Jack stood at the windows, the rush of air from their passage ruffling his heavy locks. His jaw was clenched.
Jenny pressed her hoops in around her and stood as close to him as she dared in public.
Jack didn’t look at her. “They have refused, one last time,” he said, his voice strained. “They will not discuss it any further.”
Jenny felt nothing. It wasn’t even a shock to her.
Jack glanced at her. “Perhaps it is time to speak to Elisa and Vaughn,” he said. “They could write to my father. If I could tell my parents who it is I want to marry—”
“No,” Jenny said quickly, alarm spearing her. “If you tell them about me, they will be even more determined to see you married to Mary. You cannot tell them it is me, Jack. You see that, don’t you?”
Jack rested his fist on the open half of the window. His knuckles were white. “Then…there is one other possibility.”
“Elope?” Jenny said. “Is that what you want, Jack?”
“I want to marry you,” he said heavily. “I don’t care how it is accomplished, as long as you are my wife.”
Her heart hurt with every beat. “The family—”
“They will respect our decision,” he said. “You know they will.”
“And your parents, Jack. What about them?”
“They refuse to compromise. They must suffer the consequences.”
There was an iron note in his voice that made Jenny shiver. “When?” she whispered.
Jack turned to look at her. Fierce joy made his eyes glow. “Cornwall, in October. The village priest in Truro. We can be married and the deed done, then announce it to the family that night.”
“Why not today? Now?” she asked. Why did she feel no delight? Why did everything he say feel as though he was driving a nail into her?
Jack grimaced. “A commission—I’m leaving the train in St. Albans and traveling to northern Wales instead.”
“I see. Then October in Cornwall it must be.”
Jack glanced around, then bent and touched his lips to her. “Thank you, my love.”
October. Jack would force everyone’s hand to meet his promise to her.
She shivered.
Chapter Seven
Present day: The Covent Garden Exhibition Hall, London. February 1867. The same day.
The art exhibition hall was a cavernous building with three rows of windows climbing to the roof. Doves sometimes roosted in the domed ceiling, although there were none there today, for the organizers of the exhibition had paid to have the birds removed. The patrons of the exhibition were among the elite of society and the organizers were attending to every minute detail to please them.
Peter didn’t know many of the people moving between the easels and plinths, examining paintings and statues with serious expressions. Art critics were not usually members of the peerage.
He moved among them, searching for Annalies’ golden head. She was easy to find among a group of people and not just because of her hair. She had a vital glow that radiated from her, pulling one’s attention and demanding their admiration. When Annalies had confided to Peter at ten years of age that she intended to be a famous painter one day, he’d not doubted it. He could even remember her first wobbly attempts at drawing, including a birthday cake and carvings in wet sand on the beach.
When a round of the big building did not find her, nor any of her landscapes on the many easels, Peter picked out the most officious looking person in the room, a rotund man with a great handlebar mustache and full beard. He tapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m looking for Lady Annalies,” Peter told him. “Do you know where I might find her?”
The man looked down his nose. “The Lady Annalies may still be in the kitchen.”
Kitchen?
“Where is that, then?” Peter demanded.
The man jerked his chin toward the back of the room.
Peter didn’t bother to thank him. He pushed through the clumps of art lovers, frowning, murmuring his apologies as he bumped into hoops and brushed sleeves.
He spotted a maid in a white cap emerging from a door at the back of the room, carrying an enormous silver jug. He angled toward the door and pushed it impatiently aside. The room he stepped into had heavy benches and four stoves along the wall.
The kitchen.
Annalies stood next to the last bench before the stoves, her head down, the glorious mane of golden hair bowed. On the bench in front of her lay a jumbled pile of framed paintings.
Peter recognized the landscape on the top. It was of the lighthouse and bay at Innesford.
Annalies looked up. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet with tears. “Peter! Oh, Peter!” She sobbed and covered her mouth to hold in the sound.
