by Elsa Holland
She needed to breathe, work out what was happening, and in the worst case, she would have enough time to exit with grace and hand over the viewing to Evans.
Her breath came in and out of her mouth, her hand rose to her chest. A reassuring weight as it pressed against her. That was good. Nice and steady breaths.
Automatically she backtracked to dinner. Roast pheasant, with cranberry and red wine sauce. Kipfler potatoes with a luscious dill dressing. A range of steamed greens. The soup, a bouillabaisse. She’d passed on the Crème Brûlée. No . . . Nothing that could be put down to any adulteration of the food . . . No canned foods of any kind nothing that could have turned in the preserving. Everything had been fresh and well-prepared, served at the correct temperature.
Her hand slipped down and clasped the edge of her jacket, tugged at the hem to straighten it.
Calm. Stay calm.
She wasn’t suffering any kind of food poisoning.
That odd tightness, the light-headedness remained.
She knew what it was.
It was him.
The tension of seeing him, of being in his presence after what she had done, combined with her frustration at her situation in life; these were the cause of her maladies. Not him, he was just a man. Most likely one whom left a great deal to be desired. Calmer, Elspeth returned her regard to Mr. Blackburn.
And all over again a flurry of awareness rushed through her torso and squeezed at her throat.
I feel nothing. She reminded herself.
The photograph didn’t do him justice. His face was angular, framed by black moody shoulder length hair that leant a shocking clarity to his eyes. Eyes which, even from this distance, showed immense intelligence and breathtaking intensity. He sat in formal attire, black and whites; the girls were always viewed after a grand dinner hosted by the Hurleys. Men bought more readily when their bellies were full, and their other appetites stimulated.
He leaned back in the oversized glossy black wingback, exuding the relaxed confidence—nay, arrogance—that only came with extreme wealth and power; from the ability to know how to acquire exactly what you wanted from life and the people around you. It was both strangely appealing and off-putting at the same time.
That tight, somewhat allergic squeeze across her chest returned, along with the rapid beating of her heart.
I feel nothing, she reminded herself. She was just agitated because of what she’d done.
A glass of port sat on a side table, as yet untouched. Next to the liquor was a portfolio containing photographs of the girls, as well as their health records, their interests, talents and learning.
A small sky-blue ottoman was placed close to the wingback chair, where the Collector could ask the girls to sit and converse. This was to allow the Collector to inspect a Canvas more closely; to observe their manner, their skin, their beauty, and to gauge their suitability to the life he led and the circles he would expose them to.
Mimi was the first to step forward.
The tension was high as Elspeth and the girls waited for his signal to bring Mimi to the ottoman. It didn’t come.
Elspeth felt for her—Mimi had been so excited.
The tension rose again as Mr. Blackburn motioned for Florence to step forward next. They all waited as the request for Florence to sit on the blessed ottoman never came.
Elspeth willed her body to relax as she watched. Tried to distance herself from the feelings of the girls already rejected.
Mr. Blackburn motioned for Mona to step forward.
Then Susan.
And then Meryl.
Until he came to the end of the line, the little blue ottoman unused. The air sparked, emotions were brittle.
No! How could he be so callous? Photographs were clearly no indication of character!
Indignation spiked through her as she took a step forward. Elspeth caught the attention of Evans, who ensured the Collectors received everything they needed during the viewing. This would simply not do. Every one of her girls was remarkable. Even if Mr. Blackburn declined them all, he should, at least, take the time to speak with some of them.
If she could stand up to Picasso on one of his moody days when he refused to tutor as agreed, she could certainly deal with a self-made man.
Evans shook his head no and scowled.
Too late. He was a foolish man if he expected her to remain silent. Elspeth took out the small notepad she kept in her pocket and wrote what she hoped would be helpful advice.
Mr. Blackburn,
Can I suggest you ask a few of the girls to come and sit on the blue ottoman? Perhaps request they tell you a little about themselves; although well-prepared, the portfolios cannot compare with speaking to the Canvas in person.
I recommend starting with Annabelle, second from the left.
Yours respectfully,
E James
Elspeth passed the note to Evans, discreetly stationed at the side of the room, and then moved back into her position at the back of the viewing platform.
Mr. Blackburn’s gaze shifted over to her as she moved.
Elspeth froze.
His regard was piercing, an exacting and penetrating force that sent shards through her chest, pinning her to the spot and setting her ablaze under her garments.
Damn it.
A cacophony of nerves ran through her body. A flock of sparrows that changed into a murder of crows as he leaned fractionally forward, holding her gaze. She should never have fantasized about him with that cursed photograph. If she had only controlled herself, none of this would be happening.
May all the gods in India help her—there were far more of them there and she needed them all. She managed a placating and encouraging smile. In response, he continued to look at her, his face expressionless.
Stop looking at me—look at the girls! She shot the thought as clearly as she could through her gaze.
It registered—she knew it did—but his face remained unreadable.
She narrowed her eyes and his face remained that unreadable blank.
