by Julia Donner
“I welcome any and all advice, ma’am.”
“Allison may be the holder of Cameron’s heart, but the measurements of that organ is such that it also nourishes a deep love for mother and sister. The separation they endured during his imprisonment has never fully recovered. He may not be so easy to win over as you have done with me.”
“Thank you for that, Lizzie. And what will we discuss during dinner? I’m sure Sir Cameron will have endless stories of heart-stopping sea exploits.”
“You’re going to tell me everything about Mrs. Abigail Adams, and is it true that Mrs. Washington mended soldiers’ socks at Valley Forge?”
Even though still tender from the unexpected resolution of a long-held outrage, he managed a rusty chuckle. “Oh, Lizzie, you really shouldn’t give your adversaries so much advantage. Now all I have to do to obtain your favor is hint at behind door and dinner table politics.”
“Silly man. We’re friends now. All you have to do is ask.”
Chapter 10
On the return to Kent, Max accepted Cameron’s offer of the forward seat. Having made innumerable trips to London, Cameron knew the drive south on Watling too well to be entertained by the view. He’d also been given a folder full of documents to study, which wasn’t difficult in a carriage this well-sprung, and immediately set about the task.
Lack of conversation never bothered Max. He spent the time enjoying the vista of passing countryside, comparing his country to England. Perhaps he should stop thinking of the United States as his home and nation. After all, he was the son of an Englishman and now a peer. Conflicting emotions warred, ideas he couldn’t or wasn’t yet ready to reconcile in his mind.
One difference he noticed between the two nations was in the countryside away from the towns. Cities everywhere were pretty much the same, but England’s landscape stirred his imagination and induced odd feelings. There was an expansive wildness to America, but here, centuries of England’s history permeated the air, a sense of ages, of peoples and battles stretching back before the Romans invaded.
He recalled that during his walk with Agnes he’d entertained the oddest notion. He’d felt that the ground that passed beneath his boots had been soaked in the blood of endless battles, age after age of territorial defenses and disputes. England was a land seeped in ancient history, while the United States was in its historical infancy.
“What are you thinking about, Max?”
He turned to Cameron’s question. The documents had been lowered to his lap. “History. This land fairly screams its past. There’s an aura, a feeling of haunting.”
Cameron looked out at the passing landscape. “Yes. I didn’t realize that until the first time I came home on furlough.” He looked back. “So why were you scowling when one would think you might be taking pleasure in the view.”
“Do you mean the permanent scowl? I’ve been told it can be off-putting, but I never know when I’m doing it.”
Cameron smiled. “Only when you are not in my sister’s company. Your expression and demeanor around her is near unrecognizable.”
“What do you mean?”
“Max, the reason I’ve not put much in the way of hindering your attentions to my sister is because you transform into something like a…well, I don’t think I can precisely describe what happens. You are certainly more…malleable.”
“Malleable? How extraordinary. I never realized that.” He caught himself frowning at the view beyond the window and quickly rearranged his features. “Can’t see the reason to argue with that observation. I’ve been told often enough that I should smile more often so as not to terrify strangers. Your sister must bring out my better nature, which goes to prove all the nay-sayers wrong. I do have a personality and sense of humor, but evidently buried rather deep.”
“I shouldn’t worry, as long as Agnes isn’t startled by your scowl’s sudden appearance. We’ve a few more hours before we are home. I have some pertinent questions to ask in regards to your request to pay your respects to my sister.”
Recalling Lady Asterly’s advice, he focused on the topic ahead. “I shall endeavor to belay your concerns.”
Cameron tucked the documents inside a leather folder as he spoke. “I know every aspect of your worth and prospects on this side of the Atlantic. What of your interests in the United States, and do you wish to return there to live?”
The question wasn’t meant for impertinence or polite conversation. Agnes’s brother was looking for expectations, for the security of his sister’s future, a serious subject. Max inhaled a thoughtful breath before sorting through how he should reply.
