by Bryn Donovan
“Of course I shall still have it.” Genevieve felt a flutter of nervousness in her stomach at the thought of it. She counted on the money to pay some long-overdue bills. And it was her cousin Cage, not she, who procured the commission.
But she’d explain the circumstances to Mr. Valerio. He could never claim not to like her work. He already owned another of Genevieve’s paintings, although he didn’t know she was the artist. By all accounts, Mr. Valerio was a connoisseur, a forward thinker. He might even be amused to learn that he was the patron of a female artist.
Still, after Genevieve said good-bye to her friend and continued to the rail station, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d done the right thing in ending her agreement with Cage.
Maybe her passions led her into making a terrible mistake.
Lord knew it wouldn’t be the first time.
****
Two days later, Genevieve sat at the little writing-desk in her dining room, reading a letter from her father.
Augustus Bell was not only a lawyer but an enthusiastic Unitarian and social reformer. For almost a month now, he’d traveled in the United States, invited by some American anti-slavery leaders with whom he had a regular correspondence. Most of the letter described the abolition meetings he’d attended in Boston. He made some inquiries about Genevieve’s younger sister Christine, who was comfortably married and raising two sons in Bath.
He also touched on the issue of her yearly allowance from him. When Genevieve’s father first got the idea to go to America, he hadn’t been certain he could afford it. Knowing how badly he wanted to go, Genevieve convinced him to reduce the amount of money he gave her that year. She couldn’t help but regret that now.
Her father wrote: I know it’s not much, and indeed I wonder how you manage. But you have always been very clever, and no doubt that helps you to be thrifty.
Genevieve smiled ruefully. How lucky she was to have an understanding father. Many parents would have disowned a daughter who shamed herself in a short-lived affair.
Genevieve was not an extravagant woman, but neither was she as frugal as she ought to be. Not even her kind-hearted father knew that for three years now she’d supplemented her income with the paintings her cousin sold as his own.
Genevieve sighed and got up to clear the breakfast dishes from the table. She had a maid, Flory, who also did the cooking, but one person was hardly enough to manage all the work. At the moment, Flory was busy building the fire in the adjoining drawing-room, after she’d cleaned out the grate.
A real lady wouldn’t have done any cleaning, but a real lady could afford more help. Genevieve didn’t have the least pretension of being a lady, and it didn’t bother her to do some chores herself. Now and again, she got a good idea for a painting while making her bed or dusting the furniture. And when in a bad mood, she found it quite satisfying to beat a rug.
She carried the teacup, teapot, plate and silverware down to the basement kitchen. The white china was monogrammed with her mother’s initials. Genevieve’s sister Christine hadn’t wanted the china when she married: a few of the pieces were chipped, and Christine had understandably wanted her plates monogrammed with her own initials. Genevieve was happy to have the dishes. She liked the reminder of her mother, who died of influenza when Genevieve had been fourteen.
As she came back up the narrow stairs, she thought she heard someone knocking on the door. Immediately she dismissed it: it must be Flory, banging around at the hearth. Very few people visited her cottage in the country, and no one dropped by unannounced.
Flory met her at the top of the stairs.
The maid’s white cap was askew on her curly dark hair liberally peppered with gray. Her brown eyes were wide, and her raised eyebrows emphasized the lines in her forehead. “Miss Bell,” she said in a loud whisper, “there’s a gentleman here to see you.”
“A gentleman? What, do you mean Mr. Visser?”
She’d wondered if her cousin would show up, pleading for a reconciliation. Maybe he’d even give in on the matter of the fifteen pounds. If he did, Genevieve might give him another chance. Despite her brave words to Ruth, the truth was a part of her would be relieved if Cage made amends.
“No, a real gentleman. Of quality.”
What in the world would a gentleman want here? A friend of her father’s, perhaps?
She pushed her hair away from her face as she crossed the dining room and into the little drawing-room.
A man stood, hat in hand. A gentleman of quality indeed.
Genevieve blinked at his proper attire. Excepting her father, most of the men she knew were also painters, and they didn’t tend to dress well. This man looked as though he might be calling at a grand old country estate instead of her cottage.
Not only did the fine clothing astonish her, but the man himself.
The keen alertness of his dark-eyed gaze and the clean, perfect lines of his face made her imagine him as a classical hero in a painting. As she approached him, he nodded courteously.
She felt awkward. Her hair was undressed and tumbled down her back. As usual, she wore a loose gown of her own creation. A style she liked and found convenient, but no doubt looked odd to him, this stranger.
“Miss Bell.” He favored her with a slight bow.
“Yes.”
“Thank you so much for receiving me, Madam. My name is William Creighton. I saw you at the Sambourne Gallery the other night.”
Genevieve scrutinized him. He was older than her, perhaps by five years or more. Though his face was unlined, the set of his mouth and his straight dark brows suggested hard-won insight and self-possession. With his pronounced cheekbones, she might have thought him thin if not for the broad bulk of his shoulders.