The note arrived. Her fingers curled around the edge of her jacket, chest tightening.
The moment his gaze slipped from hers, the cacophony of wings in her chest died down.
He opened the folded missive. Read it. Then screwed it up. After a second, he dropped it by the chair.
Oh. No.
He looked at her again. This time, there was something far more disturbing about the way he looked, something she couldn’t define. It was the look of a big cat, like one of the black panthers she saw in London Zoo. Those predatory beasts stared unblinkingly and made you wonder if they wanted to eat you for dinner or slide up against you in a feline rub of affection.
Those damn wings started to flap about in her chest again.
Ridiculous!
Each second stretched into agonizing lengths as his gaze moved over her. Her face, her cap, her . . . breasts.
He’s looking at my breasts! The impertinent sod.
Yet it would be a lie to say the attention wasn’t heady.
Elspeth swatted down those internal cavorting birds and pulled her shoulders back.
His eyebrows rose.
What? What had she done now?
Heat raced over her skin and her fingers pinched the comforting fabric of her jacket hem. Then she understood. Straightening her shoulders, she’d naturally pushed her breasts out further.
She was mortified.
Her eyes met his gaze.
He looked bored, it made her skin flame even more.
Finally, he looked away, turning his attention back to the gaggle of beauties lined up before him and dismissing her as the irrelevant, dowdy governess she was dressed to be. Her teeth clenched tight against each other. After a few moments he stood, made a small bow to the girls, and exited.
She wasn’t sure what she was more upset about; the idiot she’d made of herself, his disinterest in her or the fact that the excited glow was washed out of every single girl’s face.
An hour and a half in preparation to see him and less than five minutes of showing, all of the Canvases dismissed, not worthy of so much as a conversation.
“Alright, girls, let’s get you out of the showing gowns. Clean your faces. A small refreshment will be served, as usual, in the Morris room.”
He was a stupid, stupid man.
Chapter 2
As Elspeth hurried the disappointed girls out, a strange foreboding set in. And there was the matter of her interfering with a viewing, again.
Well, they were all fortunate to escape such an unpersonable Collector.
The Canvases bustled out and made their way back to the dressing room. In less than twenty minutes they were all changed and gathered upstairs in the Morris room, talking of Mr. Blackburn’s cold stare. His hard beauty. He was positively Byronesque. Such rugged savagery. Maybe he was a Heathcliff?
“Maybe he is just a surly man who needs to learn the protocol before he comes back again.” Elspeth regretted the words as soon as she said them. She never denigrated the Collectors. One of the girls would most likely be tied to him for the rest of her life. That unfortunate girl didn’t need him to be thought of as less in anyone’s eyes.
In reality she was chastising herself. She was a good judge of character and he was not who she’d imagined him to be. The very thought of him, or even the proposition of encountering him again in person made her feel distaste at her weakness; to have fallen for a photograph.
Behind her, Evans coughed.
“Ms. James, you have been requested back in the showing room.”
She placed her cup of tea and half-eaten shortbread biscuit aside. Her heart started to beat a little faster.
He complained about me.
She stood.
Of course he did.
“Surely this can wait until I get the girls to their beds?” If Mr. Blackburn had told the twins about her note, she expected to be chastised. Yet to be remonstrated so quickly, and in the viewing room, was highly irregular.
“Sorry, Miss James, you’re requested now.”
She tugged at the hem of her jacket.
“Did he talk to the Hurleys?”
Naturally he would. Such a man did not rise to the upper echelons of society without using all the avenues of power at his disposal.
Evans nodded, “I believe so.”
Blast the man.
She’d only just made the Hurleys forget about Lord Cusworth. It had been rude not to allow him to see the girl of his choice, however, in her opinion, had he procured the girl he was focusing on, he would have been unhappy. Now, Lord Cusworth was blissfully content with the choice Elspeth had presented him with. Last month, the Hurley has received a note from Lord Cusworth containing sentiments to that effect, restoring her to their good graces.
And now this.
Evans gave her a shake of his head. “Hold your bluster—it’s not exactly as you may expect.”
Pff.
It would be exactly as she expected.
Elspeth stopped at the oval mirror to the side of the door. The William Morris wallpaper curled and unfurled in intricate leaves, flowers and vines framing her reflection; a pale face with gray eyes under charcoal brows.
The Hurleys knew she was bristling against the restrictions of her position, of being confined to the periphery. All these years of surreptitiously taking in all the lessons the girls received, the tastes of life that would never be hers, was making her restless, and the Hurley twins knowing something like that about a person on the chest board was always troublesome.Behind her, the girls talked and laughed as they shared how mortified they were, releasing some of their tension. How fearsome his gaze was. How alluring his bad behaviour somehow made him.
Pff.
Why did people immediately think that because a man didn’t follow etiquette, he was bravely following his own rules?
Not her.
All he demonstrated was lack. Lack of breeding, lack of discernment and lack of attention.
A sudden flutter moved through her chest.
