"In spite of my offer to pose sans clothing, I am not entirely comfortable with this," I said to him over my shoulder. "What if someone should happen along?"
"No one approaching the front of the house can see you here," he said absently, too concerned with the arrangement of his easel, paints, brushes and whatever else he deemed necessary. I had seen this before. It struck me as something of a ritual he performed before starting to paint. It was both intriguing and deadly dull. "Certainly if someone is on a boat in the bay, they might spot you, but unless they are very close, you will be no more than a pale pink blotch."
"How lovely," I murmured. "I have always wanted to be a pale pink blotch."
There was no response, and I realized his muse—that annoying tart—had already claimed him. I sighed and gazed out at the bay, trying very hard to stay still. It seemed the harder I tried, the more I needed to twitch, or shift, or scratch or just move. At last, I could take no more.
"Fletcher?"
"Yes?"
"I should like to take a break. Just for a minute. I'm really quite stiff." I rolled my shoulders. "After all, I've been quite dutifully sitting here for hours."
"Or eighteen minutes."
"Eighteen minutes?" I frowned. "Are you sure? Perhaps your watch has stopped."
"My watch is fine."
"Well, it feels like hours," I muttered. "I told you I bore easily."
Behind me, he heaved a resigned sigh. "Go on, then."
I gathered the blanket around me and rose to my feet. Apparently, my need to move was more in my head than anywhere else. I really wasn't at all stiff, not that I planned to admit it. "May I see what you've done?"
"You may, but you will be disappointed."
"Never." I came around him and studied the canvas. It was a bit disappointing. There was little to see, only a vague charcoal sketch of an even vaguer reclining figure. "You haven't managed much, have you?"
He cast me a withering look.
"Yes, I know—eighteen minutes." I winced. "I shall try to do better."
"I would appreciate that." He paused, then drew a deep breath. "Perhaps I haven't mentioned how important this is to me."
"You did say you wished to add to your body of work." I narrowed my eyes. "Is there more to it than that?"
"A bit more, yes." He ran his hand through his hair, and I realized he was far more concerned than he had let on up till now. "There is an art dealer in Paris who was quite taken with some of my work. He is willing to include five of my paintings in his next gallery showing, providing he likes them."
I was about to protest that I had no desire to have paintings of me at all, let alone without a stitch on, displayed in a gallery in Paris or anywhere. But Fletcher's style was such that I doubt anyone would ever recognize me. "I see."
"That's why I came here so early. This"—he waved broadly at the view beyond the balcony—"inspires me. As do you." He met my gaze, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "I need you, Portia."
I had never been needed before for anything beyond the mundane and ordinary. Oh certainly, I had been needed to manage a household, or needed to arrange a charitable event, or needed to do any number of other things all ladies were expected to do. And I had never been anyone's inspiration.
"Well, then, let's get back to it, shall we?" I kissed him lightly, then returned to my position. It was one thing to pose as a Christmas gift and quite another to do so as the inspiration for the man who had your heart.
And so the days passed, at once endless and all too finite. I found I was quite good at holding one position, when I set my mind to it. I had far more fortitude than I had ever imagined. We rarely spoke while he worked—he was too immersed in his own world, and I was too conscious of interrupting.
In many ways, I wished I had not agreed to assist him. When we were laughing or talking late at night in the parlor, or lying in his bed, it was impossible to think about anything other than that moment. Nor did I wish to. But in the long hours that I posed for him, my mind refused to think of anything but the future.
I knew it would be harder to leave him this year than it had been last year. I knew it with every day, every hour that passed. I knew as well that this world we had created in this enchanted villa would not last forever. And I realized, no matter how much I wanted to, returning here next Christmas would be a mistake. I could not live my life in a sort of limbo from one Christmas to the next. Still, I did not want this, this time, this Christmas, to end.
A few days after the new year, skies had darkened and a steady rain fell. I posed inside, fully clothed, curled up in a chair, my gaze focused on a book I held as if I were reading.
Fletcher had begun a half dozen or so paintings of me. One or two were nearly done, but the rest had nothing more on the canvas than preliminary sketches and dabs of paint. He said he would finish them in Paris.
"I have arranged your travel back to England," Fletcher said in a deceptively casual manner.
I jerked my attention away from the book in my hand. "You did what?"
"Tomorrow," he said. "You leave tomorrow."
"Why on earth would I leave tomorrow?" I stared at him. "I intended to stay as long as you do."
"I realize that, but—"
I drew my brows together. "Are you sending me away?"
"Absolutely not." He stood, crossed to me, took my hands and pulled me to my feet. "I'm leaving the day after tomorrow."
I considered him for a long moment. "The exhibit?"
He nodded, my hands still in his.
"I see." I wanted to offer to be there for him, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. It would be a public acknowledgment of our—my—feelings. I wasn't ready to take a step I could not take back. And no matter how much I felt in my heart that he shared my feelings, he had been no more willing to declare his affection than I. Here, I was intrepid and daring. In the rest of the world, be it Paris or London, I was a coward. I adopted a brisk, no-nonsense tone. "I should start Margaret packing, then."