Peter rounded the benches and she held out her arms to him. “They don’t want me! They asked me to leave!” She flowed into his arms and put her head on his shoulder.
Peter soothed her with pats and strokes, his mind turning. “They asked you to withdraw?”
Annalies nodded and sniffed.
Dull fury ignited in his gut and chest. “Why?” he ground out.
“I don’t know! They only said I must leave at once.” Annalies gripped his lapel. “What did I do? I don’t understand!”
“I do,” Peter ground out. “Let’s get you home. I’ll explain it on the way.” He looked at the disorderly pile of paintings. “We’ll take your paintings with us, too,” he added. “I don’t trust them enough to leave the paintings here for someone to fetch.”
Annalies stepped away from him. “They would…hurt my paintings?” she breathed. “Who would do something like that?”
“Hypocrites who read too much into newspaper reports,” Peter replied.
Annalies looked bewildered.
“Haven’t you been reading the papers lately? No, of course you haven’t. You’ve been working on the last of the paintings.” He picked up the landscape on top. “You stay here and guard the rest. I’ll find a cab. I’ll be right back.”
He was at the rear entrance door when she spoke behind him.
“Thank you, Peter. Thank you for being here.”
Peter pushed open the door with his shoulder and looked back at her. Annalies stood straight and slender next to the table, determination making her spine straight and tall. Despite her red rimmed eyes and pink nose, she was every inch the lady.
“You’re better than every single soul out there in the hall put together,” Peter told her. “Why would I not be here?”
After he had hailed a cab and the two of them carried the paintings and settled them on the other seat, Peter told the driver to take them to the Williams house on Park Lane.
Annalies wiped the last of her tears with his handkerchief and watched Soho slide past the window, while her paintings rattled and bounced on the other seat.
“We’ll find you another exhibition for your debut,” Peter said.
Annalies smiled. It was her lovely smile, the one devoid of mischief. It always made her eyes glow. “Sir Charles Lock Eastwood controls all the exhibitions in London in a season.”
“And he is…?”
“The Director of the National Gallery,” Annalies replied.
“He doesn’t control private exhibitions,” Peter muttered, his anger flaring all over again. “I’ll pay for the damn thing myself if that is what it takes for the world to see your work.”
Annalies considered him. “You really would do that, wouldn’t you?”
“Injustice irritates me,” he muttered.
“Gallantry has the opposite effect, for me.” The mischief was back in her smile, making her eyes dance.
Peter laughed, his anger deflected. “I feel sorry for the wretch who marries you, Lisa. He will lead a merry life indeed. You bring four seasons of weather into anyone’s day.”
Annalies’ smile faded. “I have no intention of marrying anyone.”
“Have you been writing to Sadie?” Peter asked.
; “As it happens, yes. However, I decided that all by myself.”
“So did Bronwen. Now look at her. Married to royalty and as happy as a daisy.”
Annalies shook her head. “Bronwen was foolish. She let her head be turned by love. Now she is trapped in marriage and at her husband’s bidding for the rest of her life.”
“Ouch,” Peter breathed, wincing.
Annalies turned on the seat to face him, and the yards of blue silk tangled about his knees. “Consider, Peter…I am the daughter of an Earl. Do you really think a suitable husband, any gentleman, would allow me to paint and have my paintings appear in public? How humiliated would he be if my paintings sold and his wife earned money like a commoner?”
Peter smoothed the silk from his knees, unwilling to risk crushing it or soiling it. It was too pretty a color. “You may have a point,” he admitted reluctantly. “The man would need to be broad-minded.”
“Open-minded thinking isn’t common among the peerage,” Annalies replied.
Peter smiled. “It isn’t common among men. We like the way the world is arranged, thank you very much.”
The mischief appeared in her eyes once more. “Only, you don’t like the restrictions any more than I do. Tell me that Aunt Elisa and Uncle Vaughn are not pressuring you to find a wife because Will won’t settle and they want the line secured. Tell me they have said nothing to you about marrying and I will call you a liar.”
