by Karen Ranney
She’d probably never wear it again in her lifetime, but she’d always have it to remember.
No one had wanted to purchase the more mundane items of her household, such as dishes, kitchenware, blankets, and towels. She had ended up giving most of those items away, but being perpetually cold as she was, she’d kept some of her blankets, lovely crocheted creations lined and filled with batting. She found the items in the second trunk and withdrew two of them.
Before she left the room, she halted in front of the blank canvas in the corner. Sometimes in the morning, she’d slide from her bed and wrap a blanket around her shoulders, standing and staring at the half-formed creation. Sometimes, she’d be unable to remember a single brushstroke she’d done, as if she were asleep when her talent took over, and she was left with no conscious knowledge of the creative process. She felt a part of it, and yet so removed from it she occasionally felt ashamed for taking credit for something larger and grander than she was.
She dropped one of the blankets at her feet, wrapped the other one around her shoulders. She stared at the blankness, at the emptiness of the canvas, and felt almost an empty cavern matching it in her soul. Since the moment she’d been conscious of who she was, she’d had a piece of charcoal or a brush in her hand. So many times she’d thought her sole reason for living was to document what she saw, to make it permanent so others could see it and remark, “Oh, yes, I know her. What a remarkable likeness.”
Without that ability, without the skill, without that talent, who was she? Dead.
She reached out and grabbed a brush she’d left on the tray below the easel. In her mind’s eye, she could see the Earl of Linnet. He’d offered her a commission. A portrait. Not of a live person, but his dead wife.
Amelia. The ghost of Glengarrow.
She didn’t try to paint, she merely held the brush with both hands, warming the wood in the grip of her chilled fingers. A light flickered on the landscape capturing her attention, and she stared toward Glengarrow.
As if he had been sent to her, she could see the Earl of Linnet in her mind, a stern face and intensely blue eyes. She held out one hand, and the brush trembled, but not as much as before. She saw him as he might be in her painting, standing straight, his shoulders back, one arm crooked, hand flat against his hip. The other hand would be at his side, thumb aligned with the outer seam of his trousers as if he was possessed of a military bearing. He wouldn’t be dressed in his ubiquitous black but in a pale blue waistcoat, perhaps, a light touch of color, to enliven the shade of his eyes. His mouth would be unsmiling, his lips firm but not thinned. His expression would be direct, somber, but in the depths of his eyes there would be a hint of a smile, as if his amusement was retained for the most propitious moment.
Perhaps in the background, she’d have bookcases, or he would be standing in the family parlor. Rooms had always been unimportant to her, because they functioned only as backdrops for her subjects. She’d painted the Grand Duke Fedorov’s daughters sitting around their father’s chair on the floor, petting a puppy. Their mother had been seated slightly behind the Grand Duke. Margaret was careful not to give preference to a wife’s placement.
Russian males were very conscious of their status.
She wanted to paint the Earl of Linnet seated in a large burgundy armchair, one foot up on a footstool. Both hands would be resting on the arms of the chair, an arrogant, perhaps regal, position. No, he needed to be standing, as if surveying all he owned. A commanding stance, one suitable for the Earl of Linnet. Or, perhaps, he was better posed on horseback. She had seen him more often astride than she had in the drawing room.
Could she even paint Amelia?
She’d been curious about the Countess of Linnet or she wouldn’t have entered her room. Perhaps she’d even felt a touch of envy for the woman who seemed to have effortlessly attained everything she’d wanted in life. Or had Amelia wanted to be more than the Earl of Linnet’s wife and the mother of his child?
She’d been curious about few women. True, there was her interest in the Empress of Russia. Margaret had truly wished she had the freedom to ask her one or two questions. How do you feel to be the wife of such a powerful ruler? How do you feel to have such power at your fingertips that if anyone displeases you, he is either banished or killed?
Amelia hadn’t the power of life and death, but she’d wielded a great deal of power, regardless. So much so that, three years later, there was still a look of pain in the Earl of Linnet’s eyes.
If she were a different type of woman, one with more nurturing ability, or the gift of compassion, she would enfold him in her arms, perhaps even coax him to lay his head on her shoulder. The image, however faint and out of character for her, would never be realized in actuality. The Earl of Linnet would never allow himself to be comforted in such a way, and she was not given to such acts.
Amelia had been, no doubt, exquisitely beautiful. Amelia had probably been the epitome of all the womanly graces, capable of great charm and infinite tact.
Margaret had never been schooled in such things, but she had learned to keep silent rather than embarrass herself with ignorance. People saw that as tact, and the ability to keep a confidence, and consequently told her secrets when she would much rather they didn’t.
She was skilled at other things, however. She could paint flowers so realistically they appeared fresh from a garden. She was also adept at discerning a subject’s best feature.
She knew the Duchess Feodorovna looked much lovelier in the evening hours with the mellow glow of candlelight, the better to soften her angular features. The Grand Duke George Mikhailovich appeared almost handsome, but only if she had him looking outward, his chin tilted slightly up, so his jowls did not appear so prominent.
