The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  And in those two bare days, every minute, every hour, she’d thought of nothing but him.

  What was happening to her? Was her desire for a simple, convenient marriage, nothing more than a means to an end, evolving into desire of a more profound nature? Was the fluttering in her stomach, the weakness in her knees, the quickening of her pulse whenever he so much as entered the room symptoms of her own fears? Or was she afraid of something she’d never considered?

  Was she falling in love?

  She pushed aside the idea and straightened, refusing to give it another thought. She simply had no time at the moment. Gillian shook her head and walked into the parlor. Emma stood on the far side, studying one of the many paintings that graced the walls.

  For a moment, Gillian considered her thoughtfully. Emma was as tall as Gillian and with coloring that echoed her brother’s. How had he described her? Oh yes, an attractive bit of baggage. She was indeed. Regardless of her age, with the proper clothing, Gillian was certain this particular sister would not go unnoticed by the unmarried gentlemen of the ton.

  “Do you like art?” Gillian crossed the room.

  “Very much. We used to have a great many paintings at the manor, but,” she shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner, “father sold them.”

  Gillian stepped to her side. “What a shame. I find there’s nothing that makes me feel better about life than losing myself in the viewing of a beautiful work.”

  “As if you could simply step through the frame and into a whole new world,” Emma murmured.

  “Exactly.” So, the eminently practical Emma Richard had described was not quite so down-to-earth as her brother thought. What else didn’t Richard know about his sister?

  “These are wonderful.” Emma leaned closer to the landscape that had captured her attention.“Richard says you know a great many artists.”

  “And poets, writers, and musicians. And more than my fair share of politicians as well.”

  “It must be very interesting.”

  “It is for the most part. The politicians can be a bit trying.”

  Emma nodded absently and stepped to the next painting, the work done by Toussaint. “Richard used to paint, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Surprise coursed through her.

  “He’s never said a word.”

  “No, he probably wouldn’t. It was a very long time ago. I daresay he hasn’t touched a brush in years.” Emma glanced at her. “As I understand it, father decreed painting was no way for a future earl to spend his time. I only know about it at all because I found some of his paintings after father’s death. Molly told me—”

  “Molly?”

  “Our maid.” Emma smiled apologetically. “Our only maid. She’s been with us for as long as I can remember. At any rate, she said mother encouraged Richard to paint. But after she died, father forbid it. They had quite a row about it. Apparently father said some awful things to him, although Molly never told me precisely what. I suspect that’s one of the reasons why we rarely saw him after mother’s death. And then of course, father was different after that too …”

  She nodded at the landscape. “This work reminds me a little of Richard’s. Of course, he wasn’t nearly this good.”

  So Richard was once an artist himself. No wonder his observations were so perceptive.

  Emma peered intently at the painting, as if studying the technique. Gillian had seen similar expressions on the faces of artists perusing the work of peers. Did the creative urge run through all of Richard’s family? “Do you paint?”

  “Watercolors,” Emma said absently. “I should like to paint in oils but Richard doesn’t feel they’re appropriate for a woman.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. He says women don’t have the temperament for oils, for great art. He says women are more suited for the less serious nature of watercolors.”

  “He does, does he? How very interesting.” Interesting indeed and more than a touch annoying.“Well, Richard is wrong.”

  Emma laughed. “I’ve always thought so, in this particular case anyway.”

  “Yes, but I can prove it.” Gillian paused for a moment. Surely it would do no harm to share her secret with Emma. Already she quite liked the young woman and was confident she would understand, at least when it came to this particular subject. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  She led Emma up the stairs to her own chamber and threw open the door. A series of four paintings, rather average in size, hung on the wall opposite the entry, the only art in the room.

  Emma gasped.

  From their position in the doorway, the works seemed to be created of light instead of mere paint. As if the late afternoon sun shone through them, from them, rather than streaking in through the windows on the adjacent wall.

  “They’re magnificent.” Awe sounded in Emma’s voice, and she moved toward them.

  Gillian smiled with satisfaction. “They are indeed.”

  When first seen from the entry, they appeared to be simple scenes: two of the rich English countryside, and one each of the sea and a rocky coast, with only that amazing illusion of illumination marking them as created by the same hand and setting them apart from the ordinary. But Gillian knew that as one drew closer, the images became distinct. They were indeed landscapes, but of no scenery seen on earth. Highly idealized, they depicted life as it should be, fraught with an ethereal quality and a sheer joy that had touched her soul from the first moment she’d laid eyes on them.

  Emma stopped a few feet from the wall and stared. A reverence reserved for all things holy sounded in her voice. “They’re brilliant. I feel as though I should hold my hands out before me to see if light falls on them.”

  Gillian laughed softly. “It won’t. I’ve tried.”

  Emma fell silent, lost in contemplation of the works and the emotions they would surely trigger. Gillian well remembered her first sight of the paintings during a time when she’d wondered if her own life had ended with her husband’s. A time when she’d often wished she had the courage to make certain it did in reality as well as in spirit.

  “They were painted by a woman, weren’t they?”