He had been as remarkably handsome as his photograph. Perhaps even more so.
Double Pff.
She had to amend that opinion.
Well, she revised, perhaps he didn’t altogether lack the capacity for attention. The girls had returned from the viewing with flushed cheeks and, each in their own way, spoke of the excitement, of the strange feelings evoked as he’d gazed upon them.
And in truth, just like the girls, when he’d focused on her, she’d felt touched by that gaze. Intimately touched, as if the distance between them was swallowed up, along with her breath. Touched as if he was right in front of her, as if she could almost feel the heat of his body pressing across hers. Even as he sat stoically in that black wingback half a room away.
That’s what his attention did.
Elspeth fixed her cap, tucking in stray locks of hair.
Stop thinking about him.
He was surly and unpardonable, that is what she needed to remember. Any attraction she felt was due solely to the fact that she’d layered machinations onto his image in the deep of night, as her body demanded she acknowledge its needs.
She straightened her clothes, pinched her cheeks then followed Evans down the stairs.
Strangely enough, he led her to the front viewing room rather than the back library the Hurleys preferred.
She started for the door that led into the main room where the Collectors sat. Evans pulled her short.
“This way, Miss James, I was requested to show you in via the viewing platform.”
“I see.” Her stomach tightened.
Being chastised by the Hurleys was an odd experience at the best of times. It could involve a talk about the failings of Mary Antoinette, or Wellington’s winning strategies at the battle of Waterloo. The intentions and desired outcomes that the Hurleys were seeking to establish were often somewhat hard to decipher.
And yet they ruthlessly played with lives. They bartered and drove exceedingly hard bargains for the Canvases and Painted Sisters, which they themselves had imagined into being.
The trouble was this would be a familiar topic, today’s chastisement would be familiar to them all; the Hurleys had, no doubt, grown tired of telling Elspeth not to interfere with the process of the viewings, just as she had grown tired of hearing it. It was just that most of the men needed some orientation, some guidance as to who they may be best suited to, and she was the best person to provide that guidance.
In the days preceding each viewing, she’d spend a good few hours looking at the information the Hurleys possessed on the Collector involved. The process of acquiring a Painted Sister involved a rather extensive questionnaire, which the Collector filled out. Mr. Blackburn refused to supply information regarding many of the areas that pertained to his background, his family, and to a large degree, his tastes.
She’d also investigated his background by engaging the Hurleys in conversation. Although these types of conversations were often challenging to keep on track and to yield any great amount of information, the Hurleys being the age they were, knew a great deal of the hidden goings-on in the world of The Collectors. They added an extra degree of insight to her assessments, which more than once resulted in her changing her mind regarding which Canvas was the most suitable for the Collector in question.
Her assessment for Mr. Blackburn was very clear. Mr. Blackburn viewed a Painted Sister as an asset rather than as a companion. He would need to have his Painted Sister be available for more events than most, and would not be lounging around his home gazing at his new acquisition. Indeed, he may have very little need for them outside the Collector events he attended.
In Elspeth’s estimation, Annabelle was the best fit of the current Canvases for Mr. Blackburn. She was vibrant, beautiful, charming and a brilliant conversationalist. Anabelle would flourish being shown with great frequency and being immersed in the more social and political side of the Collector’s world. And m
aybe she would soften his Machiavellian focus and win a slice of his desire, if not his heart.
Elspeth took a deep breath. As she followed Evans to the door that led to the viewing platform, she readied the arguments. She would simply say that Mr. Blackburn appeared to lack the basic understanding of the process, and she was trying to be helpful. Suggest that they present Annabelle in a one-on-one viewing as they sometimes did. She tugged at her jacket and steeled herself for what was to come.
Evans opened the door, and Elspeth strode through. It took her a moment to take in the situation. She expected to see her employers, but their elderly forms were not in the room. The door clicked close behind her, and all she could see was him. The cold, chisel-faced Mr. Blackburn.
Immediately, the furious beating in her chest resumed.
She glanced at the door she’d come through, then back to the man who looked so very much better than his picture and who was so very unlike the qualities she imagined he’d possess.
He sat in the wingback. A fresh glass of port resting in long solid fingers. Evans did not come back into the room.
“We’re alone,” she spoke her thought out loud.
“We are.” His voice was deep and clear. Confident—with no accent to indicate where he was from, save that he was British and well-educated.
This situation was highly irregular. That there should be one woman, alone in a room with a Collector, was a rare scenario; condoned only towards the end of negotiations to allow the Canvas a chance to ask particular questions before she signed her skin away and tied herself irrevocably to her Collector.
For her, right now, it was an opportunity.
Elspeth stepped closer to the end of the platform.
The lights shone brightly on her face. She shaded her eyes, irritated at what felt like one unexpected situation after another. What had the Hurleys been thinking to send her in like this?
“If you have returned to chastise me for being helpful, I suggest you get it over with.” She pulled her shoulders back, then hastily remembered the last time she did that.
His eyebrows rose.