He glanced around the room. Her mantel boasted only a handsome but ordinary clock and a pair of silver candlesticks, her grandmother’s. No doubt he’d never been in such an austere parlor, but he seemed at ease. His self-confidence reminded Genevieve to be wary.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I don’t recall meeting you.”
She was quite certain that she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have forgotten him.
“No—you didn’t. I took the liberty of inquiring after you.”
“Liberty” indeed. Men were not supposed to visit unmarried women without proper introductions. But as she didn’t have an inordinate amount of respect for society’s rules, she found herself more intrigued than offended. This handsome gentleman made inquiries about her. But what sorts of inquiries?
Did she imagine the hunger in his gaze as it traveled down her form? Or the intensity with which his eyes met hers again?
But of course she imagined it. She wasn’t used to being in exalted company, and it made her foolish. A man like him could never take a romantic interest in a bohemian spinster.
“Perhaps the gentleman would like some tea,” Flory murmured.
Genevieve grew flustered. “Yes, I—would you, Mr.—”
“Creighton. Yes, thank you.”
Genevieve regained her composure as the maid pattered off. “Do sit down,” she said, taking a seat herself. What was the matter with her, that a surprise visit from a man made her light-headed? Heaven knew she was too old for such girlish idiocy.
She’d have hoped she was also too wise.
“I shall speak directly to the point,” her visitor said. He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.
Genevieve was acutely aware of the shortening distance between them. As correct and formal as his manner was, she sensed something behind it, a barely contained force. Her breath shook. He nearly frightened her.
“I apologize for having paid such an unexpected visit, but I have a proposal that I believe might be beneficial to both of us.”
“Indeed?” This became stranger by the moment.
“Yes.” His intelligent brown eyes held hers in his gaze. “I understand that your—arrangement with Micajah Visser is at an end. Am I correct?”
Genevi
eve swallowed. She’d been sure that very few people knew of the arrangement to begin with, let alone its dissolution the other night. How the gossip flew in the art world! And who was this gentleman, that he’d already gotten wind of it? Clearly, he was an art lover himself.
Perhaps he wished to commission something! Her friend Percy Wentworth had told her it was fashionable for these young men to buy a new painting or two, to mix in with the ones they inherited from their fathers.
“That is true. Mr. Visser and I no longer have an agreement. I find myself an independent woman again.”
When he did not reply, she added, “I hope you will not think too ill of me, now that you know my secret.” What she and Cage did was hardly honest, after all. “It can be very difficult for a woman—”
“No need to explain,” he said quickly. “I would never judge. Indeed, I am in no position to judge...” He broke off as Flory entered with the tea-tray.
The maid’s hand wobbled as she handed the cup to the gentleman. He reached both hands up to steady the saucer.
“Oh, dear—your hand,” Genevieve blurted out. “Whatever happened to it?”
As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she regretted them. “I beg your pardon—I should not have mentioned it,” she said, even as the man opened his mouth to reply. She took the teacup from Flory’s tray. “So rude of me. You must tire of people asking about it.”
“No. No one asks about it.” He looked surprised, but not angry. That was some relief, at least. She’d never aspired to much in the way of social niceties, but she didn’t wish to cause anyone real discomfort.
Or he was uncomfortable, even offended, and too much of a gentleman to say so? Ashamed at her tactlessness, Genevieve stared down at her tea.
“Truly, you needn’t trouble yourself.” The straightforward tone of his voice encouraged her to meet his eyes again. “It happened in the war. Frostbite.”
“You were in Crimea?”
Terrible images flickered through her brain: men dying of cholera, the bodies of the cavalry soldiers slaughtered in the Light Brigade. “Good gracious, how you must have suffered!”
“You know something about it?”
“I read all of Mr. Russell’s stories in the Times. As everyone else did, I imagine.”
“I do not believe everyone read them.”
“But I’m certain they must have.”
His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “I daresay that many people of my acquaintance find the Society pages more entertaining.”
Genevieve gave an unladylike snort of disapproval. “I have never found them to be so.”
“I suppose that for someone in your—profession, exclusive balls and parties are not of much interest.”
“Exactly.” The man understood her, it seemed. “Well, what I read about the war was terrible. And I should guess the papers didn’t tell the half of it.”
“I suspect you are correct.”
Her blood warmed again, thinking of what she read. Mysterious as her visitor was, every instinct told her that he was decent and honorable. The idea of his being in the midst of such horrors made her heart ache. “It was shocking, the way you were treated...not enough food, not enough blankets. It made me ashamed of England. You deserved so much better.”
Mr. Creighton looked away, an odd expression on his face.
Oh, dear, perhaps she’d made him uncomfortable by her display of emotion. Or even worse, maybe she offended his patriotism.
“But then, I don’t know anything about it,” she said by way of retreat. “I suppose I don’t need to bore you with my opinions.”
“No. I appreciate hearing them.” He cleared his throat. When he turned back to her, the look in his eyes was unguarded, as though he’d allow her to see deep inside him, if she wanted to. “I appreciate it very much.”
Genevieve didn’t know what to say. Briefly, she imagined getting up and throwing her arms around him.
Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She must stop staring at him.
“Perhaps we should return to discussing my proposition.” His voice sounded controlled again. “My understanding is that you gave Mr. Visser...lessons, of a sort.”
“Yes, I did.” Again she was surprised by what this gentleman knew. Her mind turned to the subject of painting. “I do not say he was hopeless before I instructed him...but his technique did leave something to be desired.”
“Indeed.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You are very candid with your assessments, Miss Bell.”
“I don’t mean to be too hard on him.” Her visitor probably knew that Cage was respected in the art world, and she didn’t want to sound harsh. “Before long, he became very proficient.”
“Well—that’s good then. Anyway, as I was saying, since I’ve been away for two years, you can imagine that I might want to enjoy myself.”
“Absolutely.”
“And since your services are not otherwise engaged at the moment...” The amused spark in his eyes both attracted and confounded her. “I was thinking I might induce you to give some lessons to me.”
“Of course!” Genevieve warmed with delight. The idea of teaching this handsome, intelligent man how to paint...? She would have done it for free! Well, she wouldn’t offer that, of course, but it was true. “I had no idea you would be interested in that.”
“No?”
“Truly, you quite surprise me.” Perhaps this was why she felt so inexplicably drawn to the man. He might have an artistic temperament, similar to her own.
“So,” she asked, “are you a complete novice?”
“No,” he said, with some emphasis. “Though as you can surmise, it has been rather a while.”
“Of course. Well, no matter. Some of it will come back to you, I’m sure.”
“I have no doubt of that,” he said wryly.
“And I am confident I can teach you much more than you ever knew.”
“I hope that you can.”
Why was he looking at her so intently again? He really did seem passionate about art.
“I should explain that this will not be a permanent arrangement,” he told her. “At some point, I shall get married. And I will not continue at this after I’m a married man. But I find that I do not intend to marry just yet. For the present time, I just want to enjoy myself.”
“I see,” Genevieve said, a little disappointed. He was not truly serious about painting, but only a dilettante, it seemed. And the thought of him marrying, even far in the future, was somehow a melancholy one.
“Ah, well,” she said. “I suppose there might be some wives who would think it improper for me to instruct you.”
“Yes.” Just the trace of a dimple showed in his cheek, which Genevieve found charming. “I believe there are many wives who would think that.”
He leaned forward again. “And I suppose this goes without saying, but I would want this to be a completely private affair. I would need assurance of your utmost discretion.”
“Oh.” A little strange. Then again, many people felt shy about trying to create. Maybe he feared that others would demand to see his work, and then mock his beginning attempts. Certainly he should be able to work on his painting without everyone else prying into his business.
“I care about no man’s opinion, but I have a younger sister who is quite innocent. I would not like her to hear of it.”
Was it so scandalous for a woman to teach a man how to paint? She supposed that in his world, it was. “I certainly won’t discuss it with anyone—and my maid is absolutely discreet. And of course there aren’t many people to take notice, out here in the country.” That made her think of something. “You will come out here, won’t you? I suppose I could come to London...or wherever it is you live...”
“I do live in London, for now.”
“Yes. Well, I could come there, but it wouldn’t be nearly as private,” she said.
“That is precisely what I was thinking, Miss Bell.”
“Besides, I
already have everything set up perfectly here.” Genevieve didn’t relish the idea of lugging canvasses and brushes on the train to some gentleman’s quarters.
“I see.” Mr. Creighton looked bemused.
“Well, perhaps we should discuss times, and fees, and so forth.”
“Fees?” For some reason Genevieve could not guess, he seemed to find her choice of words surprising. He really was a strange man, though she liked him.
“Well, then,” he said. “This is what I propose. We can meet once a week, on whatever evening is convenient for you. I can give you thirty pounds this week to begin, and then thirty pounds at the beginning of every month.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Surely he didn’t mean to pay her that much for such a small amount of work?
“Very well, forty,” he said. “Is that agreeable to you?”
Good heavens! The man had just tripled her regular income!
“That is certainly agreeable—most generous of you, I’m sure,” she managed to stammer.
“Excellent. My banker will send you the money directly. Which evening would you prefer?”
“Whatever evening is good for you, Mr. Creighton,” she replied, a little breathlessly.
They settled on Tuesdays, seven o’clock. “I do thank you,” she said as she showed him to the door. “I can assure you that you won’t be disappointed in my instruction. If you’ll pardon me for saying it myself, I am quite a good artist.”
“Artist?” he repeated, looking momentarily confused. His puzzlement confused her too.
Then he gave a slight smile. “Oh, yes—I’m sure you are. Quite proficient in the art of love—I have no doubt.” He inclined his head toward her, then turned away and opened the door. “Until Tuesday night.”
The very breath stopped in her lungs.
The art of love?
Surely he didn’t think...
He did. He hadn’t been talking about art lessons at all.
What had she done to deserve such an insult?
True, she wasn’t an untouched virgin. But that didn’t mean that she was a piece of property, either, to be purchased and used by any gentleman who had the inclination to do so.
