by Liz Tyner
She had his full attention. ‘And why is that, Beatrice?’
Chapter Nineteen
Her mother’s shoes tapped in the hallway like little woodpecker raps on the floor. Beatrice whirled around, facing the older woman.
Her mother wore longish sleeves woven so fine the slightest movement fluttered them. Her hair was pulled to the top of her head, similar to Beatrice’s own crown of curls. Yet, the look in her eyes had the definite flair of a witch mixing potions.
Andrew moved around Beatrice and walked to her mother, taking the older woman’s hand in greeting and giving a brief nod of his head, surprised again by the lingering wisp of tobacco scent in the air.
She examined him, the silence a way of trying to take command of a conversation, a challenge for the other person to speak. He waited.
‘I supposed you’ve heard that my daughter has misplaced a canvas,’ she said finally, all innocence.
‘Where is it?’ he asked, his tone matching hers.
‘In a safe place.’
‘The best place for it is in Beatrice’s care.’
‘I would have to disagree,’ she said. Her brows notched up almost to her hairline and her voice floated like petals on the wind. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘Mother.’ Beatrice rushed forward. ‘You simply cannot.’
Her mother’s eyes, moving slower than a general waiting on an enemy to raise its head, turned to her daughter. The voice again an ode to sweetness. ‘I do intend to give the painting to him, Beatrice.’
Andrew didn’t relax at the words. Her eyes were too focused—and her words too buttery. He waited.
The older woman purred to him. ‘As a wedding present. It’s time the family tree stopped having cracked branches.’ She lowered her chin and levelled a gaze at him. ‘Of course, if you don’t wish to marry my daughter, I’ll happily give you the painting if you wish to marry me.’
‘Mother,’ Beatrice snapped.
The duchess shrugged. ‘Giving up grandchildren would be a sacrifice, but the boasting rights alone to having a husband such as him would make my friends forget how to count. They’d be too envious.’
‘I will find it on my own,’ he said.
‘You don’t wish to marry Beatrice? She really is lovely, even if I do say so myself. You could hardly do better. And I don’t see you stirring her to violence.’
‘Is the art in this house?’
The lined eyes roved over his face ‘All I ask is that you marry her. You should thank me. Art does make a lovely gift. To a woman and her husband. I might even throw in some silver candlesticks for good measure.’
‘I don’t think a mother should endeavour to force her widowed daughter into a marriage as you are doing,’ Andrew said.
‘Of course not. It just isn’t done, is it? But...’ she waved a hand about ‘...I am one of those meddling mothers. The kind whose name is mentioned with a shudder. The kind who...’ she smiled ‘...gets her way.’
‘Not in this. A lady shouldn’t resort to blackmail.’
Beatrice’s mother took a deep breath, digesting the words, and her face registered carefully constructed surprise. ‘Nonsense. One uses the methods at hand. I’ve decided you’d make the perfect foil for Beatrice’s lively spirit.’ The dowager’s eyes sparkled at Andrew.
‘I am quite taken with Lady Riverton, but don’t you think we should decide on the minor details of our life?’ Andrew’s voice flowed through the room, rich, comfortable. Not threatened.
Her mother raised a brow, giving her face a look of whimsy. ‘You may as well call her Beatrice. You’re among family and I can’t believe you call her Lady Riverton when you’re alone.’
‘One likes to keep tender endearments private.’ He turned enough so Beatrice’s mother could not see his expression and smiled at Bea. Beatrice’s cheeks blossomed. What he’d not expected was an accompanying blossom within himself.
He turned back to see a pleased sputter from her mother’s upturned lips. He imagined her already selecting names for the grandchildren.
‘The two of you will marry,’ her mother decreed. ‘I won’t hear otherwise. And apparently Beatrice has told you I have the means to bring about such an event.’
* * *
Beatrice caught her breath, bracing for her mother to speak of the painting. Her mother’s mouth opened. The words were forming.