Peter cleared his throat and looked out the carriage window.
“Where did you sleep last night, Peter?” Annalies asked, her tone merry.
Peter shifted on the seat.
“I don’t for a moment suppose it was the bed you used the night before,” she teased.
Peter rolled his eyes. “You are far too observant for my comfort…and for the safety of far too many ladies’ reputations.” He couldn’t help smiling himself. “I do hope you don’t chatter about me to anyone else?”
Annalies laughed. “I don’t have to. Do you really believe your indiscretions are hidden to anyone in the family?”
Peter plucked at lint on his sleeve. “If it is only within the family…”
“You know very well it would never move outside the family,” Annalies replied. Then she clutched at his arm, her eyes widening. “You could marry me!”
Peter laughed. “I am the last man your parents would allow you to marry.”
“Think of it, Peter,” she insisted. “You would let me paint. I would let you…have your ways. It would be the perfect arrangement. Mama and Raymond would not object to it. You are a part of the family.”
“You can’t possibly be serious,” Peter replied. He didn’t want to laugh, on the chance that she was serious, even though the comical suggestion was making him shake with good humor. It was always difficult to guess what she was thinking…
“Of course, I am serious,” Annalies replied. Her fingers gripped tighter. “You and I understand each other, Peter.”
The carriage slowed and halted. They had arrived.
Peter made no move to step out of the carriage. He sat, trying to sort through the slew of thoughts and feelings her extraordinary idea had generated. “It wouldn’t work, not the way you are thinking. I am expected to marry to provide an heir, if Will does not. If I married you, then that would not happen, would it? Not if the arrangement was to be mutually beneficial the way you would want it to be.”
“Oh.” Annalies slid along the bench, away from him. She let his arm go. “Then you don’t want to marry me?”
“If I was to marry anyone at all, you would be the first lady I would consider,” Peter said honestly. “Only, we are too much alike, you and I. We want to have it all. We want our freedom to do exactly what we want, while at the same time, we want the approval of our family, because we both know how cold it can be, outside the family.” He touched her fine chin. “You were reminded of that today.” He glanced at the big white house. “I suspect that all of us in the family are going to be reminded of it over the next little while.”
“Doesn’t being alike mean we could make it work?” Annalies asked.
Peter shook his head. “I am too selfish. I want the world to focus upon me. And you, Lisa Grace…you are selfish, too. I mean that in the nicest possible way. You are an artist and your art makes you selfish. You cannot help it. Look at how ignorant you are of the disaster happening on our doorstep.”
The driver opened the carriage door and held it aside.
Peter stirred. “Let’s have Travers and his men cart the paintings inside,” he suggested, keeping his tone light, for Annalies wore an expression that made his gut twist.
“I suppose, then, I will never marry,” she said, then took his hand to step out of the carriage. “I thought it was such a good idea…” she added softly.
Peter ignored the murmur, for uneasiness swirled in his innards. It was simpler not to answer. Then he would not have to deal with the fact that her regret matched his. For a fraction of a heartbeat, he had thought it a good idea, too, before cold good sense restored itself.
* * * * *
Five Years Ago: Fairleigh Manor, Hertfordshire. October 1862.
The week before the family was due to leave for Cornwall and the Gathering, Jenny came across her mother in the ugly little sitting room off the main passage of the house. No one used the room, because it faced north and was always cold. Everyone gravitated to the large dining room, regardless of the hour of the day, because there was a man-sized fireplace that was kept roaring.
The little sitting room had become a place to store embroidery threads and linens and Jenny had gone in search of a spool. She stopped just inside the door, her hand still on the handle, shocked at the sight of her mother bent almost double, despite her corset, her face in her hands and her shoulders shaking.
