by Sean Russell
“My employer also needs to know where Skye is now.”
Sir John nodded, not at all sure he could find him.
Bryce showed no acknowledgment, but reached into his coat and removed an envelope. “There is a venture you will find interesting, Sir John. A short canal to join the Singe and the Trent Rivers, undertaken by reliable men. All the details are here.” He handed the envelope to Sir John, who took it quickly. Mr. Bryce actually smiled at him. “In a few months your debts will be discharged, Sir John. I think you can indulge in a manservant now. Next year you shall have a carriage, the year after a larger home. You have been following your budget assiduously, I trust?”
“To the letter . . . or number in this case.” And I have not been out to gamble, not once. Bryce had been right; the desire had faded. Even though he had failed to master it for more decades than he cared to count, it had disappeared. And even more remarkable, his debt, which he had previously thought insurmountable, was nearly paid.
Bryce did not even bother to smile politely at this weak jest. “It is a profitable arrangement, is it not?”
Sir John nodded.
Bryce rose, “I shall let you get on with your valuable work, Sir John. No, please, I will let myself out.”
But who is his employer? Sir John asked himself.
Sir John went to the window, though he hung back a little so that he would not be seen. Bryce emerged onto the street below, into the light of the still glowing street-lamps and the pale luminescence of approaching dawn. There was no carriage waiting, not even a hired hack. Mr. Bryce crossed the street with a determined air, like a man on his way to an appointment, and just as he stepped up onto the curb, he stopped, and looked directly up at Sir John, and nodded.
Involuntarily Sir John stepped back from the window. Surely he could not have actually seen me up here, he thought. Surprisingly unnerved, he sat down heavily in a chair.
How could he have known I watched?
Six
She hated confessions. She did not care to listen to other people bare their souls, and she cared even less to hear her own voice speaking in that pathetic, too-intimate tone. Yet here she was, standing before the fire, the portrait of her late husband staring down upon her sternly—though he had never, in real life, turned such a look upon her—and she was revealing things that embarrassed her deeply. Confessing things she would much rather keep to herself, and she did not know why. And to Marianne Edden, of all people!
“I thought he showed signs of interest,” Lady Chilton said, annoyed by the meek little voice that escaped her lips.
Silence. A blessed moment of silence. Perhaps she had finished. May Farrelle help her retain some dignity.
“I am impressed. You seem to have found the one man in all of Farrland who is immune to your charms,” Marianne said dryly, rather unaffected by the countess’ plight. “But you rate genius rather too high, I think. I myself know several men of undeniable brilliance, and I must tell you that I think them the greatest bores in the nation. I would as soon hear a mother talk of her children than listen to these ‘men of brilliance.’ There is no one so self-absorbed as a man convinced of his own lofty intellect—a condition that far too many suffer from, I must say. But if he is the only man among the hordes who are smitten with you, well. . . .”
“All right, Marianne, I will stop feeling sorry for myself. You have made your point.” The countess shook her head. There was no room for melodrama around Marianne Edden. She was a novelist and had the novelist’s eye for such things.
And then the countess found herself speaking again. “The most humiliating part,” she said, unable to stop, “was that I attended the marchioness’ evening only in hopes that I might see him. I went to a brothel because I had dropped a hint that I would be there, and he did not even bother to show his face! A brothel! And what did I hear people discussing but his latest passion, and she’s hardly more than a child. . . .” She put a hand on the mantle and leaned against it. There, it was out. Perhaps now she could stop.
“Is that not like a man?! A beautiful and accomplished woman pursues him, and he chases after a doll. Now there is genius for you! A genius at making a perfect ass of himself!”
The countess did not answer. Oh, it was good to hear Marianne offering her support, but it had little effect on how she was feeling. Shake yourself out of this, she thought. You of all people should not complain because you are not being madly pursued by a gentleman. The thought caused a different feeling of distress. There was a madness that whirled around her, and had for many years, and she could not control it except by staying out of society, which she could not do entirely. She could not hide herself away.
The countess was a widow, it was true, but she was still young. Certainly she could not be condemned to living out her life alone, or worse, with a partner who was only vaguely satisfying. Men pursued her with a kind of ferocity that other woman almost never experienced; surely one of these countless men would be the match she sought. The wall against loneliness.
“When will you show me these paintings he is so interested in?” Marianne asked.
The countess felt a tiny shudder at the mention of the paintings. “I will have them removed from their cases for the gentleman who is to authenticate them. What was his name?”
“Kent. Averil Kent.”
“Yes. So you might see them this afternoon, if you like.”
“This day I shall be otherwise engaged, but I should like to see them at some point. What is Skye’s fascination with them, do you think? Have you ever found out? He hardly seems the kind of man to be interested in things mystic.”
The countess ran her hand along the mantlepiece and looked up at the portrait of her late husband—even with his disapproving look, she found more comfort in this painting than in the pieces by Pelier.
“So one would think. I don’t really know what it is about Pelier that so fascinates him. He is not an open man, Skye.” She shook her head, thinking that she meant that he was not emotionally open, for about most subjects he would happily speak at length—but about his interest in the Peliers he was very close. She suspected that, about this one thing, he was embarrassed.