"Portia."
My heart skipped a beat. Would he ask me to stay with him? Accompany him to Paris? Share his life? "Yes?"
He considered me for a moment, then smiled. "I just wanted to thank you for assisting me in my work."
The most irrational sense of disappointment swept through me. "Think nothing of it, Fletcher. Why, I would do the same for any friend." I smiled and pulled my hands from his. "Now, if you will excuse me . . ." I grabbed my book and took my leave, forcing myself to maintain a sedate pace.
I wanted to flee, run down the hall and fling myself onto my bed and weep. It was absurd, of course. I hadn't wanted him to ask me not to go. To ask me to pledge myself to him. To declare his feelings for me. I wouldn't have known what to say. It would have been horrible and would have destroyed what we shared. Whatever that was.
I used the excuse of preparing to travel to avoid Fletcher for the rest of the day, but I did join him for dinner, a subdued affair with more attention paid to the food than each other. We tried, both of us, to attempt the kind of teasing banter we were so very good at and enjoyed so much, but it was to no avail. There was too much hanging in the air between us. Too much unsaid. Too much I—and, I thought, Fletcher as well—was afraid to say aloud.
And I did join him in his bed, because I couldn't bear not to. A voice in the back of my head kept whispering that this might be the last time I felt his arms around me or his lips on mine or the heat of his body pressed against me. As much as I tried to ignore the heavy feeling of finality, I was unsuccessful. The night was painted with a bittersweet brush. And neither of us slept.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Have you decided which paintings you intend to offer for exhibition?" I asked lightly, in a desperate effort to say anything other than what was truly on my mind. Fletcher and I stood by the open door of the carriage that would take me to Castellammare and beyond, to home. Margaret was already seated inside.
"Not yet." He shook his head. "I suspe
ct I will choose some of the ones of you, if they turn out as well as I think they will."
"I wish you all the best, then." At once it struck me how final my words sounded. As if I were saying farewell forever. Perhaps I was.
"Portia, I have been thinking," he said slowly. I don't know if it was the tone in his voice or the look on his face, but my stomach clenched.
"I thought we had agreed, no good can ever come of that," I said in a teasing manner, belying the dread settling around my heart.
"It never does, does it?" He smiled wryly. "I will not hold you to your promise."
"My promise?" I knew exactly what he meant, but I wanted him to say it.
"Your promise to return next year for Christmas."
"Oh, that promise." I waved off his words as if we were discussing nothing of particular importance, but we were and we both knew it. "We agreed that any number of things could happen to keep me—either of us—away."
"In spite of our pact, while I will be disappointed, I will understand if—for whatever reason—you don't come."
"Goodness, Fletcher, if I don't come, or if you don't come, for that matter, neither of us will ever really know the reason why, will we?" I had intended my words to be flippant, lighthearted, but they carried the weight of truth nonetheless.
"You have me there." He chuckled in an oddly mirthless sort of way.
For a long moment, we stared at each other. There was so much we should say, so much we needed to say, yet neither of us had the courage or the strength or the confidence, perhaps, to say anything of importance. In spite of my doubts and my desires, I would not make a decision here and now about next Christmas. About the rest of my life. Here and now was Fletcher.
Here and now was magic.
At last, I drew a deep breath. "We should be off if we are to make the train to Naples."
"Of course." He nodded and took my hand to assist me into the carriage.
"Fletcher." I paused on the step and looked at him.
"Yes?"
I gazed into his dark eyes and saw my own regret mirrored there. At what could have been, perhaps. Or what might never be. "It was a remarkable Christmas."
He squeezed my hand. "Indeed, it was, Portia. I shall never forget it."
"Nor will I," I said softly, fighting to control emotions that threatened to overcome me. "Safe journeys to you, my dear Fletcher." I released his hand and hurried to take my seat.
"And to you, Portia," he said quietly. He said something else, but the driver shut the door and I didn’t hear it. It didn’t matter, really.
I stared out the window as the carriage pulled away from the Villa Mari Incantati, not daring to look back to see if Fletcher watched as my carriage disappeared in the distance. I was afraid that if I looked back, looked at him, I would never leave. And afraid, as well, that he had not watched me go but had already returned to his life. As I would return to mine. The carriage went around a curve, and the opportunity to look back was lost. Probably for the best.
The farther I got from the villa, from him, the closer I came to home, the more I accepted the fact that this Christmas might well have been our last. After all, I was not the kind of woman to carry on a secret affair with her artist lover year after year on the coast of Italy. At least, I never had been. But the Portia who lied about her real name and posed nude on a balcony overlooking the sea with a volcano rising in the distance had little in common with the very proper Lady Redwell who had very nearly always done exactly what was expected.
I was almost home when I accepted that I'd had my adventure and it was past time to move forward. I certainly couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life counting the days between one Christmas and the next. It might have been different if Fletcher had declared I was his one true love and he couldn't live another day without me. Or if I had said something of my feelings and what I wanted, but that was the problem. I didn’t know what I wanted. And what I was willing to sacrifice for it. I resolved to put him firmly out of my head. And ignored the distinct crack somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.