“I am thinking you wish me to clarify my prospects at home, since you know my exact worth in this country.”
That was a blunder. He shouldn’t be giving the impression England was not his home. Adored and cosseted by her family, Cameron and his mother wouldn’t be pleased to have Agnes taken so far from them. Sorting through the possible ways to patch up the mess recently made, he decided on the positive aspect of his financial prospects, always a matter of interest and appeal.
“To be blunt, I’m worth more in the United States than here. My adopted father owned newspapers and printing presses. I’ve sold those enterprises and the publishing business.”
“And property?”
“There is a great deal of land in the state of Pennsylvania and also in Delaware, through Father’s marriage to Mrs. Berger. One of her properties was a small shipyard on the Chesapeake. After visiting it, I developed an interest.”
Max took heart when the subject of ships lit a spark in Sir Cameron’s eyes. “Some of the finest ships in the world are being launched from New York. Have you been to the yards there?”
“Yes. I visited Brooklyn and spoke to Mr. Henry Eckland, a man everyone suggested as the best possible source when it came to shipping.”
“Eackland’s name and influence is well-known in shipbuilding.”
Now that the subject of ships and the sea had smoothed Sir Cameron’s hackles, Max worked the subject to his advantage. “After conversation with Eckland, I’ve decided to invest in a packet line, one competitive with the Black Ball. As is Lady Asterly’s, my impression is that the radical design of the cutter hull will create a passage from England to New York in two weeks. You’re a man of the sea. What do you think of this plan?”
“Cutters are quite fast. As a naval man, I prefer the sloop design and rigging, arguably the most flexible for maneuverability in a sea battle, but you’re talking about long distances at a sprint. I think the timeline you project with the cutter hull is entirely possible. Speeds that can be achieved with the radical design are almost unimaginable.”
Relieved to have made a favorable impression, Max attempted to polish his present glow. “Is there any advice you could add to this venture?”
“What you’ll need is a good captain, one not afraid to lash himself to the helm during a storm. I’ve served with more than one who went without sleep for days until out of danger.”
“With what I plan to pay them, they may never go to sleep again.”
That got a bark of laughter from Cameron. His merriment dissolved with his next comment. “You’ve established your financial prospects but never said where you plan to finally settle.”
Max meaningfully replied, “That will depend on your sister.”
The suspicion in the eyes that were so much like Agnes’s didn’t inspire assurance. Max didn’t need this man’s support or approval as much as he wanted and valued it. Hiding uneasiness, he waited for the verdict.
“Well, Loverton, you show a surfeit of confidence in her acceptance.”
Max let down the window glass to allow the seasonal perfumes of newly growing things to air the tension inside the carriage. “None whatsoever, to be honest. What I meant was that I will do whatever she asks.”
He sensed rather than saw Cameron relax. “Very well, then, sir. You have my blessing, not that you care for anyone’s leave to do anything.”
> “Oh, your blessing is quite important, sir.”
“For my sister’s sake?”
“There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to see her happy and content.”
“You would stay in England, live at the Grange if she wished?”
“The obvious answer to that is, since taking up the title, I now have considerable responsibilities here. A voyage to settle business on the other side of the world will be in order. And perhaps every few years after that, but my wife will have the choosing of living arrangements. Father Berger stressed the importance of keeping one’s spouse cheerfully accommodated at all times.”
“A man of decided opinions and intelligence from all you’ve said. As to advice regarding your shipping endeavors, I would suggest a trip to the Clyde before making final decisions. The best shipbuilders in the world have taken their apprenticeships there.”
Max had been thinking that Agnes might enjoy that as a honeymoon trip, not to the shipyards, but a sedate journey around the historic sites of Scotland.
“I welcome that suggestion. A jaunt to Scotland was a part of my plans while here, as was also suggested by Mr. Eckland. I look forward to asking the shipbuilders their opinions about investing in steam driven ships.”