“There is something more to his interest than mere art. Perhaps now that I have them in my possession, I will discover what it is that so intrigues him.”
“Perhaps, though I fear you will not tell me,” Marianne said. “You are rather unfair, I must say. I share all my gossip with you, and it is not just gossip but gossip of the very first rank, and you . . . well, you are positively discreet.” She said the word with impressive disdain. “Hardly ladylike. You are only supposed to be discreet in the company of others—not with your dearest friends, of which I presume I am one.”
“You most definitely are, Marianne, but I have so little to tell you. It is terribly unfair, I agree, but do I not introduce you to everyone you could ever want to meet? Do you not gather reams of material for your novels from the people you meet through me? There is some return, I think.”
Marianne nodded a little reluctantly. “I suppose I cannot deny that entirely.” She looked up at the clock on the mantlepiece. “I fear I must be going. My public awaits me.”
The two women said their good-byes, and the countess was left alone. She settled herself in the chair so recently vacated by Marianne and stared at a still life across the room. It was hardly a remarkable work, merely competent, but it soothed her all the same. The Peliers, on the other hand, she found unsettling, to say the least. There was something about them. . . . Like looking at another’s dreams—or nightmares perhaps. Not that they were horrific, just disturbing and oddly unreal. They seemed more the result of delirium—the fever dream—than of a normal imagination.
Why was Skye so fascinated by them? It was almost unseemly that an empiricist would be so captivated by a man like Pelier, who was said to paint “visions,” some of which la
ter, it was claimed, came true.
“Foolishness,” she said aloud. Yet Skye was hardly foolish. Oh, he was a little vain, and took too much pleasure from his great reputation, but he was not foolish—not yet at any rate.
The countess was surprised not to have heard from the earl. She had sent him a note as soon as the paintings had arrived the previous afternoon and had expected a reply almost immediately. He might not be in thrall to the Countess of Chilton, as so many others were, but she expected the Peliers would bring him at a run.
Very odd.
Why does he not care for me? she wondered. Why, when so many others are driven to foolishness? The mere thought disturbed her. Two men had dueled over her recently. She turned red with embarrassment and distress. Dueled over her, and she had never met either of them! Strangers. . . . And one had been wounded fairly seriously. What if he’d been killed? Did they never think of her? How would she live with that?
I will be driven to hiding myself away, she thought. But not yet. I need to be sure that there is not the least chance of interesting Skye. Not the least chance.
* * *
* * *
Kent sat in the parlor, waiting as patiently as a man could to meet the most beautiful woman in Farrland, and very likely beyond. He sat in a chair across the room from a looking glass, staring at the poor, anxious wretch who looked back at him so guardedly.
Take hold of yourself, man, he chided himself. It’s not as bad as you think.
His head knew this to be true; after all, Kent was something of a favorite of the ladies of Avonel. Oh, he knew he was not an outstandingly handsome man, but he had his good qualities. He gazed at the man in the looking glass and willed him to appear more at his ease.
That’s better, he thought. Yes, sit up as though you were vital and confident—no matter what the truth might be at the moment.
No, he was not so difficult to look at. His brow was high and smooth, his eyebrows well formed. If he were looking at his ideal portrait, he would certainly repaint the nose if he had the chance, for it was a bit larger than he would like. And his chin could be a bit more in proportion—not quite so strong. His eyes, of course, were very fine—a grayish blue that changed with the light. He’d worn a blue frock coat that brought out the color of his eyes. He had always known how to dress—had even become something of trend setter this last while. Yes, the man sitting across from him would do. Many a woman would be happy with less. Oh, taller. He would like to be a bit taller, but he wasn’t short by any means, and his form was perfectly acceptable. No, many a lovely woman had settled for men no easier to look at. Even the countess’ first husband was said to have been a rather ordinary man, in the physical sense.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside and he rose in anticipation, his mouth a bit dry, but the sound passed on and faded, leaving Kent feeling a disturbing sense of loss. He was so unsettled that he went to the mantlepiece to examine a miniature portrait, as though he would hide the fact that he had risen nervously in expectation, only to have no one arrive. But no one is watching, he told himself. Still, he felt he had looked foolish.
He hardly registered the subject of the portrait; a man like many another. His mind was on the woman. Kent had seen the countess on more than one occasion—his recent success had brought him entrance to such circles—but he had never actually been introduced. Which meant that in many ways he was still on the outside. Yet, here he was, invited to the countess’ Avonel home, even if it was in a professional capacity.
He dearly hoped that the countess would buy one of his paintings. It would set the rest of the aristocracy scrambling to follow suit, and would send the prices up. This thought produced a bit of anxiety. But not as much as the idea that the countess would take a disliking to him. That was his great fear. Not only would it likely ruin his career, but such a humiliation was not to be recovered from. He would be forced to leave the country.