Despite the fact she sought out beauty and reveled in the interpretation of it, Margaret wasn’t under any delusions about her own appearance. She was tall, and if she were feeling charitable, she might say willowy instead of thin. Her hips curved as most women’s did. Her waist was narrow. Her breasts were overly full.
Her face was not the most artfully arranged. Her nose was too long, her chin almost squared. Her eyes were her best feature, and she hoped they took most of the attention from her mouth. Her lips were full, and too wide. Her smile was so startling in the mirror that, the first time she saw herself, Margaret swore she’d never smile again in public. For years she’d place her hand over her mouth when she laughed until one day she simply grew weary of being foolish about her own appearance.
She was not important. The painting was.
She’d believed that until almost a year ago, when she’d been treated not as a painter, not as a renowned artist, but only as a woman, weaker, defenseless, an unwitting vessel, an object.
A year ago, she’d been a different woman. Not wanton, but certainly less afraid. Not decadent, but reveling in life. She loved to dance, and to sing, even tunelessly. Color was her elixir, producing euphoric emotions. Yellow was joy, red was adoration, and blue was sorrow, strong and urgent. Black was passion, combining all of the other colors in it, subtle hues and bright tones. Black was the color of night and mystery, as if it contained every single emotion and human frailty. Was that why some of her most successful work was deeply shadowed?
Could she even paint again? The fact that the brush had stopped trembling was no indication. The fact she saw the Earl of Linnet’s stern face, the lines around his eyes hinting at past humor, was confusing.
Why him?
She went to her trunk of painting supplies and rummaged in the bottom until she found what she needed. Unwrapping the paper from the charcoal, she returned to her canvas. Without giving herself time to think, she began to draw. A moment later, she stepped back, startled.
She’d had in mind an apple, perhaps. A flower, freshly plucked from the garden. But a face appeared instead, as if it had been almost magically done, the result of an image she’d formed in her mind. She’d sketched the Earl of Linnet in three-quarter profile,
an amused smile curving his lips and a hint of laughter in his eyes.
She put down the charcoal and turned away from the canvas.
He wanted her to paint Amelia. Could she paint someone she’d never seen?
Returning to the trunk, she found a container of gesso. Opening it, she wrinkled her nose at the smell. She’d prepared the mixture nearly a year ago. She stirred it with her finger, then, taking one of her utility brushes, slathered some of the gesso on the canvas and evened it out with long, practiced strokes. Because the gesso was so thick, it easily covered the drawing. She’d destroyed more than one work with such a method. Although she wasn’t a perfectionist, she recognized she’d not yet finished one painting that met her standards completely. Perhaps that was part of being an artist—never being satisfied, always pushing to be better.
He would have to sit with her, of course. He would have to be there constantly, to answer questions. How tall was his wife? What was the shade of her hair near her temple? Did it catch the light? Were her eyes a pale blue like a dawn sky or more intense like a summer day?
I can tell you anything you wish to know about Amelia.
What would he reveal about himself?
“Very well, I’ll do it,” she said.
He halted his horse and stared down at her.
She’d stood at the end of the lane as if daring him to run her down and now fixed a look on him as if she were a schoolmaster and he a recalcitrant pupil.
He couldn’t help but wonder if Miss Dalrousie’s arrogance had served her well in the Russian Imperial Court in St. Petersburg. Although the Russians were fascinated with all things English—and to the Russians, Scotland was very much an English country—they couldn’t have been pleased to be ordered around by such a woman.
“Have you always been so forceful in your speech?”
She blinked at him. “Are you calling me tactless?”
The irritation he usually felt in her presence bubbled free again, accompanied this time by another rather surprising element—amusement.
Margaret Dalrousie did as she pleased, and he should be celebrating the fact it pleased her to paint Amelia.
“No, I’m not,” he said, annoyed that he must be the peacemaker. Again. “You will do it?” he asked, retreating to her earlier comment.
The last thing he wanted was to allow her to change her mind. Time was not his ally.
His mind tiptoed around that thought for a moment before he could admit it again to himself. He could not allow more time to pass, lest he forget what Amelia looked like. Even now, there were times when he could only catch a glimpse of her in his memory, a turn of her head, or the way she smiled, or the way she’d held Penelope when his daughter was a baby.
“You will do it, then?”
She turned and faced him and nodded once.
“Would you prefer I have my solicitor contact you, or can we come to an agreement in price?”
She named a figure that had him widening his eyes. A family of four could have survived ably for a year on that amount.
“Do you charge everyone the same, Miss Dalrousie, or only those individuals you dislike?”
“I don’t dislike you,” she said. “I don’t know you.” She regarded him somberly for a moment, and he could almost have guessed the words she’d say next. But once I cultivated your acquaintance, I’m certain I wouldn’t like you. But she didn’t say that.
“It’s because I’ve never painted a ghost before. I haven’t the slightest idea how to do it.”
For a long moment he simply stared at her, uncertain how to respond to that remark.
But before he could say anything, she held up a hand. “There are several other conditions. You will attend each sitting. You will speak when I give you leave and not otherwise. You will never look at the portrait until it is finished.” She fixed a stern look on him. “If I find you have done so, the work immediately ceases, and you will not receive any of your money in return. You will never question the time it takes, either for a sitting or for the portrait. Can you agree to these points?”
