by Sean Russell
“Exactly! Vita Corning.”
This brought much knowing laughter.
Erasmus came up to the edge of the group unnoticed.
“Obviously a Warton,” a man said emphatically.
“Oh, don’t be perfectly ridiculous. It was done by someone with talent.”
Erasmus Flattery found a shoulder he could peer over and there, at the center of this gathering stood a framed painting on an easel. A painting of the Countess of Chilton which, he thought, came near to conveying the mysterious allure of the woman’s beauty. Erasmus found himself staring at it raptly for a moment and then realized the head full of curls before the painting must belong to the countess herself. Suddenly he was nervous with anticipation. Would she acknowledge him? Would there be the slightest hint of what had transpired between them?
“It is a self-portrait, and the countess is hiding her talent from us?”
Such fawning was too much even for this gathering and was met with various sounds, none of which could be described as overly kind.
“There aren’t a dozen good portraitists around the Entide Sea. Certainly it can’t be too hard to find the artist when there are so few to choose among.”
This comment was met with general agreement.
“Mr. Kent?” the countess said, “I can’t believe you won’t venture an opinion. Are you protecting one of your brothers in art?”
Erasmus noticed Averil Kent hanging back behind the others, looking a little sheepish, he thought.
“I fear that my own areas of interest don’t include portraiture, Lady Chilton, so I am of little use in this matter.”
Erasmus looked back to the painting again. The pattern of the fabric that covered the divan was striking. New world warblers of bright yellow on leafed branches of some unknown tree, likely an oak, also not an old world variety.
Erasmus leaned nearer to Kent and said quietly, “Do you know the pattern in the divan? Is that Quercus lyrata, do you think?”
Kent hesitated, looking back at the painting. “Perhaps stellata, though I’m not sure.”
Erasmus nodded. Well, he thought, you have not fooled quite everyone, Mr. Kent. A quick jealousy flamed up in him, but he forced it down, smiling at his own folly. It was likely that neither the talented Kent nor the supposedly “renowned” Erasmus Flattery would stand a chance in the competition for the favors of the countess. Hardly worth a fit of jealousy.
Another painter was suggested, this one prompting even more laughter. The countess looked over her shoulder to see the originator of this suggestion and noticed Erasmus. The smile was replaced by a wavering look of uncertainty, which Erasmus did not understand. She nodded just perceptibly and then turned back to the painting.
He found the uncertainty of that look infected him, worked its way into his blood and left him ill with doubt. He forced his attention back to the painting.
Perhaps it was just the moment, but Erasmus thought the painter had captured something of that uncertainty in his portrait. The countess gazed out from the canvas with a look at once intelligent and extremely guarded, though almost masked by the beauty and by the ease with which she inhabited that near-perfect form. It was, Erasmus had to admit, a brilliant portrait.
He glanced over at Kent. The man’s manner spoke very clearly to Erasmus: the painter was overwhelmed by both a sense of hopelessness, and of fervent hope. Hopelessness because his head told him that he stood no chance with the countess, yet hopeful because his heart believed that this offering of his art would make her realize the depth of his feeling for her. Somehow, Erasmus realized, Kent had convinced himself that the countess would look at the painting and recognize that such depth of true feeling could come from no one but Kent himself and this would open her eyes to him and what he offered. In a world where all men desired her, only Kent’s feelings were true and noble.
You poor bastard, Erasmus thought. He wondered if the countess had done anything at all to encourage the painter. Clearly she knew who he was, but was there anything more to it than that?
Erasmus turned his attention back to the painting, reminding himself that looking at Kent might be more like staring into a mirror than he could bear. Best not to let a foolish obsession with the countess take hold of him, especially when it was so unlikely.
He turned away from the group, but when he did, a vision of the countess standing near to him at the door of her home appeared in his mind. Her manner, so earnest and vulnerable, pierced right to his heart. He must have looked near to falling, for Kent reached out and took hold of his shoulder.
“Are you well, Mr. Flattery?”
“Yes, perfectly.” He looked over at Kent and tried to smile, for they were brothers in misery.
* * *
* * *
To his astonishment Erasmus found that he had been seated near to the head of the long table, and next to the countess. The baron sat at the table’s head getting quietly drunk in his own jolly way, and his wife sat to his right. To his left was the Countess of Chilton, and next to her, Erasmus.
The baron looked like a man who had discovered that he’d died and gone to heaven. Servants continually delivered him exquisite food and drink, while to his left sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was too blissful even to talk but merely sat there filling his face and glowing. Erasmus thought he had never seen a man who so much resembled a baby—though a giant one. He wondered if the baron would have to be burped after the meal.
Kent, sadly, sat near the table’s farthest end and looked like a man exiled to the provinces.
“Did you see my mystery portrait?” the countess asked when the baroness’ attention was elsewhere. “From a secret admirer, apparently. Have you a guess as to the man’s identity?”
Erasmus hesitated. Would she be impressed if he were to name the artist? The thought of poor Kent hanging back behind the crowd made him hesitate. “I . . . no, I don’t know who it could be.”