I do not expect her to fall into my arms at first sight, he told himself. I’m not such a fool as that. But if she could find my conversation pleasant, and be at least a little charmed by my wit. . . . If I could enter her circle—even its outer rings—so that she would invite me to her home on occasion and acknowledge me at the theater, then I would feel at least that I am not a complete buffoon.
Kent knew a little about the countess, as did almost everyone in Farrland. She was said to be very bright, easily bored, literate, artistic, aloof in her manner. The men who managed invitations to her famous salons were all of the first rank, known for their personal charm and sophistication. Mere physical beauty did not qualify one for invitations to the home of the countess—a woman renowned for physical beauty. Nor did a title seem to much impress her, for several of her favorites were not of particularly notable families.
I am almost there, Kent told himself. Recently his paintings of nature had gained him entrance to the Empiricist Society—an achievement of which he was justifiably proud. And his landscapes would soon have him made a Fellow of the Royal Society for the Arts. Averil Kent, F.E.S., F.R.S.A.
By accomplishments alone he was almost ready to step into the countess’ world. But accomplishments were not enough. The countess must meet him and judge him worthy.
“My late husband, the Earl of Chilton,” a woman said in a voice so warm and full of color that it melted into Kent’s very heart. He turned to find the countess standing just inside the door. “Or perhaps you were more interested in the artist? Montpelier, I believe.”
Kent bowed a bit awkwardly, unsettled by her sudden appearance. “It is a lovely little piece, Lady Chilton,” he managed. “Lord Chilton was a striking man.”
“Do you think so?” she said, a very slightly mocking smile appearing on her lovely mouth.
Kent nodded. What was it about her? Why did she drive men to utter foolishness? He fought the urge to stare.
“I never really thought of him as striking, not even as handsome. But he was kind beyond measure, and deft in politics, and fair, and considerate. And he seized life like no other. Though his life was cut short, I am sure Lord Chilton lived more than many whose spans tripled his own.” She looked over at the small painting in its silver frame with a look of great affection and some sadness.
The countess held out her hand suddenly. “And you are Mr. Kent, I take it.”
“Averil Kent, Lady Chilton. Your servant.” Kent touched his lips to the offered hand, and realized as he did so that he blushed, though the countess gave no indication that she noticed.
She gestured to a chair and Kent gladly sat while tea was called for.
It struck Kent that the countess did not possess the ideal feminine figure, for in truth she was too tall and slim. Almost willowy, he thought. Too girlish and not womanly enough, and this surprised him, for no one would hear the slightest suggestion that she was less than perfect. Her dark hair, nearly black, was perhaps perfect, for it was thick and fell in lustrous curls about her heart-shaped face.
With his painter’s eye Kent quickly noted her features. Large blue eyes set too wide apart and slightly elongated, which was unusual and gave her face an exotic appearance. He realized that there was a mole hidden in her right eyebrow, though no one would likely notice. Her lips were full and complemented the shape of her eyes. Kent thought the structure of her face very fine. Unquestionably she was a beautiful woman but not really so striking as to cause the furor that she did.
And if that were true, why was he responding as he did? He hadn’t felt so nervous since he had first begun to court. It was her voice, he realized. It was so rich with color—he could almost see it. A palette of the most vibrant hues. When she spoke, her voice penetrated into his very center and something there began to vibrate as though in harmonic empathy. When she spoke, he wanted to close his eyes and just feel the effect, as though he were being caressed.
“My friend, the Marchioness of Wicklow, has a very fine landscape
you did of the Whye Valley, Mr. Kent. I admire it greatly. Have you done others?”
“Of the valley?” he said, almost unable to hear the words for the warmth of her tone.
“No, landscapes.”
“Ah. Yes,” he said trying to pull himself together. “The countryside has been my principal subject these past few years, though the natural world has also drawn my attention.”
She smiled. Kent got the distinct impression that he was talking to a woman who was unhappy. Something about her features—slightly frozen—as though she were tired of keeping up the facade. “And this is what gained you entrance to the Empiricist Society?”
Kent nodded. “I’m surprised Lady Chilton would know.”
“You are thought to be an artist with a considerable future, Mr. Kent. And I am an admirer of the arts and a friend to the artist.”
Kent felt a slight shiver as she said this, as though she had inferred that she admired him. Tea arrived, interrupting the conversation and giving Kent a chance to try to collect himself. He hoped his blush had disappeared, though his face felt warm yet.
“I’m given to understand, Mr. Kent, that you are an expert on Pelier.”
“I must say, in all modesty, Lady Chilton, that this is precisely true.”
She laughed, which he found gratifying. “But I think you are being too humble, sir.” She gestured with her teacup to the doors behind Kent.
“Would you be so kind as to give me your opinion of these pieces?” She rose, taking up her cup and saucer, and led Kent through the adjoining chamber and then into the room beyond. He thought she walked a little stiffly, as though undertaking some task she found distasteful.
The paintings were not hanging but resting on a side table and leaning against the wall. Though Kent had a longstanding interest in Pelier and his work, he realized that focusing his mind on anything other than the countess at that moment would take an act of extreme will. For her part the countess stood back from the paintings, an odd look on her face.