  Gillian nodded. “Yes.”

  Emma’s gaze didn’t waver from the paintings.“Who was she?”

  “I don’t know a great deal about her. Only that she was originally from a noble family and apparently gave up all ties to pursue her art. She died alone and penniless years before I found these. I bought them from a dealer who claimed he had purchased them from a relative, although I doubt the veracity of that story. In spite of their brilliance, I paid next to nothing for them.” Gillian smiled humorlessly. “They were painted by an unknown woman and therefore the dealer considered them of little value. He was happy just to get them off his hands.

  “He didn’t even know her name. Neither do I. There are initials in the corner, but I’ve never been able to make them out.”

  Emma glanced at her curiously. “These mean a great deal to you, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do.” Gillian hesitated. Robin and Kit had seen the paintings but she’d never told them why they were so important to her. Of course, they’d never asked. Never suspected that their value to Gillian went beyond aesthetics. She hadn’t told anyone of her true feelings and wasn’t entirely sure why she trusted Emma, but she did. Perhaps it was because she was a woman. Or an artist. Or, more likely, both.

  She drew a deep breath. “When Charles, my husband, died, I’d thought I died as well. In truth, I wanted to. At first I couldn’t do anything but weep and then I couldn’t do anything but sleep and finally … I couldn’t seem to do anything at all. I was rather mad at the time I think.”

  Gillian wrapped her arms around herself. “My family and two dear friends, you’ll meet them tomorrow, were wonderful through it all. Eventually they made me understand I had to continue with my life although I didn’t have any desire to.

  “But I pretended, for them really, and made a good show
of it. I went to balls and gatherings and said all the right things, but it always felt as though I was an apparition, a ghost, at once there and not there. I existed but wasn’t really present.” She pulled her brows together. “Does that make any sense whatsoever?”

  “I think so.” Emma nodded thoughtfully. “Please go on.”

  Gillian’s thoughts traveled back through the years. “I found myself being drawn increasingly to concerts and galleries. I discovered I could escape my life for a few hours in music and even more in art.

  “When I stumbled upon these, quite by accident, mind you, they touched me in some odd way.” She stared at the seascape in front of her. “They seemed somehow vibrant and, well, alive. More alive than I was.

  “I still can’t tell you exactly how it happened.” Gillian paused to pull her thoughts together. “I looked at these paintings and I could smell the scent of the sea and feel the spray of the ocean or the freshness of spring in the country. One moment I was living as though in a dream and the next I had awakened. The world around me was once more solid and real and I was alive again as I hadn’t been since Charles’s death.”

  Emma studied her silently.

  Gillian forced a light laugh. “It still sounds quite mad, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all.” A slight smile lifted the corners of Emma’s lips. “We each handle grief in our own way.”

  Gillian raised an amused brow. “You’re rather wise for one so young.”

  “I’m practically in my dotage, according to at least one of my sisters. Besides,” Emma shrugged, I’ve seen what grief can do.”

  Of course Emma would be well acquainted with grief with both her parents dead. Regardless of how much of a scoundrel her father had been, his loss would still affect his children. Gratitude welled within her at the knowledge that her own parents were alive and well.

  “So did you begin your salons to assist artists?”

  “In part. I felt as if I had a debt to repay. I would very much like to lend my support to female artists, although those who attempt to display their work publicly are rare. I only know of a few, and even they have left England to work in Paris.” She nodded at the paintings. “She probably died as much from poverty and neglect as anything else.”

  “It’s a pity women with talent like this can’t make their own way.” Emma shook her head. “It must be impossible to create works of this nature without knowing where your next meal will come from or if you will keep a roof over your head.”

  “I don’t know how she managed to survive at all,” Gillian said softly.

  Emma turned and folded her arms over her chest. “Why don’t you do something then? For women like that?”

  Gillian heaved a frustrated sigh. “First of all, I have no idea what I could do. Secondly, anything truly beneficial would take money.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “But I thought … that is, I assumed you were quite wealthy.”

  Gillian chose her words carefully. “I have the prospects of a substantial fortune. But at the moment, I have little more than what you see here.”

  “Oh dear.” Emma’s forehead furrowed as if she was considering this detail, which Richard had obviously failed to mention.

  Gillian stepped across the room, perched on the edge of the bed, and waited.

  Emma’s gaze met hers. “What is your relationship with my brother?”

  This was not the question Gillian had expected, and she wasn’t entirely certain how to respond. Still, the truth was usually best. “I plan to marry him.”

  “Do you?” Emma’s voice rang with surprise.“Why?”

  “Why?” Gillian laughed. “For any number of reasons. He’s an honorable man with a good head on his shoulders and a not altogether unattractive head at that. In addition, while his title was perhaps a bit tarnished, it is old and noble, and he has managed to make it respectable once again.”

  “Well thought out, my lady, but,” Emma shook her head, “your reasons sound as much like those one would use to hire a good solicitor as to choose a husband.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Does he love you?” Emma walked toward her.“Do you love him?”

  Do I? She raised her chin firmly. “I don’t know.”

