An Encounter at the Museum

by Claudia Dain

  "There will be no need of that now. In light of Mr. Harkness's taxing day, we've decided to have our midday meal in the dining room."

  "What a capital idea. I think I'll go and change out of this walking dress. Do excuse me." Before anyone could mount additional protests, Isha ran up the stairs.

  She closed the door to her bedroom and turned the key in the lock. She glanced balefully at her target, an oval shaped mirror framed in carved cherrywood which swiveled from the back of her dressing table. It was less a functional piece than a sentimental one—her father had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday.

  She unlaced her walking boot and pulled it off her stockinged foot. It would hurt to do this to her father's gift. But she comforted herself that she would soon take it out of Mr. Bad Luck's hide. She stood in front of the mirror and, shielding her eyes, swung the heel against the delicate glass.

  The mirror cobwebbed and then collapsed. Shards tinkled onto her dressing table, and the ray of sunlight from the window reflected tiny diamonds onto the walls and ceiling.

  "You didn't have to do that."

  The deep voice behind Isha startled her. She spun around.

  She peered at the large, dark blur sitting upon the sill of the opposite window. "Where have you been?" she ground out.

  "I've been right behind you the whole time. Put on your spectacles, woman, and stop pretending to be something that you're not."

  Her anger was defused by a momentary twinge of embarrassment. She reached into her skirt pocket and wedged the spectacles onto her face.

  The blur came into focus. Looking even handsomer than she'd remembered him, Mr. Bad Luck dangled one long leg off the window sill. His black boots were polished to a mirror finish, and a silver brocade waistcoat flashed from between the lapels of a dark grey swallowtail coat. Beneath the now clean shaven chin, his red cravat was ornately tied. And the tiny diamonds reflecting from the mirror shards danced upon his chest.

  "How dare you interfere in Mr. Harkness's attempt to court my sister! I told you to leave us alone!"

  "And yet you walked under a ladder and broke a perfectly good mirror just to send for me."

  "You know what I mean. That was what I had to do to bring you round."

  "Breaking a mirror doesn't bring bad luck. Except, of course, that now you have to go to the expense of buying a new mirror."

  She wanted to smack that cavalier smirk right off his face. "Then what must I have done?"

  "You could have tried spilling some salt upon the trail left by a black cat crossing your path."

  She adjusted her spectacles. "Would that have summoned you?"

  "No," he said, his dimples deepening. "But it would have been entertaining to watch."

  She grit her teeth. "You really are the most insufferable man. Just once I'd like a straight answer out of you."

  "All right. The next time you want to come to me, just go out to the meadow behind your stable. It's really quite beautiful. I feel right at home there."

  "Of course you do. It's chock-full of cow pats."

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "If I wasn't such a gentleman, I'd put you across my knee."

  She harrumphed. "You? A gentleman? That's a laugh. After what you did to Mr. Harkness? As soon as he mentioned that highwayman, I knew it was you."

  "Blast. It was the red kerchief that gave me away, wasn't it?"

  His blitheness fueled her annoyance. "Can't you see how important this suitor is to my sister? And how vital her marriage will be for this family? Why must you interfere with Maryan's happiness?

  "Ah, yes. The lovely Maryan. I can now see the poetry behind your father's reasoning in naming you both. She was named after the most important woman in the New Testament. While you, Eveline Isha Elmwood, were named after the most important woman in the Old."

  Hearing her full name on his lips instantly put her on the defensive. "How did you know that?"

  "If you intended to become my adversary, don't you think it would have been prudent of me to find out everything I could about you?"

  His superior knowledge put her at a deep disadvantage. It was the feeling she most hated in the world: that there was knowledge foreign to her. It made her feel ignorant. She opted for an offensive tactic. "I want you out of my sister's life. And, for that matter, out of mine."

  "No such luck, my dear Isha. I have a mission to accomplish. I must thwart that young man downstairs, and he has proven to be a most headstrong suitor. I must admit, however, that after setting eyes on the lovely Maryan, I can hardly blame him. She is quite a rare beauty, your sister."

