by Karen Ranney
“Why do you walk every day? Especially in inclement weather?”
“All in all, I’d rather dance than walk,” she said brightly, “but I have no music and no partner.”
He frowned at her but didn’t comment. How very autocratic he was. Not unlike a Russian prince.
“Are you French?” he asked.
She smiled. “I speak French fluently,” she said, not adding she also spoke Italian and Russian as well. For some reason, languages had always come easily to her. “But I was born in Fife.”
He looked surprised, as everyone did when she divulged that fact.
“But you’ve not lived in Scotland all your life.”
“No,” she said. “I haven’t.” She waited for another question, but it didn’t come.
She wished she didn’t have the urge to shiver. If she gave in to her chills, however, she’d be miserable by the time she made it back to the cottage.
His voice didn’t sound as if the cold mattered to him. But then, he was bundled up in a heavy greatcoat, hat, and gloves. There was even a muffler around his neck. Nor did the horse look discommoded by the weather. Perhaps it was the weight of the heavy saddle blanket. Or were Scottish horses as arrogant as their owners?
The Earl of Linnet’s features were stiff, his eyes guarded, and she wondered if it was the cold creating such a mask of his face. Or was it something else? Emotion, perhaps?
“I had no idea Tom and Janet had not been paid all the time I was in France.”
What a very odd comment. Did he care about what she thought? Of course he didn’t. He was simply being the Earl of Linnet, a little stiff, certainly haughty. Still, the mention of France brought back Janet’s story.
She was not given to overt acts of empathy. Most of the time she studied people simply with an eye to composition, the curve of a cheek, the highlights in the hair, the exact shade of their skin. She was an observer, and rarely moved to involve herself with the subject of her intense scrutiny.
Once, a princess in St. Petersburg had started sobbing so much during her sitting Margaret had no choice but to put down her brush and engage the girl in conversation. Her story was not unexpected—the princess had fallen in love with a man not her equal, and, of course, her parents objected. Margaret had uttered what comforting words she could, given the order for tea, and an hour later the girl was consoled enough to keep her pose.
Ever since then, she’d imposed strict requirements on her subjects—they were to be accompanied by one other individual, a guardian or friend. That way, if the subject became overwhelmed by emotion, there was either a friend to commiserate or a guardian to chastise. Either way, Margaret was not pulled into the role of confessor. Instead, she could be free to concentrate on her work.
Now, however, she was uncomfortably aware no one could act as her proxy. She could not summon a maid. Nor could she send a note.
She looked up at him, wanting to say something, but being unable to push the words from her mouth. Finally, all she could manage was to fix her gaze on the Earl of Linnet, and say, “I am so very sorry.”
He looked down at her, a disdainful look, if she were given to ascribing emotions to gestures. She might have painted him, perhaps as Caesar.
But instead of commenting, he simply directed his attention back to the neck of his horse, patting it absently as if caring more for the animal than for her effort at sympathy.
His was an arresting face, but it wasn’t simply his looks fueling her curiosity. She wanted to see his eyes more clearly. She wanted to look into them and decipher the emotion she’d only caught a glimpse of a second ago. Perhaps the Earl of Linnet was not as arrogant as she’d originally believed. Or perhaps his arrogance was like hers, a shield to protect her. She wanted no one to come closer, and to that end, she was polite but distant.
One thing was evident—neither one of them was adept in the giving of comfort or the receiving of it.
She stood, brushing her skirt surreptitiously in case snow clung to it.
He turned and faced her. “Why have you come to Blackthorne Cottage, Miss Dalrousie?”
She stared at him, startled. “Why?”
“Why not some other city in Scotland?”
“Is there any reason I should answer that question? Why is it so important you know?”
“Can I not evince some curiosity about my only neighbor? Why should I not?”
“I came here for the bracing air. For the conviviality,” she said. “For the amity of the neighborhood.”
She had no intention of telling him she’d nearly been destitute in Edinburgh, despairing of any way of earning her keep when she’d been contacted by a solicitor. From him she’d learned of her benefactor, a man who wished to remain anonymous, but who’d evidently admired her work enough to bequeath Blackthorne Cottage to her. If she were frugal, there was enough money as well to maintain herself for the rest of her life.
“You’re out riding,” she said, ignoring his question. “Isn’t it a bit cold for a canter?”
“I’m going to Inverness.”
“On horseback?”
He didn’t say anything. Nor did he even nod in response. Instead, he simply mounted, then turned his horse and rode away.
As she watched him, it occurred to her she’d been tactless. Was she simply rusty in the art of conversation, or was it her reaction to him?
He wouldn’t want to ride in a carriage, would he?
She wished she hadn’t had that insight into the Earl of Linnet. She’d much rather feel irritation for the man than this unwelcome sympathy.
Annoying man.
Chapter 6
Margaret returned to Blackthorne Cottage and made herself a cup of tea. Her next task was to write her solicitor, a chore she’d been avoiding for the past week. In all actuality, it seemed a very dubious exercise of her time and energy. She wrote him, and he always answered in the negative.