Andrew’s voice softened to a rumble more appealing than distant thunder with a light spring rain. ‘I can understand your wish to find her settled and I must say I’m honoured to be the recipient of such trust. But we are both of an age where we decide such things ourselves.’ He moved forward, easily, leisurely, a gentle step, and closer. ‘Although I think you would make quite the charming mother of the bride.’
Her eyes widened, she coughed and then she fluffed at her locks.
‘Normally, I could agree with that,’ her mother said. ‘But only if I said it. I know nonsense no matter who spouts it. I don’t care how old you are, if the means to secure such an event falls into my hands, I’ll use it, be you five or fifty-five years of age. I think you will make a fine husband to my daughter.’
He put a hand to his heart and Beatrice thought of the stage. ‘Think how I would feel, knowing my beloved only wed me by force. I would be wounded deeply. Could you do that to me?’
Andrew might have some of the actor in him, but from the gristle in her mother’s eyes, not enough.
‘When the children arrive,’ she said, ‘you’ll forget about the methods used to secure the wedding. You’ll be too busy making sure you have their lives planned out for them. I’ll help, of course.’
Andrew reached to the side, taking Beatrice’s hand. ‘If your daughter and I marry, it will be because we decide on our own. Nothing you can say or do will force the issue for me.’
Her mother’s eyes reflected the look of a gardener completely at ease with snipping off the heads of roses in perfect bloom.
‘You think so now. And I will give Beatrice twenty-four hours to change your mind. After that, things will become more apparent. You might find this worth the negotiations. Of course the best part will be that you will get to marry into my family.’
She nodded to Beatrice. ‘Twenty-four hours to convince him. Another day to get the special licence. You should certainly thank me for this. And I will expect a gift while you are on your wedding trip. And a grandchild. One of each. You don’t have to name the boy after me, but I would so love to see a little Euphemia.’
She left the room.
Andrew looked at Beatrice. ‘We’ll find it. First, we must search this house. We only have to open the door and sniff. Any closed-up chamber will smell of the fresh oils. She may have taken it in a carriage, but perhaps she keeps it close. We have to make certain.’
Beatrice took a breath. There could not be another Euphemia. Ever.
* * *
The upper floors had a few rooms used for storage of furniture and trunks. Beatrice led Andrew to the chambers. She followed him, each of them carrying a lamp and facing mounds of covered and dusty household articles.
She sneezed as she raised her lamp. The air smelled of musty coverings and old clothing. ‘It’s not here.’ She walked through the stacked and crated items. ‘And I doubt it can be in the house.’
Andrew didn’t pause in his perusal. ‘No matter. We need to search.’
She went through the house, even knocking at the rooms in the servants’ quarters, making sure no scent of paint lingered when the door opened. Sniffing. Satisfying herself with the innocence on the faces and the lack of evidence in the air.
Each time, Andrew watched as if he must also ascertain the accuracy of her search.
* * *
At the end of the hunt, she could see the fatigue growing under his eyes, hardening the determination behind them.
‘She could have also hidden it in plain sight,’ he remarked. ‘Your painting room.’
Giving a quick upturn of her head, she acknowledg
ed his words, moving to go to her studio, carrying a lamp.
She didn’t know what time it was, but looked to the sky to see if it lightened in the east, but she couldn’t discern the morning glow.
Walking to the cottage in the darkness, she could feel him behind her. She stopped, turning. She could see the same memories behind his eyes that she felt. The last time they’d been in the cottage had been heights followed by a crevasse.
‘I don’t know what to do or say or think,’ she said. ‘Normally, that doesn’t happen to me. But I do care where you’re concerned.’
‘It’s the past. Means nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing that hasn’t—’
‘I’m really not a bad sort of person.’ Even as she spoke, she puzzled. Nothing that hadn’t happened, he’d said.
