized. Before starting work, he m
ixes the tints, halftones, and highlights the subject is likely to need. That means he seldom has to stop and mix colors. I've seen him do wonderful informal portraits in a single sitting."
"I assume you use the same approach."
She nodded and came over to display her oval palette. "Every artist develops a particular system for laying out colors. It's usual to put white lead nearest the thumb hole because white is used the most. Apart from that, setting the palette is very personal. I generally use a dozen pure pigments and lay them along the edge. Then I do another row of tints that vary depending on what I'm painting. I mixed this set for flesh tones and a dark interior. I would use a very different range of colors for a landscape."
He studied her palette, committing the arrangement to memory. It made such beautiful sense.
Rebecca returned to her easel. "Later I'll explain how to prepare a canvas in detail, but for now, I'll just say that it's usual to start by laying down a ground—a solid color that covers the whole surface. The ground will affect the finished picture, even if it's completely covered. Dark brown is common because it adds richness to the painting. I generally use lighter colors for the brightness they create."
She brushed impatiently at an auburn lock that had fallen untidily over her eyes. It was the last straw needed to bring down the precariously balanced mass of her hair. Lushly sensual, it fell to her waist in a cascade of russet and chestnut and red-gold. Kenneth caught his breath at the sight. There was more provocation in that molten sweep of hair than most women had in their whole bodies.
Trying to sound detached, he said, "It would be a crime to cut hair like yours, but considering how it gets in the way, you must be tempted sometimes."
"Father won't let me. Whenever he does a subject with lots of hair, he likes to use me as a model." With the nonchalance of long practice, she swept up the fallen tresses, swirled them into a knot, and stabbed the wooden handle of a paintbrush through the middle to hold the mass in place. Then she lifted the palette in her left hand. "The ground was already laid in, and I just did a preliminary sketch that blocks out the major forms in the picture. It's time to begin to paint."
She dipped a wide brush into a daub of paint, then stroked the canvas, still talking about what she was doing. Kenneth listened intently as the accumulated knowledge of her and her father poured forth like a golden river. He tried to memorize every word, knowing that even the Royal Academy Schools could not have matched instruction like this.
Her words slowed, then stopped altogether as her concentration narrowed to the canvas in front of her. Kenneth didn't mind. She'd given him plenty to absorb already.
He found that an advantage of his pose was that he could watch her. With her intensity and delicate, steely strength, she was a wonderful subject for a study of an artist at work. Perhaps someday he would be able to do justice to such a portrait.
Better yet, he could paint her as a nude veiled only in a shimmering mantle of her splendid hair. It was a distracting thought. He found himself imagining the slim body beneath her shapeless protectiveness, and wondering how, exactly, her breasts were shaped.
A wave of heat spread through him. Damnation! He would go up in flames if he didn't think of something else. He forced himself to look past her. Soon it would be planting time at Sutterton. He must write and learn what Jack Davidson was planning to put in. He really ought to take his seat in Parliament, though of course he couldn't until this mission was completed. Would the paintbrush keep Rebecca's hair in place for the rest of the session?
His mind continued to skip around. Holding one position went from easy, to uncomfortable, to excruciating. When the pose became unendurable, he said, "Time for a break."
He stood and stretched his shaking muscles, his hands grazing the slanting ceiling. At least an hour had passed. Probably two. "Don't you ever tire when you work?"
Rebecca looked up, blinking as if coming out of a trance. "Yes. But I never notice until later."
"The Gray Ghost is better at posing than I. I swear he hasn't moved a whisker." Kenneth went to the hearth and swung the kettle over the fire. Then he ambled toward the easel, rubbing his stiff neck. "May I see what you've done?"
"I'd rather not until the picture is more advanced." She tugged the easel around so that the canvas faced the wall. "It's time for your first painting lesson."
While they drank tea, she talked about stretching and sizing, grounds and varnishes, scumbles and glazes. Then she set down her cup and got to her feet. "That's enough talk for one afternoon. If I'm not careful, I'll drown you in theory."
She indicated a box set by the wall. "Choose several objects and set up a still life on that small table."
Obediently he dug into the box. Aided by her suggestions, he settled on a graceful goblet, a cast of an antique Greek head, and half a dozen other items. Then he arranged them on a sweep of velvet drapery. When he was satisfied, she set another easel by the table, saying, "I've prepared canvases with different-colored grounds for you to experiment with."
