by Nia Farrell
Edward watched the pages flip, images shifting as they moved. God, the smile on his face, purest delight as he did it a second time, and a third. “Brilliant,” he chortled. “Bloody brilliant. Thank you, princess. Thank you, my boy.”
He’d used our intimate names. That, and the telltale gleam in his turquoise eyes, said that he was open to physical expressions of appreciation.
Lunch was being served by the time we made it downstairs. Edward ordered a typical English Christmas dinner, from roast goose to plum pudding. Of course, we overate. Rather than working it off in bed, we decided to walk it off on the streets of Bath.
Christmas on a Friday meant a long weekend for some workers, wherever businesses had chosen to remain closed on Saturday. There were tourists, like us, here on holiday, but overall the traffic was sparse and pedestrians few, which made the Bohemian woman from Midnight Mass stand out all the more as she came toward us, her gaze locked on mine, refusing to let me go. “We need to talk,” she said, seeking no one’s permission but mine.
I glanced at Edward. “Stay close but not too close,” he murmured. I knew why, even if she didn’t. There was a bounty on my head. If she were here to kill me, I think she would have done so. A shot in the dark as we were leaving the church is all it would have taken, but if it eased Edward’s mind to keep her beyond arm’s length, then that’s what I would do.
I blew out softly. “All right. The red door.” I nodded to a building three doors down. I’ll follow you.”
She nodded, brisk and business-like, and did as I asked. Following, I stopped just out of reach but close enough for conversation.
“There’s danger about you,” she started.
Oh, God. She was gifted.
“I don’t normally pick up things on people, but ever since the Abbey, I’ve been thinking of you and hearing the same thing. Medicine. Medicine. Whatever the bloody hell that means.”
“I have some,” I admitted. “I take it for my stomach.”
“You’re American.”
I could emulate my mother’s accent perfectly but I rarely bothered to. I rather liked the soft, Southern shades of Virginia that I’d grown up with.
“Yes, but I live in England now.”
“With them?”
I saw no judgment from this strange, free-spirited creature and decided to be honest without going into details. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” She cocked her head and angled her eyes away, as if listening for voices beyond my ability to perceive. “It doesn’t feel right,” she said, her words edged in frustration. “Nothing’s ringing bells, but something isn’t right. Medicine. That’s all they’ll say or all that I hear, anyway. Just…please…be extra careful, Miss.”
“Davenport. Elena Davenport. I use Lane, my late brother’s name, for my art. And I will be careful…?” The lift in my voice formed a blank to be filled in when I had no name by which to call her.
The grin that she crooked was like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds to dispel her somber mien. “Merry,” she said. “As in Meredith, not Magdalene.”
“Very well, Merry. Thank you and your…your spirits or advisors or whatever you call them, for their notice and for sharing what was imparted to you. If there’s nothing else, I need to get back to them. It’s our first Christmas together, you see.”
She smiled wider. Knowingly. “Not your first,” she said. “And not your last. A trinity, that’s what you are. You’ve been here before, at least twice. Yes. Twice. And now you’re here again. Soul memories will keep drawing you back, keep bringing you together. Lucky you, you found them early on and here I am, still waiting. Karma is a witchy thing, is she not? And no getting around her, save by the Grace of God, eh?”
A shiver ran through me. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and gooseflesh lifting on my arms. “Yes,” was all I could manage. It sounded right. It felt right, what she said. But now was not the time or place to ask questions, not with Edward and Daniel worried and waiting for me.
“We’re staying at the Grand Pump,” I said. “If you need to contact me, or have anything else to share, please, leave a message at the desk. They can be trusted to deliver it immediately. And thank you again, Merry. If you are ever in London, please drop by the studio, Lane Davenport Art. I would enjoy showing you my work.”
“The best is yet to be,” she said, then slapped her fingers over her lips. “What the bloody hell? Who’s doing that?”
