Married to a Perfect Stranger

by Jane Ashford

  * * *

  Though she found she was nearly starved, Mary begrudged the time it took to eat. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating with elation and eagerness to try the portrait again. John’s words sang through her veins. He loved her! Whether she produced the image he needed or not. He loved her. The knowledge fired her with an intense desire to create.

  The chops and mashed potatoes did make her feel better, however, along with the glass of wine John insisted she drink. She’d needed the sustenance. Still, she practically ran back up to her studio when the meal was finally done.

  “Mary,” he called after her.

  “I must,” she replied without stopping.

  In front of her easel, the anxiety returned for a moment. What if she was wrong?

  She closed her eyes, told the questions and worries to step aside, and let her spirit grow calm. She visualized the face she’d seen in the garden. Even before she opened her eyes again, her pencil began to move.

  The strokes were tentative at first, as if her fears hampered her hand. Then, slowly, they grew bold and sure. With joy and relief beating in her chest, she drew the face inside the hood.

  It was angular, almost gaunt. Sharp cheekbones jutting over a pointed jaw; inky eyes, with a pronounced slant and a small fold in the lid; a broad forehead and straight nose. She captured the snarl he’d given as he lunged at her. Her pencil racing across the pages now, she did another study in which he did not grimace, sketching in black hair rather than the cloak hood. Even faster, confidently now, she added a full-length study, showing the broad shoulders filling out the cloak. Time ticked past, and pages of the sketchbook filled, before she was satisfied that she had put down all she could remember.

  Finally, Mary leaned back and stretched. Leafing through the drawings, she saw that she’d done well. Her pulse quickened with excitement and a touch of caution at the look of the man. Her talent hadn’t failed her. Beyond accuracy, the various portraits exuded ruthlessness, the uncaring single-mindedness of a man you wouldn’t wish to cross. Not an evil person, Mary theorized as she absorbed the images. Yet iron inflexibility could yield unfortunate consequences. He certainly looked like someone who wouldn’t be swayed by softer emotions if he saw the necessity of action or by scruples as to what that action might be. She shivered as she picked up the sketch pad and hurried downstairs.

  John’s expression when he looked up as she entered the parlor tore at her heart. It was full of hope and of a determination to conceal how eager he was, if need be. This drawing really was important to him, whatever he had said earlier. She was so glad she’d managed to do it that she felt she could burst. “Success,” she said and handed over the open pad.

  John took it and stared down at the face depicted there. He took in every detail, tried to compare this man with those he remembered from Limehouse. The truth was he found Asian faces harder to distinguish than English ones. The Chinese had said the same about Lord Amherst’s delegation, often mistaking one for another or simply expressing confusion. Perhaps there was some mechanism of discrimination learned in childhood and hard to expand. But that would not do; he had to figure out who this was.

  “I did a number of different views,” Mary said.

  He flipped the pages and examined all the portraits, inch by inch. And he couldn’t recognize the man she’d drawn. He had a nagging feeling, increasing with time, that he should, that he might have seen him somewhere. He turned the pages this way and that, trying to jog a memory. He’d observed, evaluated, talked to so many similar men during his visits to Limehouse. Was this one of them? Or…more likely, someone who’d lurked in the background, watching. He squinted at the pages, racked his brain. Wasn’t there something? There must be. But he couldn’t pin down a memory of this face, if memory it was.

  John reviewed every single drawing. Theories and possibilities niggled at his mind. But stare as he might, he couldn’t place the fellow. He didn’t know where—or, he had to be honest, even if—he had ever seen him.

  John slumped a bit over the sketchbook. He’d counted on recognizing the man Mary had seen, he realized now. He’d planned to have an urgent, coherent story to take to his superiors, to be able to point out where he’d encountered him and what that implied. That would be so much more powerful than a nameless drawing of a suspicious character who’d followed him a time or two.

  Suddenly, as if Fordyce was actually in the room, he could hear the fellow drawling, “Did you hear that Bexley’s begun exhibiting his wife’s scrawls at the office? Lady Castlereagh wasn’t enough for her, it seems.” John bent protectively over the page. He flogged his brain. Nothing.

  Nevertheless, he must take these in. Whether this was some Limehouse tough marking his movements or a watcher from some other place, it had to be reported. The Foreign Office always came down on the side of more information, rather than less. They wanted to know things. They deplored and resented ignorance; they excoriated those who withheld even trivial facts. Agents who did so were punished, even dismissed if they persisted. And this might not be trivial. It probably wasn’t. If only he could attach the least bit of fact to the image, have some certainty about how it would be received.

  But he couldn’t, stare as he would. Part of him jeered that Fordyce would have a field day. Another of your wife’s famous drawings, Bexley? Really? Who is it this time, the prime minister? No? Ah, a sinister figure following you through the dark streets? My goodness, how dreadful for you. Are you so important, indeed?

  Others would pick it up from Fordyce. That was the man’s genius—to inspire a group to greater heights of sniping and mockery. Wildly embroidered stories would spread, just for the amusement of it. There were those who delighted in gossip for its own sake, true or false. Oh, God. His brothers would hear and start in on him again.