“You are a man who likes to look ahead.”
“And to things of the past. I would very much like to hear about your time with the Navy.” When the light in Cameron’s gaze dimmed, Max bluntly added, “I’m especially interested in what happened to you during your captivity. It took us many years to retrieve our prisoners. Our Navy yet celebrates the demolishment of the Barbary’s fleet.”
“In honor of how President Jefferson destroyed the reign of those who caused so much misery for me and my men, I believe you earned the right by proxy to hear of it. Did you ever meet him?”
“Jefferson? When but a lad. Father tested my education and social skills by tossing me into that lion’s mouth at every opportunity. He wasn’t one to suffer the unintelligent gladly.”
“You survived the dangers.”
“As did you, and against excessively greater odds of survival.”
After a time to collect his thoughts, Cameron began to speak. The cruelties and injustices he related enflamed and broke Max’s heart. He suddenly comprehended what Lady Asterly had been trying to impart. The Bradford family had suffered enough from separation, were yet emotionally brittle in the aftermath. They had endured for years not knowing whether he lived or died. That had been difficult enough, but on his return, they relived the pain during their joy, seeing the change in the boy who had gone to sea and the man who had come home.
Cameron would never speak of what had happened to him to his mother and sister. They knew there was more than the scar across his face from a saber slash but knew not how to help. There was no way to take away the past and what had been done.
Max saw beneath the grieving, the too familiar anger and loss. Imprisonment had stolen years and his ability to take care of his family. Hidden under the material of his clothes were remainders of a past that couldn’t be ignored. Distilled from the horrors that Cameron now talked about, Max could imagine the scars of a keelhauling and the knotted flesh from lashings from barbed whips. Clothes covered those but not the stark memories in his eyes. There had to be a heaven because there was so much hell on earth.
Max didn’t interrupt the flow of words that he doubted had ever been spoken before. He admired a man who’d survived so much cruelty and yet retained so much love.
Chapter 11
While her brother and Max stayed in London for over a week, Agnes used their absence to finish Cameron’s painting of Antony and Cleo. It was also an excuse to stay indoors to avoid another confrontation with Vincent.
Her own love for the deerhounds reflected in luminescent adoration in their dark eyes. She posed Cleo lying down, Antony standing over her. Both looked off to the right, as if anxiously waiting for Cameron’s permission to move. She wanted their poses to ripple with attentive energy and readiness to obey, to spring up and give chase at the slightest signal.
She incessantly examined the canvas while the oils remained damp, searching for areas to correct. She had to force herself to stop the continued fussing with it, and the only way to do that was to think of the next project. That would be Max.
The day after his return from London, Loverton sent a request to her brother and mother, asking in writing for permission to sit for his portrait at Oakland. He pointed out that all of her supplies were there, which wouldn’t need to be carted back and forth between Oakland and the Grange.
Agnes sent written agreement of this request. It wasn’t unusual for her to travel to someone’s establishment to fulfill a commission but not when this close to her own home. Her appreciation with this request was due to what was left unspoken within Loverton’s letter, the tactful omission of the fact that it would be inappropriate for an unmarried lady to attend a gentleman in his residence.
Cameron never interfered with her decisions. He merely smiled and kissed her cheek as he handed back the letter. Her mother said nothing, which made Agnes suspect that clever Constance Bradford wouldn’t have objected to executing the portrait at the Grange as an opportunity to encourage a proposal from Loverton. Mother’s matchmaking aside, doing the sitting at Oaklands was the best solution.
She set about the preparations, mixing fresh colors, cleaning brushes and stretching canvases over three different frame dimensions. Easels were unfolded and placed to hold the size options. The gallery at the Grange had paintings that ranged from covering half of a wall to the size of a chair seat. She had no idea if he wanted a massive rendition in formal attire or something smaller and in casual riding dress.
“Agnes, darling, your subject has arrived!”