Merry twisted to both sides, as if trying to figure out her source, but it appeared that none stepped forward to confess. “Well, that’s something,” she said grudgingly. “Whatever’s hanging over your head, it sounds like you’ll get past it and go on to create your best work, if what they’re saying is true.”
The Three Lovers. My masterpiece in the making. It was my turn to smile. “Thank you again, Merry. Now, I really must be off. I will be careful and I will stay safe.”
I must, if I was to make what she’d said a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The best is yet to be.
I chanted it in my head like a Benedictine nun singing prayers to the heavens, with invocations for Mercy and Grace. I was a lapsed Catholic, but I had a patron and I called upon her, too. St. Brigid had been assigned me because of my Irish heritage, but I added two more saints to the mix. St. Barbara was patroness of artillerymen and others whose lives were in imminent danger; St. Michael protected women and children. Surely the three of them could manage to keep me safe until the threat to me was neutralized.
Conversation waited until we had returned to the privacy of our room, just in time for my courses to start. I cleaned up and padded myself, then joined Daniel and Edward at the table. “Sorry,” I said. “I prefer to not ruin clothes.”
I repeated what Merry had said, verbatim, remembering her expression as she spoke, the inflections in her voice, the confusion on her face when hearing fragments, her startlement—then agitation—at the last message passed.
“She seemed genuine,” I said. “She spoke out of concern and asked for nothing.”
Edward was skeptical, but Daniel was Irish. As a race, we had our own set of gifts, blarney and second sight among them.
“Look, Lucy is bringing the new bottle tomorrow. If you think there’s a chance that it’s tainted, I’ll make do with something else. Peppermint oil or chamomile tea.”
“Or make them taste it.”
I blinked at Edward. “What? Like the Romans?” I was rocked to the core by the shiver that raced down my spine.
“It was a thought,” he said. “No, I do not believe that they would be so deliberately careless that someone could tamper with it. However, given the warning, I suggest that we start carrying your medicine with us. Then there shall be no question as to its purity.”
My stomach pinched at the thought that someone might have come into our room and poisoned it. Stop it! I chided myself. We’d been here a week. I’d used it as needed. Nothing had happened except what I’d come to expect—the easing of my symptoms after a few minutes’ time.
But could I say the same with tomorrow’s batch? Not knowing where it had been, if it was left unattended, if someone had somehow managed to taint it or replace it with God knew what? The possibilities were endless and frighteningly real.
I felt the weight of Edward’s ring upon my finger and rubbed the band with my thumb like a talisman, a silent invocation, a plea to the women who had loved him. I hoped that his mother and grandmother might watch over me, too, for his sake as much as mine. He was a man who needed control and with so much of this beyond it, the situation weighed heavily upon him. He feared failing. Feared that he could not keep me safe.
“Remember what she said. The best is yet to be. The future that we’ll make. The statues that I’ll carve. The art that I’ll create, and the children bound to come. Really, I must admire your control, both of you. Otherwise I’d be letting out laces now instead of later.”
Edward p
ulled me to him and kissed my forehead. “Hold those thoughts, my dear. Officially, we are still stepbrother and stepsister. I fear that we would set too many tongues a-wagging to suddenly announce that we are affianced, having passed these several nights together. We shall wait until we return to London, then make it known. Propriety may require that you stay with your aunt or my father for a time. Unless your heart is set on a large, lavish wedding, I am of a like mind as Adam Roth. I would post bans and see it done, the sooner, the better, hmm?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. I don’t need the trappings. Just a priest who’ll perform the sacraments, and you, and Daniel. Paddy can stand beside you, and when I speak my vows, I shall say them to both of you, in my heart. Oh dear, I’m going to cry and you know that’s not how I wish to look for you, least of all on Christmas Day!”
I managed to bring my tears under control. I hoped that God would be gracious enough to let me avoid cramping this month and allow us to more fully enjoy our time in Bath. He seemed to be listening. My uterus tightened, but much less than last month, and the time that I spent in bed held far more pleasure than pain.