I had thought I was not the kind of woman to disregard everything she believed about what one was and was not expected to do in life simply because she fell in love. That I did not have the kind of courage it took to abandon everything for love.
But I'd never been tested.
He had never asked.
PART FOUR
1887 England
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fletcher Jamison would not let me rest, no matter how hard I tried to push all thoughts of him out of my head.
The man haunted my dreams and hovered constantly on the fringes of my waking thoughts with his wicked, dark eyes and his infectious laughter. Blasted, inconsiderate, selfish beast that he was. Certainly a rational observer might argue that he had done nothing whatsoever to warrant such a title. Although an equally rational observer, a female observer perhaps, would point out that the very fact that he had done nothing was exactly the problem. He had not stopped me from leaving. He had not asked me to join him in Paris. He had not declared his undying love. No, he had done nothing beyond waving farewell, and as I had not looked back at the villa, that was no more than an assumption on my part. That I had no idea how I would have responded to any of those things he had not done was beside the point.
I'd thought, when I returned to England, I could put him behind me. As one might place a souvenir of travel on a shelf and then forget about it. It was proving to be more difficult than I had expected. Frankly, it was affecting my life in ways I had not imagined. Why, I was hard-pressed to maintain my usual pleasant nature. Which might well explain why neither Julia nor Veronica inquired as to what had had happened at Christmas. Obviously, there was something in my demeanor that told them without words that Christmas was not a subject I wished to speak of. Something that indicated it had not gone well.
Which was absurd, of course. My stay at the villa had been nothing short of magical.
By the end of January, I assumed I simply had not had enough time to fully put all thoughts of Fletcher aside. I decided I needed something else to occupy my mind. I turned in earnest to the study of French. My French was no more than adequate, and as I was well on my way to the conquering of Italian, it seemed rather clever to turn my attention toward French as well. I wasn’t sure why.
In February, I reluctantly attended a Valentine's Day ball. As did nearly everyone I knew, including my aunt and no less than four prospective husbands. I was not inclined to look favorably upon men in February. I feared they noticed. My attitude did not change significantly in March. Especially when Margaret confessed she had left a pair of my gloves at the villa and perhaps it would provide an excuse for someone to return them. I was concerned about Margaret. She had become almost pleasant, and she hummed a great deal.
In April, I considered a trip to Paris. Not to seek out Fletcher, of course, but it had been some time since I had paid Mr. Worth a visit, and my wardrobe was sadly out of fashion. I had told neither Veronica nor Julia about Fletcher's move to France. They certainly would have advised me against going for that reason alone. One never knew who one might bump into on the street. Even so, Veronica, who was always inclined to travel, especially to spend exorbitant amounts of money, pointed out it was entirely too late in the season to commission a new wardrobe, my current wardrobe was not the least bit dated, and most important, leaving now meant I would miss a fair number of events leading up to this summer's celebration of Her Majesty's Golden Jubilee, including our own next month. It did not help to know that she was right.
Everyone who was anyone had some sort of gathering in honor of the queen. Parties had begun in earnest with the warmer weather and continued to grow in frequency—and extravagance—the closer we came to the official celebration in June. Veronica, Julia and I joined in hosting a small ball at the Explorers Club. Her Majesty was expected to make an appearance, but one never knew if she actually would. I would have wagered against it.
Th
e evening, however, was very nearly perfect. Spring was at its height. Flowers bloomed uncontrollably everywhere one looked. The day had been mild and sunny, the night was cool but not uncomfortably so. And I, for the first time in a long time, felt rather like my old self.
"You look lovely tonight, my dear Portia." Cousin Sebastian took my hand.
I narrowed my eyes. "Did Veronica tell you to say that?"
He looked genuinely surprised. "My wife tells me to do many things, but she did not prompt this particular comment. Nor did she need to." He studied me for a moment. "You look . . . like spring, I think."
I laughed. "What a perfectly charming thing to say, Sebastian, even if it makes no sense. I'm not quite sure what spring looks like."
"It looks like a new beginning," a familiar voice said behind me. "A fresh start, if you will."
Sebastian's gaze shifted from me to the owner of the voice, then back, and he grinned. "And I believe my wife is looking for me. So if you will excuse me. Portia. Lindsey." He nodded and took his leave.
"I wasn't sure I would ever see you again."
I smiled and turned. "Goodness, Thomas, I am where I always am."
"Your cousin is right." Admiration shone in his blue eyes. "You look well."
"Thank you, Thomas, as do you." He did indeed look well. Healthy and fit, with a cast of color in his face as if he had spent time in sunnier climes. "Have you been traveling?"
"I am very nearly always traveling these days." He paused. "I am glad we happened into one another."
I tilted my head and considered him. "You would have been hard-pressed to miss me here. I am one of the hostesses tonight."
"Yes, of course. I knew that." I don't believe I'd ever seen him uncomfortable before, yet it was obvious that he was. He grimaced. "I believe I owe you an apology."
Same Time, Next Christmas Page 18