She lifted a brush and ceremoniously offered it to him, handle first. "The time has come to start putting paint on canvas," she said with an encouraging smile.
As a newly enlisted soldier, he had been handed a rifle in a very similar fashion. The gun had led him down a long and harrowing road. He wondered where this new tool would take him.
Heart hammering, he accepted the brush.
Chapter 12
The empty trail stretched ahead between rows of trees, disappearing into the dawn mists. Kenneth called, "Go!" and gave his mount its head. They leaped forward.
For a few minutes, his mind was blessedly free of everything but the pleasure of a fine horse between his legs and the sting of a wintry wind. Reality returned when he reluctantly reined in his mount and turned toward Seaton House again.
Usually he was refreshed after exercising Sir Anthony's horse. Not today. The previous day's painting lesson was painfully vivid in his mind. It had not gone well. The feel, the weight, the flow of oils were entirely different from watercolors, and they'd demonstrated an infuriating reluctance to do as he wished.
Though he had always deprecated his artistic ability, he saw now how accustomed he'd become to the praise of his army friends. Catherine Melbourne and Anne Mowbry had loved his sketches of their families. Though he knew they overrated his work, he had found their compliments gratifying.
With Rebecca, however, he was unable to forget how amateur his efforts were compared to hers. He'd felt like a clumsy oaf. That wasn't her fault; her calm comments had not contained a hint of scorn. Nonetheless, he'd been tempted to kick the easel over. The experience made him sympathize with the occasions when Sir Anthony hurled objects in all directions.
Things had gone no better later in the evening, when he had ascended to his new studio and set up another still life so he could paint in private. He'd thought his second attempt would go a little better.
He had been appallingly wrong; he couldn't even paint a simple bowl decently. The flat, muddy result had made him ashamed of his own arrogant dreams. He'd ended the session by furiously scraping the paint from his canvas because he could not bear the sight of his own failure.
He reminded himself forcefully that he had only had one lesson. Surely he would get better. Yet he could not shake the bitter belief that his small talent for sketching was utterly inadequate when it came to creating real art.
Arriving back at Seaton House, he dismounted and led the chestnut into the stable. He was rubbing the horse down when Phelps, the groom and coachman, emerged from his small apartment above the stable, a clay pipe clamped between his teeth. After nodding a greeting, Phelps went to stand in the doorway and gaze out at the courtyard.
The groom was the only long-term Seaton servant. His taciturn nature made him a poor source of information, but Kenneth enjoyed his company. When he finished rubbing down the horse, he went to join the groom in the doorway. "Cold this morning. Hard to believe it will be spring soon."
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"Not soon enough." Phelps drew in a mouthful of pipe smoke, then slowly exhaled it. "Be glad to leave London for the Lakes."
"When does Sir Anthony usually go?"
Another puff of smoke spiraled into the mist. "A fortnight or so after the Royal Academy Exhibition begins."
Since the exhibit opened the first Monday in May, the journey north would be in mid-May. More than two months away. Kenneth wondered if he would still be part of the household then. "Does Miss Seaton enjoy going to the country?"
"Oh, aye. 'Tis good for her. In London, Miss Rebecca scarcely ever sets foot out of the house."
Kenneth realized that Phelps was right. He made a mental note to try to coax Rebecca out for some fresh air.
Since the groom was in a relatively talkative mood, Kenneth remarked, "From what I've heard, a good part of Sir Anthony's circle also goes to the Lakes."
"Aye, that's true enough. Lady Claxton, Lord Frazier, and half a dozen others have places near Ravensbeck." Phelps made a face. "As if we didn't see enough of 'em in London."
"George Hampton also summers there, doesn't he?"
"With his print shop to run, Mr. Hampton only takes a few weeks of holiday," Phelps explained. "Usually August."
Kenneth wondered if it was significant that Helen had died during the time when George Hampton was in the neighborhood. As her lover, he must be considered a suspect. "I heard that Hampton discovered Lady Seaton after her accident."
The groom's teeth clicked tight on his pipestem. After a long silence, he said, "Aye, you heard rightly. That was a bad day. A very bad day."
"Her death must have come as a great shock."
"Mebbe not so great as all that," Phelps said cryptically.
Startled, Kenneth studied the other man's expression. "Were you expecting such a tragedy?"
"Not expecting, no. But not surprised."
River of Fire: Book 6 in The Fallen Angels Series Page 12