  Her irritation gave way to another feeling that was just as unwelcome but infinitely more familiar: jealousy. Maryan was lovely. Everyone said so. She was a collection of vivid color: emerald eyes, auburn hair, and alabaster skin. While Maryan wore the colors of the flowers, Isha was given the hues of the earth: russet curls, brown eyes, fawn skin.

  Maryan was the miracle child, too. In the dozen years since Isha's birth, her mother had lost four bellies. When Maryan was finally born, everyone celebrated and coddled her. Isha retained her father's special favor, because she took after him. But her mother's affection was lavished upon the child that finally made it into her arms.

  It was a rare occasion when someone did not compliment Maryan for her pretty face or winsome personality. Isha was always happy when others recognized Maryan for her beauty. But for some reason she couldn't identify, when this man did so, it stung.

  He closed the distance between them, even though Isha backed away from him. "This pains you."

  "Don't be ridiculous. I'm indignant at you. You want to make a spinster out of my sister. It's perfectly understandable for someone like me to be unmarried. But Maryan does not have the same independent temperament as I. Such a condition would devastate her."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "By what?"

  "You said, 'It's perfectly understandable for someone like me to be unmarried.' What did you mean by that?"

  Isha began to sense danger. If she let him get too close, he would know how to hurt her.

  "What I meant was that I've made my peace with that fact long ago."

  She glanced up at his face. He was unconvinced.

  "Why haven't you married?"

  Oh dear. Now he was scratching at old wounds still unhealed. She cast her face away. "Married women must shackle themselves to a man for the rest of their lives. I've no wish to commit myself to indentured servitude. If that attitude shocks you, then you are perfectly welcome to change the subject."

  He lifted her chin and sought her eyes. Though his brow was smooth, his eyes were ancient, and it seemed to her that they could see beyond what she was willing to reveal.

  "No," he drawled. "That's not it."

  She pulled away. Shoe in hand, she hobbled farther from him, but she only succeeded in backing herself into a corner.

  "I cannot believe this," he said, illumination slowly dawning on him. "You really think that you're not as good as other women."

  She tried to laugh derisively, but tears leapt to her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," she repeated, because she could think of nothing else to say. Emotion was fracturing her façade. All she wanted to do was flee, but she was trapped by the wall of plaster behind her and the wall of muscle in front of her.

  "How could you have become so deluded?"

  "I assure you I'm nothing of the sort," she said, valiantly trying to keep her voice from cracking. "I see myself quite plainly. Which is to say…I see myself quite plain." She cleared her throat. "I'm not a rare beauty like my sister, this I know. You wish to know why I am not married? The simple truth is that I am…peculiar. Too pretty to be deemed ugly, and too ugly to be deemed pretty. What's more, I seem to lack those…womanly charms that men write songs about. My spectacles only add to my dilemma because without them I cannot see, but with them, no man wishes to see me. And even if I were able to draw the attention of a man, I'm sure I couldn't hold his interest for long
. Because, quite frankly, I just don't know how."

  She hazarded a glance up into his face. She was expecting his mockery—even braced herself for it. But his expression surprised her. There was no mirth in his eyes, no hint of mischief in his dimples. Black-fringed lids slid slowly over bronze-colored eyes, which gazed into her private shame without ridicule or condemnation.

  "I see you, Isha. And what I see is so vastly different than what you've just described. I can't speak for human men, not being one myself, but if you ask me, they must be the blindest creatures on earth. What you have so far surpasses earthly beauty that it makes my mind ache to consider the magnitude of it residing inside just one woman. And it is a crime of the highest order to know that you can identify all the creatures in that copy of Blackwell's Handbook of Zoology downstairs, but you are unable to recognize who you yourself are. As for holding a man's interest, I cannot speak to that. But the fact remains that I'm supposed to be here about your sister, and yet here I am, in your bedroom with you. Perhaps these spectacles of yours have distorted the world for you," he said, reaching up and unhooking them from her ears, "but let me show you a glimpse of who you are through my eyes."