Come Boxing Day, Edward decided to meet the train personally. He intended to secure the bottle of medicine, and see Lucy and her twins to the lodging that he had arranged for them. Knowing how his mind worked, I suspected a visit to the local apothecary might be on his list, to have the medicine tested for safety, but Edward did not say and I could not—would not—ask him, trusting him to do what was best.
The time came and went for his return. While Daniel cast an occasional anxious glance at the door when he thought I was not looking, he showed only pleasant cheer to me, warming up his violin and putting it through its paces. The sweet, dulcet tones were balm to the soul, and I paused from my sketching to let myself occasionally get lost in a particularly moving passage.
We both perked to hear the familiar knock at the door. Edward had come at last! Daniel set down his bow and instrument and hurried to let him in. When the door opened wider, I saw that Edward was not alone.
Lucy and Tamás had come, and an old woman, small and bird-like, a familiar green bottle clutched in work-worn hands. The grandmother who knew both cures and charms, according to our maid.
Edward performed the introductions. “Mrs. Prince, may I present to you Miss Elena Davenport and Mr. Daniel O’Flaherty? Miss Davenport, Mr. O’Flaherty, Tamás’s grandmother, Mrs. Asena Prince.”
The words barely registered, so riveted was I by her dark Romani eyes. She locked her gaze on me and refused to let me look away, not until she’d done a thorough search and had found whatever it was that she’d been looking for.
It was clear from Edward’s demeanor that he had not known she was coming. We were expecting Lucy and her two Princes. I supposed one room would go to their grandmother, the other to Tamás, with Lucy likely shuffling between them.
Mrs. Prince pulled the cork out of the bottle, brought it to her lips, and tipped it back, taking a dose of the medicine she’d brought. “For you, not me,” she said, wincing just a bit at the taste of it.
I looked at Paddy. “Daniel. Water, please.”
Hastening to obey, he fetched a glass and took it from her when she’d finished.
“Thank you…?” I really didn’t know what else to say. At one point, I’d wanted to meet her. Now that she was here, she was making me uncomfortable enough, I nearly wished that she would go…except Lucy had told me that she had gifts. She certainly seemed to have divined our concern about my medicine. She had taken it upon herself to deliver it personally and prove that it was safe to consume.
“Sit.” She pointed to the table. “Everyone else. Out.” She nodded toward the door. “Five minutes.”
That cleared the room. I sank into the chair and pressed a hand to my stomach. She cocked her gray head and cringed, breath hissing as she inhaled sharply between clenched teeth. “You were wounded,” she said, her eyes narrowed speculatively. “Gored. You did not die quickly. And another. Spear? Lance? Or something like it. Yes. Old souls, the three of you. Together again, but this time, you are the one in peril. Who would profit from your death?”
Death?
I shuddered. I could not help myself, nor could I keep from cringing at the words that hung suspended between us, like an ill omen waiting to manifest.
No! The best is yet to be! Clinging to that promise, refusing to consider that our best might lie in another, future lifetime, I wracked my brain for answers to the question that she had posed.
“No one,” I said truthfully. “I mean, my sister would inherit my estate, being as I am unwed, but I don’t know what she’d do with my work. Keep some pieces and sell the rest, I suppose.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Prince angled her head. “Your work has value. What happens if you die? Who loses? Who gains?”
Typically, an artist’s work increased in value, after death ensured that nothing else would be forthcoming. “Well,” I said slowly. “People who own my work will probably find it a good investment, if they hold onto it long enough. As for who loses? I don’t know. Edward. Daniel. My family. The world. I’m afraid that I don’t have many friends to mourn my absence. Hopefully the world will miss the art that I would have created, had I lived. But I will live,” I told her, believing it. “Death is not an option. Whoever is threatening me will be found. It’s only a matter of time.”
“So mote it be!” she crowed, clapping her hands in delight. “Words have power, but you must speak as well as think. Death is not an option. You proclaimed it. You have ordained it. Let me see your hands.”