‘Of course I know that.’ He walked around her, opening the door for her, and she realised he’d shut another door at the same time. Her apologies would fall on deaf ears.
‘Has something happened, in the past? Someone bit you?’ she asked.
He paused and one blink shuttered away his answer.
‘Beatrice. Some things are best left unsaid.’
‘I suppose.’ She wiggled her head. ‘But I usually say them.’
‘I don’t. I’m a private person.’
She could not think he would view her painting quite in the same way she did. ‘Do you have a temper?’ she asked.
‘Everyone has a temper.’ He chuckled.
She had to get that painting back.
Moving past him, she went inside to make certain her mother hadn’t had a once-in-a-lifetime conscience flare-up and returned it.
A casual glance in each room told her the creation wasn’t there. Andrew kept moving things, looking, putting them back. Not really searching for the painting, she suspected, but perusing the situation, or her, through the art and the heart of her world.
Sitting on her painting stool, she watched the black coat moving over the broad shoulders, flexing as he searched. The thought returned to her mind that he always wore the same style of clothing. Always. Except in her painting.
She tried to imagine him in any other colour but black and couldn’t. But she could still see the man as if he wore nothing underneath. The years of studying forms and shapes did her well.
Her brushes had been magic. They’d moved exactly as they should.
The formal portrait was good. Her best, in fact, except for the other one. The nude was her masterpiece. And she doubted she’d ever be able to recapture the spirit of the painting again. Not that she thought her work would be inferior, or that she wouldn’t paint quite well. But her paintbrush had pulled Andrew’s spirit on to the canvas. A person could look at the nude and see the true form and beauty of the man. Could almost feel his breath in the air. And if a hand reached to touch the oils, the fingertips would be surprised to feel paint instead of warmth.
She’d painted the man beneath the mask. If he saw that...if he realised how she had truly bared him to the world...
The weight of what she had done crashed into her body.
She had to get the painting in her possession and quickly. She didn’t want anyone else seeing it either. Not now. Not for centuries. But her, only her.
And perhaps the painting wasn’t just of him, but had the mists of her feelings for him woven into it.
That portrait was more than art to her. She was certain it would be at Tilly’s mother’s house. Oh, that could be sticky. Tilly would not wish at all to relinquish it, if she’d seen it. But her aunt. Her aunt would. She always could be counted on to do the right thing.
Now that she thought of it, she could not imagine her mother taking it anywhere else. The coach could easily have been her aunt’s.
But if Tilly knew Beatrice was coming for the painting...
‘You understand, the only way to keep the portrait from being seen once it’s discovered is to destroy it. Burn it,’ he said.
Destroy. The word hit her thoughts, but bounced back out again. No.
She had to find it first and not tell him where it was. She could not. She would find it and this time she would lock it away and keep all the keys, or hide it at the back of another painting and secure it. She would let everyone think it had been tossed into a fire.
She would need it for the nights Andrew was not in her life. To burn it would be like removing Andrew and her feelings for him from the world. She had poured her spirit and passion into the art, and she could not lose it. She must keep this tie to him.
‘I’m searching your brother’s house,’ he said. ‘It could be there.’
She took a deep breath. ‘If you return to London tonight, then I will let Mother think you are getting the special licence and, perhaps, I can convince her to drop the blackmail idea.’
She knew Arthur would have alerted her if he’d found it. The painting could not be in that house without the butler knowing. But if Andrew travelled with her to her aunt’s house, he’d find the painting and get rid of it.
‘I’ll start at first light. Do you wish to go with me?’ he asked.
Conscience tore at her, but she swatted it to the ground. She had to let him go in the wrong direction and she couldn’t follow.
‘I will question Mother again in the morning.’ Her hand waved a bit as she talked, misleading in its own way, helping her pretend an unconcern she didn’t have. ‘I will ask the servants about every place she could have gone. Not just what she says, but where she could have secretly gone. We have two days.’
But she would find it at her aunt’s house. She knew that was where her mother had to have taken it.