  His face fell out of focus, but she wasn't able to see him anyway through the mist that had formed in her eyes. He bent his head low and placed the most profound kiss upon her lips.

  The tender touch of his mouth on hers made her gasp. A reluctant sob escaped as she gave herself to the kiss. It was the loveliest thing anyone's ever said to her, and she wanted to embrace it with all her mind and heart.

  His lips smoothed over hers, setting all her sensations alight. He spoke to her in that kiss, communicating how special she was. It was reverent and yet passionate, tender and yet intense. Why couldn't a real man treat her like this? What made this person so unique?

  Even though his words fell like drops of rain on parched soil, Isha found it impossible to be comforted by them. She'd been snubbed by men far too many times to believe that a diamond in the rough was of any value. Unless a jewel is becoming to the eye, it will likely just be trod underfoot.

  "Thank you," she breathed. "Those are kind words. But I'm not who you think I am. I'm no one of any consequence."

  She dipped her face away from his. He kissed her forehead.

  "You are special, Isha. And if you knew what I knew, you'd realize how true that is."

  Perhaps, she thought, but the world doesn't work like that. "I want to believe that."

  "Truth isn't something that must be believed. It just is. Whether you believe it or not. But if you believe it, then it can change you…in a most powerful way. It is the light that banishes all darkness. In the world…and in your heart."

  His hot breath fell on her forehead, and she gloried in the sensation. But it was this appreciation, this regard, that seduced her. It was something beautiful and inviting, and she just wanted to be enveloped by it and live in it forever.

  Her hands curled under his arms and rested on his shoulders. Oh, how she wanted to possess such strength—of confidence, of will. The freshly shaved chin smoothed against her face as he kissed the apple of her cheek.

  She wanted to make him feel just as delightful as she herself did. Against her better judgment, she kissed him with ardor, pressing against him with deeper longing—wanting not merely to be pleasured by him, but to pleasure him greatly. She felt the corners of his mouth curl upwards, so she knew he sensed her keenly. Isha couldn't understand why her touch pleased him so, but the power to do so gave her a heady feeling.

  Suddenly, she heard running footfalls in the hallway, followed by the slamming of Maryan's bedroom door. Concerned, she broke from his embrace and stepped out into the hall.

  "What happened?" Isha asked Lady Elmwood, who had followed Maryan up the stairs.

  "Andrew Harkness developed some sort of stomach upset. He got a funny color, then a sheen broke out on his face, and then he vomited his tea all over the parlor carpet. Ivy's scrubbing the carpet now."

  "Should we send for a doctor?"

  Lady Elmwood sighed. "No need. Mr. Harkness already left. He flew out of here in abject humiliation. Maryan followed him to his carriage, asking if he would return once he felt better. The stupid boy muttered something about Maryan being cursed, and then whipped his horse into a gallop. Your sister just ran to her room in sobs." She shook her head. "I'm going to go see if I can comfort her bruised feelings."

  Isha closed her bedroom door quietly. She reached down and collected her spectacles, which Mr. Bad Luck had tossed on her bed, and placed them back on her face.

  "This was your doing. Wasn't it?"

  He took a moment before answering softly. "Yes."

  "You poisoned Mr. Harkness."

  "It was only a drop of wisteria sap. He'll be back to himself in a day."

  "You killed his passion for her. Now he'll never come back."

  "So much the better."

  She shook her head. "How does it feel to have crushed my sister's heart?"

  There was a moment of regret on his features, but then it vanished. "She'll recover," he said impassively.

  "In heaven's name, why?"

  "Because, Isha, some things must happen, and others must not. This is one that must not."

  "You unconscionable bastard! You toyed with me. What a fool I was. A bloody, brainless fool. I let myself believe all those honeyed words you spouted about how special I am."

  He put his hands up, palms forward. "No, Isha. What I said was all true."

