Horsman, Jennifer

by Crimson Rapture

  "I'm not through yet, Christina."

  She stopped but did not turn around.

  He was silently cursing himself, knowing that if their sham of a marriage was to have any chance of working, he would have to control his baiting anger. Another woman might snap back, rebuke him, throw a tantrum or something but not her. Not the shyest, most gentle and feminine creature it was ever his mistake to lose his heart to.

  "As soon as you have a proper wardrobe, I'll see to having you introduced to society. It will mean a ball, I suppose, and God knows how many dining invitations. Are you up to it?"

  Still with her back to him, she nodded.

  "And, Christina," he said in a different tone, "it will hardly do if you fall into tears every time I talk to you. You must try to control that, as I must try to temper my words."

  She nodded again and he said softly, "That's all." She quickly departed, leaving him lastly with the sight of her torn shoe, flopping sorrowfully with each quick step away.

  Justin fell into a chair. It was not going to work. Her very presence, every time he looked at her, brought such an avalanche of unwanted emotion: pain and hurt and anger, the anguish from her betrayal, and some, like his anger, he could barely control. He, who never had trouble controlling anything, least of all himself.

  How could they possibly last?

  He would gladly give his entire fortune to erase the past, all of it, with the exception of his son. For his son, he would bear it. Perhaps time would erode his feelings, leaving him with blessed indifference to her.

  He could not imagine indifference to her, though, even coupled with time. Anything and everything but indifference. For desire was the monster that raged with all other feelings; for even when she stood before him in a tattered dress and cloak, her hair tightly wrapped around her head like a matron's cap, dark circles under those large gray eyes, he wanted her. Her beauty might have first attracted him but love had carried him far past that point. She might be an old woman wearing every blessed sign of sixty or more years and he'd still want her. Other women he kept in his life hardly helped. If anything, they exacerbated the problem by offering blatantly bare comparisons. And even if time stole all other feeling for her, how could he feel indifference with such intense desire?

  The only possibility was to separate as soon as Justin was old enough, arrange visits between two households. Yes...

  The idea provided long-term hope and brought him some small relief but left the immediate problem unanswerable. As he turned back to his work, he had to wonder just how he could get through a single night, yet alone the long months.

  * * * * *

  Weeks later, Christina lay on her stomach atop the huge overstuffed feather bed, staring into the fire in the hearth. She tried to refrain from looking at the open carved wood doors of her clothes closet where over twenty beautiful dresses hung neatly in rows. The dresses had just arrived from the dressmaker that day. Not only dresses but petticoats galore, chemises, corsets, undergarments, and a smattering of frilly nightclothes. There were hats, gloves, cloaks, and slippers, too. They were things, all of them things, and she wanted nothing to do with them.

  What she wanted and desperately was a sketchbook. A simple sketchbook. Sketching was the only way she knew to cope with loneliness. It had worked throughout the long hours of childhood and she knew it would work now.

  Little Justin filled many hours, it was true, and her growing son brought the only joy and happiness she felt. But a small child was hardly enough. Not only did she loathe the idea of depending on her son for her happiness and well-being, but there were long naps and other caretakers as well, Rosarn and Aggie and Justin himself—those times he was home.

  She supposed the arrival of her clothes meant the onset of socializing. There would be parties and balls and dinners and plenty of chances to meet friends. How she would love a friend! Someone to talk to and confide in, someone with whom to share things! Someone like Richard and Darrell, or like Hanna and Elsie had been.

  There was little hope of making friends at any social function Justin arranged. Like their household—with the noted exceptions of Chessy and Hope, Rosarn and Aggie—the people would be polite but distant, turned away as soon as they observed Justin's animosity toward her. And they would notice it, she knew, for Justin could not even look at her without feeling disgust. She wondered how he could bear presenting her as his wife.

  Reluctantly, she eyed the small fortune represented in the closet. Had it been hers to trade, she would gladly trade the entire wardrobe for the few coins a single sketchbook would cost. But they were not hers to trade, they were his and bought for his purpose. She had not a penny of her own. She owned nothing but a jeweled whistle and the ring left from an annulled marriage.

  Her ring...

  She looked at the small gold band on her finger. She slowly slipped it off, and holding it up to the firelight, she smiled. Oh surely she could get a few coins for it! Richard would not mind! He always knew how much her sketching meant to her!

  Justin was not home and since he was not home, she saw no possible way she could ask his permission. Now was the time! She bolted out of bed and threw on a robe and slippers, then quietly slipped down the stairs. The house was dark, quiet, and no one was still up, but she knew from Chessy that there would be a card game going on in the servants' quarters. She would ask Chessy if she might join him on his next trip to town.

  The servants' quarters were divided into two parts: colored and not, then upstairs for women and downstairs for men. All those who had families lived in separate houses on or near the property. She quickly made her way through the chilly night air.

  Everyone pretended not to notice the oddity of their house mistress, dressed in nightclothes and holding a lantern, knocking on the door to the colored servants' quarters at the late hour. Everyone but Chessy. He swung open the door and was just about to ask worriedly what was amiss when he noticed something. She was happy; happiness was etched into her face and he wondered if he had ever seen anything quite as pretty.