“Now, Mr. Flattery, I saw you hesitate. Do you know? Tell me.”
Erasmus shook his head, leaning a little closer. “I could be wrong, and if I am not, I would rather not embarrass the man, who is, in fact, a gentleman of some sensitivity.”
The countess pulled back to examine him for a second. “Was it you who had the painting done?” she said so that no other might hear. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
She did not look displeased, he realized, and he felt the urge to lie, to at least give the impression that it had been him. “Me. Oh, no, Lady Chilton. Not me. Though if I had such talent, I cannot think of a subject I would rather undertake.”
“Ah, live by the name, die by the name. Though I am not sure I believe you.” She lifted her wineglass and smiled at him. “To flattering portraits—can one ever have too many?”
Erasmus laughed. “I have been waiting to have just one.”
“Is this a private conversation?” the baroness asked.
“Not at all, Lady Bingham. We were just speculating again about my portrait.”
A deep, even breathing caught their attention and they turned to find the baron asleep in his chair.
The baroness looked more amused than embarrassed. “It is the effect of the wine. Half a bottle and he cannot stay awake. Once, at a ball, he leaned against a pillar, and, I swear, he went to sleep on his feet. I roused him, somewhat, when he began to slide to the floor and managed to steer him into our carriage, though I don’t think he was awake the entire time. Walked out to the carriage in his sleep, I am convinced of it. And the next day he had no memory of what had transpired. Denies it still.” She shook her head, rolling her eyes a little.
“It is interesting that you would say that,” the countess said, her tone more serious. “I awoke this morning in the parlor downstairs, dressed in my sleeping gown and a robe. I have not the slightest memory of rising or descending the stairs, nor do I know how
long I was there before I awoke. It was the oddest thing, and I’ve never done anything like it before.”
Erasmus stopped eating. “Why, last night I awoke while in the midst of undressing. I was sitting on my bed taking off my shirt. The odd thing is that I had gone to bed earlier, and I have no memory of rising and dressing, and wonder what in the world I was doing.”
The baroness laughed. “There is an epidemic of sleepwalking apparently. Perhaps there are some at this table eating in their sleep, even conversing. Somehow, I sense that there are.”
With the baron asleep, Erasmus received much of the countess’ attention that evening, and he could not remember being happier. And it seemed to him that the countess took pleasure from his company.
Far too quickly, the evening was over and Erasmus found himself stalling near the door, hoping to at least say good night to the countess. Clarendon came up. “We have the kind offer of a ride home, Mr. Flattery.”
“Well, that is very thoughtful. . . .” Erasmus began, trying to hide his annoyance, but he did not finish, for the countess appeared in the entry hall. He almost cursed aloud. How could he escape Clarendon and his untimely kindness?
“Ah, Mr. Flattery.” It was the countess. “You have not forgotten your promise to escort me home, I hope?”
“Forgotten? Of course not. May I present, Randall Spencer Emanual Clarendon, Lady Chilton.”
Clarendon bowed deeply, and the countess looked immensely charmed. “Mr. Clarendon, it is a great pleasure. Are you a resident of this lovely village or a visitor, like the rest of us?”
“I have a house here, Lady Chilton, though I confess I retreat to warmer climes once the snow begins to fall.”
“Well, perhaps we shall meet again, then, as I will be here a bit longer. I’m rather charmed with Castlebough, I must admit. The pleasures of the evening to you, Mr. Clarendon.”
A moment later Erasmus was handing the countess up into her carriage and then taking his place beside her, certain he was the envy of every man present. And there they were riding through moonlit Castlebough, and he was not really sure what he had done to be so fortunate.
They rolled on in silence for a moment, leaving Erasmus to wonder what would happen when they came to the door of the countess’ home. The town was so small, however, that they arrived at the house before Erasmus had decided upon which tack he would sail.
“Would you like to come in and meet Marianne Edden, Mr. Flattery? She is always sitting up at this hour, and though she could not be convinced to go to dinner, she will require a complete report of the evening’s events.”
“I would be delighted.”
Erasmus felt both let down and relieved. If there was another present, then there would be no question of how the evening would proceed. At least he would not be able to make a fool of himself if he misread the situation completely.
Servants took his hat and Lady Chilton’s cloak and he was ushered into a small withdrawing room where he was left alone. A fire burned in the hearth, but Erasmus found he was drawn to the window, which looked out over the valley below. In the distance he could see the lake, silvered by moonlight and starlight, shimmering in the distance. A breeze moved in the branches of the pines, and even inside, he thought he could smell their sweet scent.
He heard a noise behind and turned to find the countess seating herself by the fire, gazing at him intently, as though there were some weighty question she was about to pose.
“It is unprecedented, but Marianne seems to have retired for the evening,” she said. “I wonder if she is entirely well?” A servant poured wine and slipped away silently.
Erasmus came and sat by the fire. The countess was subdued, perhaps tired, or burdened with something, with some knowledge. He wondered if it was Skye. She had pumped Erasmus for the great empiricist, so there was clearly some connection between them. Like everyone else, Skye was probably enamored of her.