  “Is something wrong?” Mary said.

  He tried to compose his expression. It wasn’t only him. They would laugh at Mary, too. He hated the thought of exposing her to more ridicule.

  “I’m sure I got it right,” she added.

  She was looking anxious again. How could she continue to doubt her abilities? The portraits practically jumped from the page, they looked so alive.

  “Have you seen him before?” she said.

  He shook his head. “I don’t… I’m not sure.”

  “You think perhaps you have?”

  He simply didn’t know!

  “You should do as you suggested to me, put them away for a while and then go back.”

  He stared at her.

  “Memory can be fickle,” she went on, faltering a little under his gaze. “I know…sometimes I wrack my brain and nothing comes until I stop thinking about…whatever it is.”

  And as she spoke to him in much the same tone he’d taken with her earlier, John realized that Mary wasn’t the only one who had unreasonable doubts even though she was an immensely capable person. Apparently, this was a lesson one had to continually relearn. How much easier it was to advise another than to follow the same advice. “I’ll take them to the office tomorrow,” he said. He would think of a trustworthy, open-minded person to approach…

  “You think they will be a help?”

  John set the sketchbook down, and turned his full attention to his wife. She looked so shyly hopeful. “Absolutely.”

  Her smile lit the room. It lit John’s heart, and he could do nothing but smile back.

  Twenty-one

  Mary woke to blades of sunshine through chinks in the curtains and the rush of a brisk wind outside. She stretched luxuriously in her bed, stirring the scent of lavender from the linens. Every inch of her felt wonderful, and her mood was euphoric. Last night had been positively glorious. When she’d first married, she’d never imagined such a melding of tenderness and heat, depth of emotion and intensity of sensation. Indeed, she hadn’t known bliss like that existed. She and John had talked until very
late as well. There hadn’t been hours enough for all they had to share. This was happiness, she thought. She lay there for a while savoring the knowledge.

  Finally, Mary threw back the covers and got up. The room was chilly. John usually added coals to the fire when he rose, thoughtfully leaving her room warm for her. She had a vague memory of exclamations today. She’d half woken to hear him swearing about being late.

  She dressed and went downstairs to roust out Kate and breakfast. Then she went to speak to Mrs. Tanner about cooking some of John’s favorite dishes for dinner. In the kitchen, Arthur wanted to tell her all about a street magician he’d seen and the astonishing tricks he could do. Thus, it was midmorning before Mary went into the front parlor. She was sitting there, mending a rent in one of her petticoats, when she saw her sketchbook leaning against the end of the sofa. They’d set it aside when their attention turned to other matters last night and left it.

  John had gone off to work without the drawings. Had he changed his mind about taking them? Mary’s doubts threatened to rise. Had he simply been humoring her when he said he valued them? No, she knew that wasn’t true.

  But how could he have forgotten them after all the emotion these drawings had roused and all their talk about what was to be done with them? Not to mention his plans for gathering useful information. He’d said it was vital to put the images before his superiors.

  Mary picked up that sketchbook. It had been left open at the snarling portrait, showing the man lunging at her. For some odd reason, this made her think of her drawing of Lady Castlereagh, who would have snarled at her, if it hadn’t been ill-mannered. Thank heaven Eleanor had been able to smooth over that incident.

  And then it occurred to Mary that it would be quite difficult for John to present another drawing of hers to people at the Foreign Office, perhaps the very ones who had whispered behind his back about the previous one. The scandal had been so hard on him. He’d had to face it every day, as she had not. And he cared so much about doing well at his job. Mary still fumed about the unfairness of it all—that he’d been blamed for something she had done.

  She should have thought of this before. But, no, she’d been too caught up in her own concerns to think about her husband’s. She supposed he would have to persuade his colleagues to look at the portraits. Some of them—that irritating man Fordyce, for example—would be skeptical. He would have to explain and justify the necessity. She should spare him that. She should take the drawings to the Foreign Office herself.

  Mary swallowed and folded her hands tight in her lap. She couldn’t intrude at his office. She wasn’t part of that area of his life. And anyway, he might have made some other plan this morning. He wouldn’t have wakened her about that. He would tell her this evening. But the sketchbook leaning against the sofa didn’t look planned.

  She gripped her hands tighter. The truth was she was afraid to face strangers with her work and insist that it was important. She could still see that mocking circle of faces at the party. She told herself this was different, but it felt similar enough to make her stomach twist. So, asked a sharp inner voice, because it’s a risk, you will push the task off on John?

  “No,” Mary said out loud. But she still wavered for some minutes—determined and frightened, resolute and appalled. But slowly, she stoked her courage. She would do this for John.

  She hurried to gather what she needed before she could lose her nerve. Donning her hat and cloak, she told Mrs. Tanner that she would be out for quite some time.

  * * *

  It was damnably difficult to concentrate in a meeting about events occurring on the other side of the world when your mind was full of other concerns, John Bexley thought. How had he left home without Mary’s drawings? Yes, he had woken very late and rushed out without a bite of breakfast, but the drawings were rather more important than a mouthful of toast. He had come to a decision about them, and he had meant to follow through. He did not appreciate his mind playing tricks and making him forget their existence.