  "Liar!" The force of her anger surprised even her. She advanced slowly upon him as he backed away. "You said all those things just to waylay me while you manipulated circumstances for your own selfish ends. You played me well, sir, I commend you. But it's my turn at the guns now. You wanted an adversary? Well, now you've got one!"

  "Isha, please don't misunderstand me. This isn't about you. You and I are not enemies."

  "Just threatening my sister made you my enemy. Now we are at war. Get out."

  "Isha, listen to me—"

  "Get out!" She picked up a handful of mirror pieces from her dressing table and flung them at him.

  But the glass just tinkled against the closed window panes. The man had vanished.

  Henry the Eighth's hooves clattered noisily on the cobblestoned streets. The early morning mist had already cleared, banished by the bustle of London's traffic.

  The carriage ride into the heart of London never seemed so long, peppered as she was with the feelings following her exchanges with Mr. Bad Luck. It was amazing how he could make her feel so good and yet so bad. Never had a man so handsome or with such a fine physique lavished such affection on her. He kissed her not once but twice, and each time it made her heart swell with delight. How his embrace did things to her…made her feel at once safe and adventuresome, attractive and powerful. And most glorious of all, feminine.

  But then she remembered his ultimate goal, and she wished he was sitting next to her so that she could push him from the moving carriage. What a fool she was for succumbing to him like she did. He didn't truly feel those things for her. He was just toying with her, manipulating her for his own ends. She shook her head, dispelling any sentiment for the pranksome knave, and berated herself for a dolt. He must be smart, so much smarter than she, if he could so easily find and prey upon her weakness.

  Well, now it was her turn to do the preying upon him.

  As the carriage turned from Montague Street onto Great Russell, Isha's heart began to race. She hadn't been back to the British Museum since her father took ill, and being here brought back a flood of memories so dense that it made it seem as if the events of the past two years hadn't taken place at all.

  Sir Rupert spent the greater part of daylight hours here in the museum. When he wasn't teaching at the university, he could always be found here, in the vast Reading Room or in contemplation of one of the many antiquities. Isha was never far from his side, especially when she was a little girl. Although children were not pe
rmitted entrance into the Reading Room, an exception used to be made for her because of who her father was. In fact, the trustees used to joke that they would soon have to find Sir Rupert accommodations among the museum staff residences so that Isha might be hired to guard the library by night.

  Isha had wrestled all night with the problem of what to do about Mr. Bad Luck, but she could not come up with a plan of action. If her father was alive today and he needed answers, what would he do? The answer to that was easy: Sir Rupert would bury himself in writings penned by learned and experienced men, harvesting the wisdom of the ancients. He would consult dusty tomes like they were royal advisors before a military campaign of war. She would do the same, for that was what she was about to undertake. War.

  The impressive forecourt of the British Museum hove into view. Behind the ornamented wrought iron gates sat the sprawling colonnade. Grooved white columns marched along the portico like stout sentinels guarding an oracle of knowledge. Many was the time she used to run the length of the zigzagging portico, or play hide-and seek behind the Greek columns.

  Isha strode purposefully through the courtyard and up the stairs to the massive double doors. The place put her in mind of the Greek temples that her father used to talk about, inspiring awe and promising riches. And as she walked inside, the rarefied air just about put her father right there beside her.

  The porter, Mr. Greenly, greeted her warmly and waved her through. Isha knew by name just about every employee of the museum, including the officers and trustees, and she no longer needed to display her reading ticket.

  She marched down the quadrangle, past familiar statuary and displays. Dark paintings hung squarely on each wall, like dim windows into a forgotten age. But just as Isha was nearing the northern doorway, a familiar piece tugged at her. She turned toward the painting of Rubens' Adam and Eve in a Worthy Paradise. A long-ago memory washed over her.

  "Isha, come over here. Look at this painting. What do you see?"

  "Adam and Eve, Papa. In the Garden of Eden."

  "Do you know what is wrong with this painting?"