Footsteps creaked on the wooden steps up to her loft studio. His altered style stopped her breath when her mother brought Loverton through. He paused in the doorway to dip his chin in a slight bow. London haberdashers had turned him out to look every inch the fashionable gentleman. For the portrait, he’d chosen a snug-fitting jacket made of ebony superfine, ecru pantaloons and pristine white neckwear tied in a precise Mailcoach. The excellent cut of his clothes revealed the figure of a man who embraced an active lifestyle. She shoved the brief image of him posing nude for a statue out of her mind, but her artist’s eye yearned to reproduce him in clay or stone. He had the physique for it. Something Elgin-like or a gladiator.
“Agnes dear, come down from the clouds!” Her mother’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll be leaving you to your task. I’ve left a handbell outside the door, since there is no bell pull for this room.” She touched Loverton’s forearm. “Standing perfectly still is tiresome and thirsty work, my lord. Let us know if you require refreshment.”
“Very kind of you, ma’am.” He gave her another abbreviated nod.
“I should warn you, sir, that my daughter is a taskmaster. I’ve heard the complaint that she scarcely recognizes the passage of time when there is a brush or pencil in her hand. Do not be afraid to ring for rescue.”
After her mother left, Agnes found herself caught in his dark-eyed regard. He broke the spell with a smile, and she gestured to the easels. He listened closely as she explained the display of various canvases and asked which would suit.
He selected the medium-sized, rectangular canvas. “Yes, I believe that one should do. My valet went to such extreme lengths to turn me out in the proper style that one must credit his efforts to make me appear as a gentleman of leisure. This size should provide the space to appreciate the shine he put on these boots.”
She waved away his assistance and lifted the frame, carrying it to an easel set up under sunlight slanting down from an overhead window. “Would you prefer to sit after I sketch an outline?”
“I don’t dare to put a wrinkle in this ensemble. Lark might have an apoplexy.”
“Shouldn’t want that, my lord. Will you stand just here, under the direct light?”
She fetc
hed a stepstool from a corner and placed it in front of him. Standing on it, she took a moment to decide how to angle his head. “Since you have the love of books, I thought to place you in a bookish background. Where that might be can be decided later.”
She used a fingertip on his chin to turn his head until the light from the window helped to settle on the angle. A curious tingle rippled up her arm. Her concentration wavered from the contact. Her pulse pounded in her throat. He’d been recently shaved with an aromatic soap that was darkly masculine or perhaps it was his own scent. She forced herself back to task with the realization that at the moment she smelled of turpentine.
Leaving the stool in place, she went to the canvas and swiftly sketched an outline, explaining as she drew, “I see the book-room at the Grange as a possible background. If that is acceptable, I would like to have the reading conservatory behind your left shoulder as the source of light. A book in your right hand. Choose whatever you like. Perhaps a favorite, but one not too large to handle. A finger between the pages to mark your place. Yes, that would be intriguing. We may have to change the waistcoat colors, depending on how we decide on the shelving. What I meant to say is where you’d be positioned in front of the bookshelves.”
Conversation stopped as she fleshed out the idea in her head, seeing it laid across the bareness of the canvas. The entire image sprang to life on the rough, white surface. A thrill zipped along her arms, tingled in her hands, different this time. She dropped the pencil and reached for the paints she’d prepared earlier, mixing primary colors, adding a dash of this and that to get the exact hue.
The present faded as the caged animal of her inner eye sprang from its latency. Her hand moved in a blur. All she could see was the finished image in her head that must be made alive within and on the canvas. As she dabbed, smeared and carefully outlined, she caught herself utterly focused on the shape of his mouth, to capture the precisely defined upper lip, which was a bit longer and fuller than the lower. To adhere to his taciturn personality, he would have no smile, just the sensual shape that she yearned to carve out of the best marble, to mold and polish, to savor the silky, cold texture under her gliding fingertips as she worked.