  He could see the sketchbook sitting beside the sofa where he had placed it last night. He had walked right by the parlor door and left it there.

  Not only that, but the face on those pages nagged at him. There was something…some wisp of memory in the back of his brain. It drove him nearly mad that he couldn’t pin it down. If only it would surface. Then he could justify leaving the drawings for another day, when he would have a more complete story to tell. He concentrated. Mary had caught the man’s features so vividly, the anger, the furious snarl.

  And it hit John like a pugilist’s fist. This menacing man had been lurking around his house. Mary’s house. After he’d gone to great lengths to remain invisible, Mary had caught him in a lantern beam. She’d exposed him, and he knew where she lived. John half rose from his chair. Why hadn’t he considered this before? He’d been so enmeshed in his own concerns. He could be there at this very moment. Just because he hadn’t shown up yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

  The man had no way of knowing that Mary could capture his likeness so perfectly, John told himself. Or at all. It was a rare talent. But he wasn’t convinced. John couldn’t believe he’d overlooked this aspect of the matter. He’d let his own struggles threaten a person he loved more than life itself. She’d believed in him, supported him, and he’d left her alone in the path of an unknown danger. He stood. And faced a circle of startled faces around the table.

  “What is it?” said Conolly. “Something in the reports?”

  “No. I…I beg your pardon, but I have just remembered…a family emergency…” Ignoring the raised eyebrows and puzzled glances exchanged by the other men, he rushed out.

  The watcher had only appeared at night, he told himself as he strode down the stairs and out of the Foreign Office building. He’d only followed, never attacked. But what if that had changed…? John started to run. At the livery stable he pushed past the surprised ostler and threw the saddle on his horse. If he lost Mary… His gut twisted. He wouldn’t think about that—except to let it spur him on. Nothing was more important than preserving her, certainly not his own stupid pride.

  John rode as quickly as he could through the busy streets. He would take the drawings to…Lord Amherst’s secretary would be a good choice. He was exceedingly intelligent, and he listened. He’d have the man hunted down. And they’d set a watch on the house until he was caught. Mary would be safe.

  John bypassed his usual stable and rode all the way home, tying his mount at the garden fence. He went in calling Mary’s name. She wasn’t in the front parlor.

  Arthur Windly popped up the kitchen steps. “She’s out,” he said.

  “Out where?”

  “I dunno, sir. She told Cook she’d likely be away all afternoon.”

  Perhaps she’d gone on an outing with Lady Caroline, John thought. That was all to the good. It gave him time to arrange things. John scanned the parlor. The sketch pad wasn’t there. Perhaps she’d taken it up to her retreat. What had she thought when she found it here? He headed for the stairs.

  Arthur trailed after him. “You’re back right early today. How come?”

  “I…came to fetch something.” John hurried up the steps.

  Arthur stayed right behind him. “Is it for an adventure? I could help. I’ve…”

  “No.” That was far too…lighthearted a word for the urgency he felt.

  “…been practicing.”

  What did that mean? But John couldn’t spare the time to inquire. “Go back to your work,” he said. He saw Arthur’s face fall as the boy turned away. He would talk to him this evening or tomorrow—sometime—whenever he’d taken care of this pressing task.

  He went into Mary’s studio and rifled through the sketch pads lying there. Amid the jumble of faces, he couldn’t find the right drawings. Wild with impatience, he had to slow down and check the sketchbooks one by one. But the drawings he wanted were
n’t there. He rushed to Mary’s bedchamber, thinking she might have put them somewhere safer. He looked everywhere and found nothing. What could she have done with them?

  Struck by a sudden thought, John hurried downstairs. Everyone in the kitchen looked considerably startled when he burst in. “Was Mrs. Bexley carrying anything when she went out?” he asked.

  The maid and the cook looked at each other, then back at him, clearly mystified.

  “She had one of her drawing books,” Arthur said.

  With a stifled oath, John raced back to his horse.

  * * *

  Mary walked through the portals of the Foreign Office with her pulse pounding in her ears. She gave the attendant a note she’d already prepared for William Conolly, and as it was sent up, she prayed he would heed her request not to tell John she was here. A few minutes later, Conolly appeared. “You didn’t say anything to John?” she had to ask.

  “I couldn’t. He’s gone out somewhere. In a great hurry.” He eyed her. “What’s going on? What have you heard?”

  “Heard?” Mary thought he seemed oddly intent.

  “Did that boy…what’s his…Arthur say something…?”

  “What?” Had William Conolly met Arthur when he came to dinner? She was sure he hadn’t. “What has Arthur to do with anything?”

  “Precisely,” was his odd reply.

  Was her appearance at the office this unsettling? Mary couldn’t imagine why. She spoke slowly and clearly. “I need to see someone in authority who was with John on the China mission.” She’d thought it over and concluded this made the greatest sense. “Someone…in charge.”

  “Why?” was the blunt response.

  “I have something important to show him.”

  “What is it? And why don’t you get John to…”

  “He’s not involved with this. It’s all my own idea. He can’t be blamed.”

  Conolly looked even more skeptical. “Blamed for what?”