No, Miss Dalrousie, I have not been able to secure any of your funds from Russia. No, Miss Dalrousie, I have not yet been able to discover the origin of the crest you gave me.
Still, she needed to keep some communication between them. Perhaps one day he’d have different answers.
Resolutely, Margaret put her cup down on the table and stood, sighing audibly. There was no one in the cottage to hear her, but the dramatic gesture felt good nonetheless.
She would need to retrieve her writing desk. Every week, Tom rode into the village to purchase supplies and collect the post. Tomorrow was his normally scheduled day, and the letter would have to be ready.
She took the narrow staircase to the second floor and turned left. Hesitating on the landing, she looked toward the room where she’d had her trunks stored. Without giving herself time to think, she crossed the landing and opened the door.
Here there was no bedstead, no dresser, no armoire, only three trunks, a small upholstered chair, and an easel set up beside the window.
She went to the largest trunk and flipped the catch. Slowly, she pushed the trunk lid up and back, letting it rest against the wall. The trunk was not as beautifully packed as when she’d left St. Petersburg. She’d not packed it then, leaving her pigment powders and brushes to be stored away by the apprentice she’d hired.
Peter, that was his name. How odd she could recall him so clearly, as if he were standing here now. He’d only been with her for a matter of months, and rarely in her company. She’d relied upon him to prepare the canvases for paint, to blend some of the pigments in the proportions she’d requested. He was responsible for building the canvases as well, in the size she required for the next commission.
When she’d left Edinburgh, she’d not packed as carefully as Peter, but she’d been careful with her brushes. Her sable brushes, made in Italy, the mahogany handles bearing her initials in gold, were individually wrapped in leather and lay side by side, graduated by size. The special fan brush, so very necessary in creating lace, was wrapped with gauze so as to not damage the shape of the bristl
es.
Now she simply yearned to hold a brush again, to stand in the same position as she’d once stood easily for hours.
For those moments in time she could feel the emotions of her subjects, experience their joy or their sorrow and somehow use those feelings to translate their form, their substance to canvas. Sometimes, when the painting was complete, she felt as if it were more tangible than the human being in front of her. She knew that for as long as this painting existed, a moment had been captured. Perhaps if she had been very fortunate, and very skilled, the image could evoke emotion. What more could a painting be?
Her subjects had always complained about the silence she imposed during a sitting, of the sheer boredom of sitting or standing for hours. Not once had anyone asked if she were tired, if she were bored, if her back pained her from her pose or if her arm was stiff from holding the brush.
When it was done, when they all relaxed or stretched indolently, not one of them had ever asked her if she wanted to sit, if she wished tea, if she felt as drained as they.
With every painting, she gained little more insight, a little more experience. But with every painting she felt as if part of herself were left on the canvas. A confession she’d never made to another living soul, save Peter. He’d only looked at her with wide brown eyes and nodded, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he were a painter as well, and not simply an apprentice to one.
She’d never asked.
Instead, she’d been focused on herself in those days, enamored with her own status as painter to the Imperial Court of Russia. She’d been so enmeshed in her work, and so thrilled with her own stature, she’d probably treated people around her with the same disdain the Russians treated everyone not in their circle.
Perhaps she should have been as temperamental as the Russians, but she’d never known any circumstance deserving of such excess of emotion. A ruined gown was an expense, not a tragedy. A burned curl, a badly laundered chemise, both of these could be supreme annoyances, but not cause to shriek at a maid.
She preferred a more balanced approach to life, a less emotional outlook.
That was before. Now? She wasn’t certain exactly how she would react to any circumstance. In a way, she was still learning herself, the woman and not the painter.
She went to another trunk and opened it as well. From it she withdrew two of her most utilitarian brushes, before closing the trunk and moving to the opposite side of the room.
When she’d left Edinburgh, she’d destroyed those paintings she’d been trying to finish. The work had been abysmal, sloppy, and unworthy of her. But she’d taken the prepared canvases on the off chance that one day she’d be able to paint again. Now she retrieved her easel and placed a small canvas on it.
The canvas was dry, pristine, and naked, awaiting the first tentative touches. Sometimes, she sketched in the scene, particularly if it was a difficult composition. She liked the feel of charcoal in her hands, smudging her fingers. Perhaps the weightlessness of the burned wood reminded her that even the idea of art was an ephemeral one.
The moment when her painting was first viewed by the world always seemed to her to be the same sensation a new mother would feel upon revealing her child. I have created this. Not solely or completely, but this creation lived beneath my heart, and I brought it into the world in suffering and in joy.
When a portrait was finished, she often stood on the other side of the room and watched as a subject viewed his likeness for the very first time. Her attention was not on her work but on the face of the person she’d painted. She wanted to see that first spark of recognition, that look of surprised delight or perhaps even awe.
Would God now show pity on her and grant her the talent she needed? Could she push herself out of the way enough to allow the talent to show through? Could she banish her fear, summon her courage to the degree she could devote herself entirely to the task at hand?