  "Oh, Chessy, good evening! I'm so glad you're still up."

  "Mrs. Phillips?" he inquired.

  She glanced behind him to the card table and whispered, "I was hoping I might go with you on your next trip to town?"

  "Oh... well, sure thing... why?" he asked all at once.

  "I've not seen Boston except for once and there's something I want to purchase. When are you leaving again

  "On the morrow."

  She could hardly believe her luck. "Oh good! Before dawn, I suppose?" Chessy nodded and Christina, after promising to meet him on time, turned and raced back to the house. She set the lantern carefully back on the latch. The huge front door slammed shut. Happiness and excitement brought a smile she could not suppress, made her skip like a young child to the stairs.

  She stopped abruptly.

  Justin stood at his study doors. His gaze fell over her slender figure shrouded in pale rose silk, the long unbound hair cascading in ripples over that. He quickly grasped the designs of the uncommon material used for her nightclothes. It teased with the hint of transparency but just a hint, leaving a man with only one thought—that of taking it off.

  Hope shattered the instant upon seeing him, while his brass scrutiny caused nervous hands to clasp the thin folds of her robe tightly at her neck.

  "What are you doing outside at this hour and dressed like that?"

  The question came as a demand. She stumbled awkwardly. "I... I went to talk with Chessy."

  "About what?"

  "I wondered if I might go into town with him on the morrow?"

  "Hmmm." He hardly heard.

  She was certain his pause was in search of reasons why she couldn't go on an outing, and she held her breath, bracing for some cruel rule that would prevent her from going anywhere.

  While Justin was finding it a considerable struggle to think past the rose silk, he finally triumphed and returned to the question. He wondered if Chessy was eno
ugh escort for her; he supposed he was. Boston's streets swarmed with a growing number of unemployed sailors and he knew better than most that unemployed men and trouble went hand in hand. Though probably two or three in every ten men working, worked for him. At least one of his men would be at every corner.

  "If you don't think I should—" She turned.

  "No, no I'm sure you'll enjoy an outing."

  She looked at him in shock.

  "I was only hoping though that I might persuade you to leave Justin home. I haven't seen him in a long while and I'm probably going to be rather busy in a few days."

  She paused in plain stupefaction.

  "Christina." He smiled, misunderstanding her expression, "I'm sure he'll survive a day without you."

  She nodded slowly and then before he could change his mind, she started quickly up the stairs.

  "And, Christina—"

  She stopped but did not look around, nervously crossing both arms and fingers in a fervent prayer that he would not now renege.

  "Don't let me see you wearing things like that outside your bedchambers."

  Christina smiled with relief, almost laughed, and managed to nod before racing up the stairs. Justin found himself fighting not to follow her. He combated this battle by forcing unpleasant memories back to mind.

  For a long moment he stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up, just as he had once stood on a mountain looking down with a question wanting to be yelled: "Why, Christina? Why did you do this to us?"

  * * * * *

  "You ain't goin' in thar!"

  Christina looked from Chessy to the window of a small shop pushed between one of Boston's poorer printing shops and what seemed to be an ale house. In England such shops were called "swap shops." Here it was a bootery and trading post combined. In small print beneath the signpost read: Gold and Jewelry, Bought and Sold. This was what made her stop Chessy.

  "Why not?" she asked innocently.

  "Why not?" he repeated. "It just ain't done, that's why. That shop if fer desperate po' folks and fools, lowlifes, the lot. Folks like you just don't have to be swindled by the greedy vermin that run those shops."

  "I just want to see."

  "See? What's thar to see but folks' treasures bought fer a nickel of what thar worth, being sold fer a dollar more. I'm tellin' ya, it just ain't done."

  "Well, I'm desperate enough to do it."

  "What you have to be desperate about?"

  She paused in exasperation. "It's too hard to explain. I have to; we just won't tell anyone."

  Chessy watched her gather the soft folds of her pale beige day dress, matching brown velvet jacket, and reticule. The brown hat she sported reminded him of a painted picture he once saw of a bandit named Robin Hood, with its feather and, hell—it alone was worth half as much as the whole damn shop.

  Chessy glanced nervously over the busy street, already imagining the bustling passersby's interest in the carriage and its occupant. The group of old bats across the way had already fallen into whispers. He smiled generously, tipped his hat.

  Lord, he would hear about this one.

  An hour or so later Christina sat on a bench outside another store waiting for Chessy to return from his errands. A sketchbook sat open on her lap and she, for the longest while, contented herself with just staring at a pure blank page. Then, furiously, she began drawing.

  Two sketches later, she was still consumed with the vision in her mind. She did not notice the man watching her intently. Finally and with a frustrated sigh, she slammed the book shut.

  Why would her vision never transform to paper?

  Wondering what was taking Chessy so long, she looked up and her eyes fell on the arresting face staring back at her. He wore a life's passion on his well-lined face, in the intensity of sharp dark eyes, these accented by severe dark brows. Dark hair, liberally streaked with gray, was brushed straight back from an unusually long forehead and gave a fleeting impression of madness, but only fleeting for the intelligence written on his face was plain as well.

