by Karen Ranney
Janet didn’t answer her.
Margaret reached for the satchel again, hefted the canvas under her right arm, and grabbed the easel.
“Where does he want me?”
Again, Janet looked troubled. “In the earl’s suite.”
Margaret didn’t explain she knew the way well. Nor did she comment to Janet she didn’t want to paint in the earl’s suite of rooms. She didn’t want the presence of Amelia around her so vibrantly. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believe people leave imprints on their personal rooms. The way a room was decorated, the color of the walls, a choice of the blankets, the bed hangings—all of these were indicative of a person’s tastes and wishes and wants. And although she hadn’t asked Janet to verify her suspicions, Margaret guessed the Earl of Linnet kept his suite of rooms exactly the same as when Amelia had last been in them.
So, although her body wasn’t there, her spirit certainly was.
In moments, they stood in front of the double doors, neither of them in a hurry to enter. Finally, Janet took a deep sigh, grabbing one of the handles. A dozen paces later, Margaret was standing in the middle of the room Amelia had used as a parlor.
Although the day was a blustery one, the sun was shining brightly, and the room was flooded with light. If she were in Russia, Margaret would be overjoyed to spend hours in this one spot. No draft chilled the room. No echo magnified sounds. Once, in the summer palace of Peterhof, she’d nearly been driven mad by the sound of dripping water coming from somewhere. She’d begun to hum to herself in order to distract from the noise. That, in turn, had elicited conversation from her subject, something normally forbidden. The fact the painting had been completed and the commission a success had been a miracle.
There was no reason to object to the conditions in this cozy room.
There was a fire blazing in the fireplace on the far wall, and an area in the corner had been cleared of furniture except for a small chair and a matching footstool. A perfect place for her to sit when she needed some respite from standing. There was the scent of perfume in the air, so faint she might have missed it, except she was very familiar with that particular scent.
She knew, without being told, exactly what kind of painting the Earl of Linnet wanted of his wife. Amelia would be standing by the open window, the tree just outside naked and unadorned with leaves. Her gaze would be wistful, her arm would be stretched outward, her fingers almost touching the pane of glass. She would be a will-o’-the-wisp herself, a ghost turned corporeal for a matter of moments or hours, or however long he wished to imagine her that way.
She had never in her entire career painted a maudlin portrait, and she certainly wouldn’t do so now. If she was going to paint Amelia, she would do so with her daughter on her lap. Perhaps the little girl would tug mischievously on a curl or simply be tired and resting against her mother’s bosom. Amelia would be facing the watcher, a soft smile indicating the joy of her daughter’s existence.
That was the legacy she’d create for Amelia.
How utterly ridiculous to want to weep. She would not feel sad about a woman she didn’t know and could never know. Margaret brushed angrily at her face, defying a tear to fall.
Slowly, she began assembling her easel. Once she had it braced correctly, she placed the canvas on top of it and turned it slightly so the window was in front of her, to her right. Now all she had to do was to figure out exactly where she wanted the Earl of Linnet to sit.
“Shall I tell the earl you’re ready, Miss Margaret?” Janet asked.
“No,” Margaret said. “I want to gather my thoughts for a moment.”
Janet left, her smile a benediction, and Margaret sat in the small chair behind the easel.
This would be a difficult room for him to be in, day after day. Why had he decided to do this to himself? Talking about Amelia would certainly not mitigate the pain of her loss. Instead discussing her, describing her would only emphasize the fact that she was dead.
As long as he grieved, he could not move beyond the loss. And as long as the loss remained real and the wound bloody, Amelia was still near.
She didn’t like the tenor of her thoughts. She wasn’t used to knowing people, to understanding their pain. She was more comfortable with dissecting them feature by feature. This duke had a long nose, this duchess had stooped shoulders. A princess had an overbite rendering her regrettably similar in appearance to a horse.
She’d always looked at people in such a way in order to paint them. She didn’t want to know their hearts, or their wishes, or whether they were intelligent or stupid. She only wanted to know what light would be favorable to them and how to mitigate their flaws.
Even if she’d never spoken to the Earl of Linnet, or known his past, Margaret would have known this was an unusual commission simply from McDermott’s eyes. In his direct gaze was the soul of a man who’d seen death and returned, the look of someone whose endurance had been tested, who knew his own limitations and strengths.
Could she match him in resolve? Could she be as strong and resolute? Could she stand here day after day and listen to his words about his wife? Could she hear and not care?
What if her rendition of Amelia was not as pure as his recollections? What if his memory made her perfect, and Margaret’s talent could only make her beautiful?
She’d told more than one subject, before beginning to paint them: sometimes people do not like to see themselves revealed as others see them. Do you understand this portrait may not be as flattering to you as you think it should be?
That one question always invoked a great deal of fear. Once, she’d overheard a duchess exclaim to a friend, “Why, the woman is terrifying. She had me worried I’d be pictured as a troll. Do you really think that is how I look?” Of course, the painting revealed a woman only slightly past her prime, dressed exquisitely in blue silk, her lovely smile flattered by the candlelight.
Perhaps she told her subjects not to expect too much to excuse the fact that her emotions occasionally surfaced in a painting. If the prince was an obnoxious glutton, forever complaining of missing a meal or demanding that a footman bring him a plate of food to compensate for his irritation, his corpulent figure became even more so, buttons straining and trousers too tight when she could have just as easily rendered him more slender. If the grand duke was an ancient and unbearable roué, then a tiny brushstroke converted his smile to a self-satisfied smirk when viewed from a certain angle.