“Mama…” Jenny shut the door hastily and hurried over to her. “What is wrong? What has happened?” There was a letter on the window seat in front of Elisa. Jenny recognized the handwriting. It was Cian’s strong, bold script. What could Cian possibly say to her mother that would reduce her to such a storm of tears?
Elisa drew a shuddering breath and sat up. Her cheeks were shining with tears and more brimmed in her faded blue eyes. She shook her head. “Oh dear, you mustn’t mind me…” She wiped at her cheeks with her fingers.
Jenny pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and held out it out.
Elisa took it and dabbed at her cheeks. “I came in here where I thought no one would find me. Oh my…” She sighed and straightened her shoulders.
Jenny pushed the letter aside and sat next to her. “Tell me, Mama.”
Elisa picked up the letter. “Cian wrote to confirm the arrival of the train in Truro on Saturday. He has hired the Truro charabanc for the entire week because there will be so many people there this year. Because…oh, Jenny, Sharla will be there!”
Jenny picked up her mother’s hand as Elisa’s eyes filled once more and the tears rolled down her cheeks. Jenny’s chest tightened. “She is coming? Oh, that is good news!” Sharla had not attended a gathering for two years—not since marrying Wakefield. “Why didn’t Sharla write and tell us herself?”
Elisa pressed her lips together and glanced at the closed door. “I am to blame for that,” she admitted, her voice low.
“Mama, no, you cannot be!”
“I am. I challenged her. About her marriage.”
Jenny stared at her mother. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“I didn’t think she loved him,” Elisa said. She brushed at one of the flounces on her skirt, settling it properly.
“No one believed it was a true love match,” Jenny said. “Why would you ask her such a thing?”
Elisa fussed with the lace on the edge of the flounce. “I hoped there might be respect, at least. Some semblance of a relationship.”
Jenny felt her heart squeeze. “You wanted her to be happy…”
Elisa lifted her head. “Of course I wanted her to be happy
. I want all my children to be happy!”
“That is what is making you cry, then?”
Elisa picked up the letter and smoothed the folds. “If Sharla is coming to Cornwall for the gathering and her husband is coming with her, then their relationship is not as empty as I thought it to be. Even if she cannot stand to speak to me yet, there is hope.”
Jenny gripped her hands. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You’re not angry with her for not speaking to you for over two years?”
“Of course I am not angry!” Elisa folded the letter and held it in her hands. “I was unforgivably rude. She was right to snub me, although I had to ask because I am her…well, I love her and I want only good things for her, as I do for you.” Elisa smiled at Jenny, her smile warm and gentle. “I am very proud of her, you see.”
Jenny could find no words to form a suitable response. How could Elisa possibly be proud of Sharla for turning her back upon the family as she had?
Elisa patted her hand. “Sharla was put in an impossible position by her family. She chose to meet her responsibilities and marry as they wished. She is a good woman and I am sure fate will smile upon her for her strength of character.”
Coldness gripped Jenny. It was the same icy lump that had formed in her chest the night Jack had told her about Mary. It was the same hard, hurting mass that had locked her heart, when Jack had told her on the train that his parents would not compromise and that the only choice left was to elope and face the wrath of the family after the deed was done.
“It is good that Sharla chose to be unhappy?” Jenny said, forcing her lips to work properly.
“It is good that she chose the honorable course,” Elisa replied. “It is the harder path, one that many of us have faced.” She smiled, this time sadly. “Women in particular are often confronted by the dilemma. The choice each of us makes says much about our true values. Sharla has demonstrated how worthy she is of esteem. Now, all I can hope for is that she has somehow found happiness in her choice. That is why I cried, you see.”
Jenny drew back from her mother. She felt ill.
The sickness did not dissipate. It stayed with her for the last five days they remained at Fairleigh Manor. The train journey to Truro made it worse. The last time she had stood upon a swaying train was with Jack, when he had proposed they elope. The reminder increased her despair. She felt hot and cold at once and her temples were damp. Her heart would not stop thudding.
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