And what are my accomplishments compared with his? Erasmus thought.
“Have you heard this odd tale of the man they call the Stranger of Compton Heath?” the countess asked suddenly, looking up at him as though she expected ridicule.
Erasmus nodded. “I have. Yes. Most peculiar.”
“Where in the world do you think he came from?”
Erasmus shrugged. “It is a mystery, though I will say that I think it was no ruse, and there seem to have been other cases.”
“You give it credence, then?”
“Certainly I can neither prove nor disprove the story. I am convinced that the man did appear, and that he was genuinely lost and confused. Whether he was merely a lunatic, as some have suggested—I cannot say.” Erasmus paused. “I know a man who interviewed the doctor who was first called to see this stranger. He, at least, believed the doctor’s story, and he also believed the Stranger was no fraud, nor was he mad.”
“You have an interest in this matter?” she asked, surprised and perhaps relieved.
“The people of Compton Heath believed a mage came and took the stranger away.”
“And you are interested in the mages. . . .”
He nodded and sipped his wine.
“Do you ever feel that we are at an end of a chapter of history, Mr. Flattery, and that the world as it existed before was so much more alive with marvels? I almost feel this stranger was somehow left from that period. Like lizards are the tiny remnants of the great beasts that disappeared. And now we are left with this world of reason that we are building, and it will be an infinitely ordered and predictable world devoid of such wonders as mages and strangers who have come from we know not where. Not to mention wondrous beasts. Do you know that there were said to be white deer in these hills long ago?”
Erasmus nodded. “Yes. I have seen the hide of one. They were true and real, just as this man who appeared in Compton Heath was real, but I would not be too concerned. I think there are wonders enough in this world, to last our lifetimes at least.” Erasmus could not help himself, he had to ask. “How did Skye respond to my verdict on the script?”
He wanted to see her reaction to Skye coming up in the conversation.
She did not brighten at the sound of the man’s name. In fact, she turned away slightly to stare into the fire. Erasmus was not sure how to interpret this.
“It is always difficult to say with the earl. . . . Can you read the writing?” she said suddenly. “I ask this only of my own curiosity. I will say nothing.”
Erasmus sipped his wine, then rose from his chair, almost without meaning to. For a moment he stood with his arm resting on the high mantle. “During my time in the house of Eldrich I was under the tutelage of a man—Walky was his name. He taught all the things that schoolboys are to learn—Old Farr, Entonne, arithmetic, grammar, history. Nothing that other boys in far more common circumstances did not learn. But old Walky was beginning to suffer the disabilities that plague the old. Not that he wasn’t strong and healthy—he seemed to have these qualities in abundance—but his mind was not what it once had been. His memory was in decline. Often he would call us by the names of former students, or he would begin to teach us things that he had not meant to. On more than one occasion he asked us to repeat things that we had not been taught. Arcane things. He even occasionally addressed us in a language we could not name.” He heard the countess draw in a quick breath. She stared at him in fascination, but almost, he thought, he saw some pity there.
“He once left a book on a shelf of the room in which we commonly pursued our studies. It sat there for two days before I realized that it was not a book in any common language. When I first opened it, I slammed it closed immediately. Although we never met Eldrich, as small boys we lived in mortal dread of the mage. I was certain that I would suffer some terrible magical retribution for merely opening the book. But I did not. Two days later I looked again. By the fourth day, Percy—the other boy my age who lived there—Perc
y and I were sure that Walky had forgotten the book altogether and we took it to our room to examine.
“We were more frightened than you can imagine, but we were also utterly fascinated, and as small boys often are, we were heedless to the effects of our action.
“The book was completely undecipherable to us. Filled with strange writing and odd diagrams.” Erasmus stopped, unable to continue the story.
“What happened?” the countess asked, her voice nearly a whisper.
“We were discovered . . . and punished,” Erasmus said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
“Oh,” the countess said, not quite sure what this might have entailed. “And the writing?”
“I believe it was the same script found in the painting.”
“And how were you made to suffer for this transgression?”
“We . . .” Erasmus felt himself try to swallow in a suddenly dry mouth. “We were punished,” he said again.
“And you will not say more?”
He shook his head.
“And this is what I have driven you to tell me?” she said, rising from her chair. She took both his hands. “I’m sorry, Erasmus. I am truly sorry. I have no business delving into your secrets. Things that disturb you. I did not bring you here to pry secrets from you, for myself or anyone else.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
She paused looking up into his face, measuring, perhaps. “Because I owe you an apology. I misused you when I invited you here so that I could pry for—”
“For Skye,” he finished the sentence for her. “What is Skye to you?” he asked suddenly, though he had no right to.
“Oh, do not talk to me of Skye,” she said, looking down. “No, it is a terrible thing to use another for one’s own ends. To play with their hopes, with their feelings, and then to dash them without regard. It is shameful. No one should be treated thus.”
Erasmus was about to protest, when she looked up again, meeting his gaze, her eyes glistening. He could not help himself; he bent and kissed her. At once, he thought he had made a terrible mistake, for she responded not at all. And then suddenly her lips softened and met his.