“Were you so dictatorial to Nicholas I?”
“Are you an emperor? Do you command a country?” She looked around her, but the look seemed not to be one of disdain but fondness. “Glengarrow is a lovely bit of Scotland, true, but it cannot measure up in sheer size with Russia.”
With a dismissive wave she left him. He turned in the saddle and watched her, wondering if he’d made the right decision after all.
How much did he want to recall Amelia?
With his whole heart.
The memories were growing blurry around the edges, and he was afraid one day he might awake to have no ability to recall her to mind. She would simply be Amelia, a name, no longer an image. No longer someone he could point to and say: that was my wife. I loved her.
Had Margaret Dalrousie ever been in love?
And why the hell did he care?
Chapter 12
In Russia, when she was about to embark upon a new commission for a very important personage, Margaret would agree to travel to their home. She had Peter carry her trunks of paints, pigments, and brushes, along with a selection of canvases already prepared for her use. They made quite a procession, she and Peter, Margaret holding the pouch of her brushes, and Peter hauling the rest of her miscellany in a covered three-wheeled carriage.
A child had once asked her if she had a baby in the carriage, and she’d been amused by the thought.
“Yes, indeed, I do,” she’d said. “Her name is Creation. Or Inspiration. Perhaps even Benediction.” She and Peter had exchanged a smile as the poor child had gone running to his mother for an explanation.
The Earl of Linnet wasn’t all that important, but there was no space at Blackthorne Cottage to accommodate both a place for him to sit and for her easel to be arranged.
She spared a wistful moment for her studio in Russia, then clamped her mind shut over those thoughts. She would be better served by living in the present and not the disturbing past.
Today, there was only herself as a beast of burden, and she made the trek to Glengarrow accompanied by her already prepared canvas, her easel, and satchel.
She never knew exactly what kind of composition she was going to choose until the day the sitting began. Only then could she decide how she would have the subjects sit or stand, what colors flattered them, what background would aid to complement them. The Emperor had so loved her informal portraits of his two daughters, that now it was all the rage for the Russian nobility to be painted en famille. At least here, at Glengarrow, she wouldn’t have to choose from a selection of puppies to feature in the painting.
The day was a blustery one, which didn’t make Margaret’s journey to Glengarrow any easier. But she persevered. Her discomfort was a small price to pay for the ability to paint again. Or perhaps what she’d experienced the other night was only an accident, and the surge of anticipation she felt now was based on a wish more than a reality. Perhaps when it came to actually sketching in Amelia’s likeness and painting the Countess of Linnet, her fingers would begin to tremble violently again, and she’d be unable to complete the portrait.
She wouldn’t think of that right now. Instead, she would simply focus on the moment. Getting her satchel with her jars and bottles to Glengarrow, managing to secure the canvas and easel beneath her arm despite the wind.
In Russia, in her studio, she actually had canvases that had matured for long stretches of time. She didn’t have that luxury now. Tom could always fashion stretchers for her, but she wasn’t entirely certain she could afford the linen. Better to make this canvas do. Taller than it was wide, it would make for quite a commanding portrait.
If she could finish it. If she had any talent left.
Janet was in the kitchen when she knocked on the door.
“His Lordship said you would be by this morning, Miss Margaret,” Janet said, opening the door wide. Instead of a welcoming look, however, her eyes were troubled.
/>
Margaret handed Janet the satchel so she could enter the door with the canvas lengthwise and still balance the easel.
“You don’t approve?” Margaret asked, propping the easel against the kitchen table.
Janet glanced toward the door and made a great show of closing it firmly. Only then did she turn to Margaret again.
“It’s not my place to approve or disapprove, Miss Margaret,” she said, appearing the perfect servant, the most amenable retainer. Except the description didn’t match the look on Janet’s face.
“Pretend it was,” Margaret said. “I’ll tell no one what you’ve said.”
Janet glanced down the corridor, to the door leading to the family parlor. Perhaps she saw the earl there in her mind’s eye. Or perhaps she simply envisioned what had transpired there years ago, a happy family, laughter, the drone of earnest conversation.
Finally, she turned back to Margaret. “The past sometimes needs to be left in the past, Miss Margaret. We can’t relive it. We can’t make it come back. Sometimes, we just have to let it go.”
“Sometimes you can’t let it go, Janet,” Margaret said. “Sometimes it lives with you.”
Janet nodded. “When that happens, Miss Margaret, you just have to wait it out. Understand it’s feelings you need to feel, it’s pain you have to go through. Pushing it away will only make it worse in the end.”
“And you think the Earl of Linnet is living in the past.”
For a while, she didn’t think Janet would answer her. When the older woman did speak, however, it was not to Margaret, but to the door leading to the interior of Glengarrow. “I think that’s what the earl is doing, Miss Margaret. But I don’t think he knows any other way. Somehow, he needs to give up his old life, let it go, and find a new way to live.”
Since she’d attempted to do the very same thing, Margaret knew it wasn’t as easily said as done. “And if he can’t?”