  “I see. I never expected something like this. How very interesting,” Emma murmured. “I wonder what the others will say?”

  “Let’s keep it to ourselves for the moment, shall we?” Gillian said quickly. “Nothing is certain as of yet.”

  “As you wish.” A thoughtful light shone in Emma’s eyes, and Gillian wondered exactly what the girl was thinking.

  “Now,” Gillian rose to her feet, “I should show you to your room.” She turned, but Emma reached out to stop her.

  “If perhaps we shall be related someday, you might well wish to refuse my request.” Emma’s tone was cautious.

  “What request?”

  “While I’m here, in your home, do you think … would it be possible …” Emma pulled a deep breath and released her words in a rush. “Would you allow me to paint?”

  “In watercolors?” Gillian raised a brow. “Or something perhaps more, oh, shall we say, unsuited to the temperament of women?”

  Emma laughed and nodded eagerly.

  “I have an attic room that gets excellent light. It could be used as a studio.” Gillian grinned. She rather liked the idea of helping Richard’s sister do something he disapproved of, since that disapproval was ridiculous in the first place. She’d never imagined he would be so narrow-minded. It was the first thing she’d learned about him that she didn’t like. “I’m certain I can afford a few canvases and paints—”

  “Oh, I have paints. Richard thinks they’re only watercolors, that I’ve given up, but …” A blush of embarrassment at deceiving her brother swept up Emma’s face.

  “Then all we need is canvas.” Gillian hooked her arm through Emma’s and headed toward the door .“This should be great fun. I’ve never had an artist under my roof before. I’ve never been able to watch one work before.” Emma glanced back at Gillian’s paintings. “What a shame she didn’t have someone to provide a roof for her.”

  “Indeed—” Gillian stopped short and stared at Emma. “What did you say?”

  Confusion colored Emma’s face. “Nothing really, only that it was a shame she didn’t have—”

  “Someone to provide a roof for her,” Gillian said slowly, a dozen ideas tumbling through her head like pieces of a puzzle. “Or for others like her.”

  “Others?”

  “Women. Artists.” At once the pieces fit. The puzzle solved. “That’s it, Emma. That’s exactly what I can do if I get this inheritance.”

  “What inheritance?”

  The details aren’t important at the moment.”

  Gillian waved away the question. “Suffice it to say, it’s an inheritance that will truly allow me to repay my debt.” Excitement raised her voice. “With money I can provide a place for artists, female artists, to work without having to worry about mundane things like room and board. I can purchase a house or, better yet, a mansion. Here or maybe in the country. Maybe a manor or a hall—”

  “Or a castle?” Emma’s eyes twinkled.

  Perhaps.” Gillian laughed. “It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. And you shall be my first beneficiary.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Emma grinned and bobbed a curtsey, obviously caught up in Gillian’s excitement. “I shall be honored.”

  Gillian curtseyed back and laughed. “The honor is all mine.”

  Emma joined her laughter, and Gillian wondered if this was what it would be like to have an artist in the house. Or a sister.

  “It’s a wonderful idea. I see but one possible obstacle to your plan.”

  Gillian opened her arms wide in an expansive gesture, her voice as exuberant as her mood. “There are no impediments, no problems we cannot overcome. What is this paltry obstacle?”

  Emma smiled wryly. “Richard.”

  Chapter 9


  “Entrez.”

  Gillian pushed open the door at the top of the stairs with a touch of trepidation. Perhaps it hadn’t been entirely wise to come to Toussaint’s studio at night. But she hadn’t been so foolish as to come alone. Wilkins waited at the bottom of the stairway, still muttering dire predictions about what happened to ladies who frequented neighborhoods like this after dark.

  In truth it wasn’t all that disreputable an area of the city, simply business in nature rather than residential. And it was not in Toussaint’s best interests to allow anything to happen to her.

  Even so, it was comforting to know Wilkins was there should she need him, although how much help he would be if called upon was questionable.

  Gillian pulled her cloak tighter around her and stepped into the studio. The sharp smell of turpentine hung faint in the air. It was, if possible, even darker in here than it had been on the stairs. A few candles on the far right side of the huge room illuminated a chaise. Stars shone in the night sky framed by high windows running the length of the walls on either side. The rest of the space was consumed by shadows, but she had the impression of a vast, empty area. She suspected the artist’s studio took up the entire top floor of the mercantile building.

  “Toussaint?” she said hesitantly even while acknowledging that it was a bit late for caution.

  “But of course, madame. I am pleased you did not choose to disappoint me. I was afraid you would not come.” Toussaint’s voice echoed from across the room. She could make out the dark figure of a man, but his features were indiscernible.

  “You must admit, it’s a bit odd. A sitting at night like this.” She closed the door behind her, taking care not to shut it completely, and stepped further into the room. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Ah, but I must use the light of day for work for which I am commissioned. This portrait is—how do you say—speculative and as much for the joy of creation and the beauty of the subject as for anything of a more practical nature.” It might have been the mysterious setting, or even a trace of nerves on her part, but his thick accent seemed somewhat heavier tonight than she’d remembered.