The portrait was the one link to Andrew she could keep for ever, unless he found it first.
* * *
She’d only meant to doze for a few moments, not even untying her corset. But when Beatrice awoke her eyes opened to harsh light beaming into the room—showing everything with all the softness taken away. Within moments, she’d summoned the carriage, only to learn her mother had left in her coach. Beatrice couldn’t follow quickly because a wheel to her vehicle had apparently decided to leave when her mother did.
By the time Beatrice walked into her aunt’s house, she already suspected the painting would be gone.
Her aunt, ever the opposite of Beatrice’s mother, greeted her niece, arms outstretched, handkerchiefs in both hands, chattering welcome.
As soon as Beatrice could become untangled from the lilac perfume, the questions about the trip and the comments about how lovely she looked, she asked, ‘Did Mother borrow your carriage recently?’
‘Why, yes. She needed a parcel from your home and at the same time wanted us to take a ride though the countryside.’ Then her cheeks flushed. ‘Amazing portrait she retrieved. She insisted I see it. I cannot believe you did that.’ She leaned forward. ‘How delightful it must be to paint. All the lovely hours in a day to work on such a thing.’
‘So where is the painting now?’
‘Your mother returned for it this morning. She took it.’
Beatrice had never known the very air one breathed peacefully one second could choke the next.
She regained her composure. ‘Did Tilly see it?’
The time between the question and the answer couldn’t have been long, but gave her aunt time to glance at the ceiling and at the side, but not at Beatrice. ‘It’s unlikely.’
Pop. Pop. Pop. The little bubbles of hope in Beatrice’s heart vanished. She took a chair. Andrew would never forgive her if the painting became public.
‘You do not have to worry about your mother relinquishing that painting.’ Her aunt patted Beatrice’s hand. ‘She promised she will take excellent care of it. I quite believe her.’
‘And where was Mother going next?’
‘She planned to go to Bath, but at the last moment said she’d changed her mind. I asked her if she was returning home and she said she’d never seen Scotland and might be eloping to Gretna Green with the portrait.’
‘No.’ Her aunt’s eyes twinkled. ‘But wherever she is with that splendour, I’m sure she’ll be happy.’
* * *
Andrew sat at his desk, his pen in his hand. The ink untouched on his desk. Silence. His world had quieted since he’d left Beatrice. But that didn’t stop him from thinking of her bouncing footsteps, brown curling hair and the shriek of her voice when she exclaimed. He absently twirled the pen.
He would find the painting and present it to Beatrice as a gift. It would be the right thing to do. Fawsett would enjoy the task of discovering it and surely it would not take much time.
He used his left hand to pull open the drawer and slide out the paper inside. He looked at the page, feeling a range of emotions. He’d completed a quick sketch of Beatrice, arms open to the sky, standing in a thunderstorm, absorbing the energy.
He’d drawn it because he wanted to be reminded of her and because he needed to be reminded his decision was the proper one. For them to marry would be like trying to put her in the cage of his life. She should fly free and keep her spirit about her. Her mother didn’t understand that. But he did. He’d seen the collapse of a marriage of two people perfectly suited for each other when one gave in to impulse. To have two people of different temperaments joined together, one who could not say no to her whims and the other following his urges by the very act of the wedding, would lead to certain disaster.
The tales that had been reported would be nothing compared to the new ones and Andrew could not see his children grow knowing they would be exposed to the sight of their parents’ lives put about for all to see, yet have that be only a hint of the heartbreak going on in their home.
He’d sent his valet on a mission to the architect’s house and Fawsett had returned, assuring him that no maids had noticed any arrival of a new painting. Because Beatrice’s paintings in her brother’s home were older, they would have noticed the odour of a new addition.
Bursts of sound caught Andrew’s attention and he stilled. A raised voice. Thumps. Thundering steps up the stairs.
He dropped his pen and stood. The butler shouted no.