If so, she would succeed. If she could not, then even the effort of painting would be a disaster.
Wasn’t that what had happened to her since Russia? The person had occupied too much of her mind. Margaret had become fully fleshed, no longer a painter but a woman, wounded, hurt, and afraid.
There was no pigment on the brush, but her fingers knew how to hold it regardless. Her mind could almost see the portrait she needed to paint.
She stretched out her arm, touching the tip of the brush to the prepared canvas. She was trembling so badly the end of the brush was shaking. Still, she held her pose, biting her lip to fight back the emotion.
Every day, every week, every month since Russia, it had been the same.
If, for some reason, she could never paint again, she’d have to come to terms with that fact. Some people lost their sight, others their hearing. Then there were those true unfortunates who became bedridden and ill. She was none of those things. She had seen and done what most people could only dream about accomplishing in their lives.
Why, then, did she feel as if her very heart had been carved out of her chest? Ever since she’d been given her first canvas, she’d only come alive when she was standing right here in this position. Her soul was engaged, soaring so far above her that the feeling was magical.
When her talent had left her, when the ability to paint had disappeared, a portion of her soul had shriveled and turned black like charcoal.
A tear slipped from her eye, and she angrily flicked it away. She tossed the brush into the tray in front of the easel, treating her brush roughly, something she’d never before done, and left the room, pulling the door shut firmly.
The journey to Inverness took two endless hours. Bundled up in his greatcoat as he was, Robert didn’t feel the worst of the weather, but there was nothing he could do about the sheer tedium of the journey.
He occupied himself with memorizing all those retorts he would deliver to Miss Dalrousie on the occasion of their next meeting. First of all, he would ask her why she practiced her shooting with such assiduousness. Secondly, he would ensure she understood what the word trespass meant. She was not welcome at Glengarrow. Let her walk somewhere else.
It had snowed earlier in the day. The air was cold, but the sheer volume of Inverness’s people and traffic warmed it.
Inverness was a city with a rhythm to it, sometimes frenetic, but never placid. He’d always liked the city for its modernity, for the feeling that as Inverness went, so went Scotland. He enjoyed the bustle of it, the politics. Enjoyed, too, being in the middle of it.
When he was a boy, and there was a fight, he’d wanted to be one of the two participants and not simply an observer. It there was a debate, he’d argue his place to the death. To him, life had always been a giant tug-of-war. He on one side, and whoever he aligned himself against on the other.
Sometimes he won, and sometimes he lost, but the outcome was never as important as the fact he’d engaged in the battle.
When had he lost his passion? And could he ever regain it?
Once at his mother’s home, he allowed the majordomo to remove his greatcoat, take his hat and gloves, and guide him to the sunny parlor where his mother took afternoon callers.
The house in Inverness was not as grand as the one in Edinburgh or the town house in London, but it served his mother’s needs well. She flitted back and forth among the three of them like a social butterfly, more than willing to be the Dowager Countess of Linnet, hostess extraordinaire, gossip, matchmaker, and social doyenne, renowned for her ability to dictate fashion and spend money.
Now, as he waited for her, he eyed the parlor with the practiced eye of a man who’d spent the last few days poring over endless bills from shopkeepers. The porcelain statue on the corner credenza was from Italy. He’d seen the bill for it, and had approved payment for the new carpet beneath his feet purchased in London.
“My dearest Robert,” Lauren McDermott said, sweeping into the room.
Her figure had become a little fuller in the last decade, and her face bore some additional lines. But ot
her than that, and the occasional gray hair, she looked remarkably young. Too young to be his mother, of course, a remark he’d made four years ago. She’d laughed gaily, hugged him swiftly, and planted a kiss on both of his cheeks. “Now I know why you were a natural to go into politics, my dearest son. You’ve a touch of the Irish in your speech.”
Today she was dressed simply—for her—in a dress reminding him of the bilious-colored drapes in Glengarrow’s ballroom—mainly red, but with a touch of blue. An enormous ruby pin glittered at her throat, the jewels repeated in her earrings. He wondered if they were new, and where the bill was.
“Mother,” he said cautiously.
She rushed forward and gripped him in a hug so tight it was almost painful. She was a foot shorter than he, and he bent down to hold her close.
“Oh my dearest Robert. You look so very tired.”
And what did he say to that? He was tired, but it wasn’t the kind of fatigue sleep could cure. He was tired in his soul, and he hadn’t a clue how to fix it.
His mother embraced life, seemed to shake it and demand it disgorge its contents as if life were no more than a burlap sack holding an assortment of valuables.
Other than his father’s death, however, his mother had had no challenges, nothing to dampen her eternal and youthful optimism.
He always felt so much older in her presence, which was, no doubt, the reason he avoided it when he could. Occasionally, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was the singular reason his brother and sister had found homes away from Scotland.
Placing both palms on either side of his face, she pulled his head down so that she could stare into his eyes. She assessed quietly, and no doubt so adequately that any prevarication was useless.
“Has it been so very awful?”
“Yes,” he answered simply.