  "Let me see," was all he said as he reached a hand to her book. His fingernails were stained with paint. While he studied her two sketches, she looked at him. He wore no jacket against the chilly winter day. Well-worn clothes were covered by a smock that showed a smattering of multicolored paint. Paint was encrusted on his boots, too, as well as beneath his fingernails.

  Beneath one arm he held a carefully wrapped box, one he had just picked up from the store. She was certain it was paint, ordered all the way from London or Paris.

  He looked at her, then back at the sketch and back at her with a quizzical expression. "You trapped the man's greed well." It was a sketch of a trade shopkeeper, a man he often had to deal with.

  The compliment filled her, somehow she knew he offered them but rarely.

  "And I saw you were dissatisfied with it. Why?"

  "It never comes out like the picture in my mind," she said with feeling as she looked at the sketchbook.

  "You hold the pencil too lightly, as though you are afraid of telling what you see." Christina's eyes shifted and told him that this was true. "Do you paint?"

  "No, I've not ever had the chance."

  The answer was telling. He would not normally even ask the question, for no woman painted. Women of her class merely passed their leisure wasting good paper with bad drawings, desperately trying to convince themselves they were not useless. He had already known she was different, as unusual as her talent. Now he knew she had the desire as well.

  "You need instruction," he said and glancing at her clothes, "and I need your wealthy father's or husband's money."

  She blushed with shock and embarrassment.

  "Spare me the display of such shallow emotion." He did not smile. "I have neither the time nor the inclination to attend to propriety. Your clothes tell me you were either born into or married someone's fortune, probably both. A simple fact. Another two facts—you need instruction and I need your money. Make no mistake, though," he cautioned. "I'd not offer my instruction for money alone. No, you have a rare talent, made rarer by the sad fact of your sex. Had nature not made such a blatant error in assigning you the female sex, you could join my weekly class where I—in vain—attempt to instruct a sorry group of idiots who have—for some unfortunate reason—the shared delusion that they are artists. Society, however, would hardly stand by such an arrangement. Women are not expected to have minds to think with, yet alone talent. Beautiful women even less so. So, we will have to make private arrangements. You may call on me at any time."

  Stunned speechless and in a daze, she passively accepted her sketchbook back and watched him turn to leave. "Wait," she suddenly called out stop him. "You must be very expensive?"

  "Yes." He watched her expression drop with plain disappointment. "Young lady," he began with condescension just as plain, "if you haven't learned to use your feminine wiles on a man yet, I was mistaken about your wits. What husband could refuse you?"

  Hers...

  "Who is your husband?"

  "Ah... Mr. Phillips, but—" She was about to say that wasn't the problem, only it was exactly the problem.

  "I should have guessed."

  "You know of him?"

  "Yes. He's had the good taste to buy three or four of my paintings. You should be glad. Not only would he encourage the pursuit of talent—even in his wife— but he's also one of the few people in this godforsaken country with the wits to appreciate it. And if anyone can afford what I'd ask, it's him."

  He left Christina without a word of good-bye, which was good, for Christina could not now speak, intimidated into speechlessness when it occurred to her just who he was. Charles Paton. Two of his paintings hung in the house, one in Justin's study, and one in the hall. Both were seascapes: pictures of a ship battling a raging sea; disquieting and violent, man's smallness pitted against an omnipotent nature. She had studied the paintings for hours, with both admiration and envy.

  She thought on the conversa
tion the entire trip back and returned to it many times in the next few days. With her usual self-effacing manner, she first tried to tell herself that he saw talent in her sketches only because he—like most artists—was in need, seeking to solicit a gullible pupil with flattery. Artists were always poor; sadly few paintings were valued in any given artist's lifetime. He had simply wanted Justin's money.

  She dismissed the subject from her mind time and again. What did it matter anyway? She had naught to pay him. She had bargained for nearly a half hour with the man in the shop, finally leaving with just barely enough to purchase a sketchbook and a proper pencil. There was not a ha'penny left. She could never but never bring herself to ask Justin for such a frivolous indulgence as painting instruction.

  As many times as she dismissed it as wishful thinking, the subject persisted to intrude on her thoughts. To actually paint on a canvas! Put colors to her sketches! She had always dreamed of painting but never as a reality. Her father had thought she wasted too much time in her sketchbooks as it was and then too he could never afford painting instruction, even if there had been someone in Hollingsborne who could provide them. Richard loved to indulge her every whim, but throughout her time with him, she had been consumed with a new mother's fascination of her first child. The idea had never occurred to her then, but even if it had, she suspected Richard would think it ridiculous for a woman to want to paint.

  Thinking again on the subject one morning while watching little Justin play in his nursery, she wondered what Justin would think if they were on terms? Would he—like Richard and her father—think it was a waste of time? An unnecessary indulgence? "You should be glad, not only would he encourage the pursuit of talent—even in his wife, but he was the wits to appreciate it." This could not be true. Men never thought women capable of art. Some part of herself wanted not to believe this. Some part of herself longed for a chance to show them wrong.