I extended my arms and presented my palms to her. She bent over them, angling her head, studying the lines. “Yes,” she said, tracing one. “A long life.” She slid her gaze up to meet mine. “The one who wishes otherwise is a fox hiding in the open. All look, but no one sees until he moves.”
The thought was hardly comforting. But a long life? That, I would embrace. “I hope they flush him out soon.” I needed to be working in my studio, not living in exile. Bath had been wonderful, but I could not stay here forever.
“You go soon enough,” she chirped, her gray head bobbing.
“Yes. Well. Thank you for the medicine, Mrs. Prince. For making it. Bringing it. Showing me that it’s safe. You’ve come so far…I do hope that you enjoy your visit. Have you been to Bath before?”
“Long ago,” she said dreamily, a soft smile curving her wrinkled face. “Very long ago. You don’t remember? Ah, too soon. Maybe later, no?”
“Um. Maybe?”
Maybe later?
Maybe never. I didn’t do those kinds of things.
“Not yet,” she said. “They come.”
Our five minutes were up.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Lucy, Tamás and Mrs. Prince stayed in Bath for two days, not that we saw them save in passing, traveling in different circles as we did. Two more days and Ranald Clarke knocked on our door, bringing the news personally that the bounty on my head was gone. Vanished, I believe, was the particular word that he used. However thrilled I was to hear it, Mr. Clarke was just as unhappy with the blemish on his record. He had not found the source. He was not likely to, now that it was gone. But the news came in time for us to accept Dr. Wainwright’s invitation to a Sunday afternoon reception for Masey and Adam, who were to be joined in marriage on Friday, New Year’s Day.
By the time we left Bath, Edward knew the telegraph operators by name, and the words of those in service rang true when they said that they would miss us, thanks in no small part to Edward’s generous gratuities, Daniel’s impromptu concert for the hotel staff on Thursday (being New Year’s Eve), and the sketches I’d done for the maid who cleaned our rooms and the young men who delivered things to us, from telegrams to special-ordered oatmeal and fruit.
We chose to return to London on Saturday rather than travel on New Year’s Day. From Paddington Station, a hired hackney coach conveyed the three of us, plus all of our trunks, bags, and boxes, to Edward’s h
ome. I had always been well received, but there was a quiet reverence about Benson, whose demeanor suggested a new and greater respect. Although we would not make an official announcement until after Masey’s wedding reception (having no wish to steal anyone’s thunder), the servants knew that I was no longer a shirt-tail relation but the fiancée of their noble-born master. Edward, through his late mother, was an Earl. I would be his Countess, addressed as Lady Leighton, once we were wed.
Benson reported that the two safes had been delivered in our absence. Young Frank had been entrusted to see them both properly placed, in the basement here and in the former sacristy at the studio, on sturdy stone floors that would support their weight unfailingly. Tired as we were, we made time to place in them the items that we wished to secure—the glass plate negatives, prints, and select documents at home and, at the studio, my sketchbooks, my set of photographs, and a little petty cash.
As we exited the sacristy and reentered the sanctuary, my gaze and my heart went to the tower of marble in the north transept. I sighed softly, but Edward heard. He caught my hand and Daniel’s and pulled us to him, kissing each of us in turn. “My dears,” he murmured. “When I volunteered to be the bearer of bad tidings and sail across the sea, I had no expectations of returning with anything more than news from your Democratic National Convention. But when I walked into your studio and saw Lane—Elena—and you, my boy, I cursed the luck that brought me to Chicago, the western outpost of civilization, so it seemed. Now I give thanks daily for it, and for you both. After the harrowing experiences of this month, I shall never take either one of you for granted.”
Edward kissed me again, a deeper kiss that liquefied me. Daniel moved behind me, slid his hands about my waist, and fastened his mouth on the back of my neck. My knees threatened to buckle, but they held me as they kissed me, then as they made love to me upstairs on my narrow bed, the downstairs door locked to protect our privacy.