Without much difficulty, anyone looking at one of her paintings could tell how she felt about the subject. If he annoyed her, or angered her, or she thought he was an insufferable braying ass, unfortunately her thoughts and feelings were revealed in the details of the portrait.
But she’d never before been expected to paint from another person’s image, or memory. Nor had she ever worried that her painting might reveal her own envy.
Every morning before she began painting, Margaret performed a ritual. Before the subject arrived, before she picked up a piece of charcoal or a brush, she’d stand in front of the easel with its cured and prepared blank canvas and stare into the white abyss. Then she’d close her eyes, her breath coming deep and even, those moments almost prayerful, certainly tranquil.
She was a supplicant before God and her talent, both equally demanding.
God decreed she recognize she was mortal, that she could not paint for hours at a time without dropping, that she must eat, sleep, and fulfill her body’s needs. The easel was her altar, and she was only as good as God allowed her to be.
Her talent demanded she submit to it, that she work until a composition felt complete. Until that moment came, the painting was master, and she was simply its vassal.
She never faced an empty canvas without saying a little prayer. The words didn’t matter as much as the emotion behind them. Please, God. As simple as that, and as profound.
Margaret opened her eyes to find McDermott standing there, watching her.
Chapter 13
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��I wish you would stop making a habit of coming up on me unawares,” she said, annoyed. To give herself time to regain her composure, she bent and rearranged the contents of her satchel.
Somewhere in the last few minutes, he’d entered the room, and she’d not heard him. Normally, she was attuned to noise, especially when she was becoming immersed in her painting. The first few moments before a subject arrived were the most intense of her day. It was when she questioned herself, her ability, and when every single fear or doubt she’d ever felt surfaced.
“Pardon me,” he said in his low voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Of course he had. If he hadn’t, he would have spoken out the moment he entered the room. Instead, he’d stood there, almost indolently leaning against the wall in order to watch her.
“Are you ready to begin?” he asked.
At that moment, she almost declined. She almost gathered up her belongings and made her way back to Blackthorne Cottage, the entire idea of painting Amelia suddenly foolish and beyond her capabilities.
Heat suffused her face, and she told herself it was irritation, not embarrassment.
“I’m ready. Are you?” she asked, returning to the corner. Instead of standing in front of the canvas, she sat on the small chair, peering around the easel to watch him.
He sat at the end of a yellow chaise, looking too large for the furniture. He was dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt, a casual ensemble for the earl at home. Not dressed as she would have painted him, however.
“I was told you were a politician,” she said. “Elected to the House of Lords.”
He inclined his head, but didn’t speak.
“Isn’t that unusual for a Scottish peer?”
“There are sixteen of us. Hardly unusual. I’ve always thought the numbers a bit sparse. I’m not in Parliament now. The election is only for one term, until Parliament retires for the session.”
She could almost envision him in such a setting. He would be standing at the forefront, the Palace of Westminster only a backdrop, its only purpose to make him appear more real and more lifelike.
He moved from the chaise to the chair beside the window and looked directly at her.
Suddenly, she realized she’d been wrong. She’d paint him attired in exactly what he was wearing right at the moment. Despite the fact his clothing was casual, there was a sense of barely restrained energy in his posture. He looked as if he might jump up and leave the room at any moment, impatient with inactivity. Could the Earl of Linnet be so easily characterized by one word—forceful? Somehow, it seemed too simplistic a word to use with him.
“Shall we begin?” he asked.
For a moment, she debated whether or not she would accede to his request. If she began a book, she finished it, regardless of how posturing the hero or how maudlin the plot. If she began an embroidery project, she always finished it, even if it was smudged and sad-looking at the end. If she began this painting, she was duty-bound by that strange character trait of hers to finish it.
It might well be the most difficult task she had ever set for herself. But it would not be the first time she’d demanded more of herself than she’d thought she could give.
She nodded and moved to stand behind the easel in the corner. She eased her head to the right to see him sitting there, his gaze intent on her. From her satchel, she grabbed a piece of charcoal wrapped in a leather holder, and unwound the holder slowly, giving her fingers time to become reaccustomed to the tasks.
Her hands were stiff, and she was cold with fear.
“You’re to dictate the pace, are you?”
“I am,” she said.
“I’m not allowed to ask questions? To be curious as to your progress?”
“No,” she said.
Should she warn the Earl of Linnet she was not considered a fast painter? If anything, she tended to linger on the details. The pearls at the throat, the exact fall of silk in the skirt of a dress, the gleam of light on an array of medals on an old soldier’s chest were all important to her. A portrait should be as exact a replication of life as possible.
She slowly unwound the strips of leather from the holder.
“Is the chair comfortable enough for you? I’ve noticed you limping.”
Well, that announcement didn’t please him if the look on his face was any indication.
“I watch people,” she explained. “I notice what a great many people miss. You have a scar on your chest, for example.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“You place your hand flat on your chest from time to time, as if to support yourself, or guard the wound.”
“A stage of healing, I’ve been told. The physician who cared for me delineated all the steps in my recovery. Being conscious of my scars is but one of those that will fade in time.”
“And your limp?”
“I don’t limp,” he said, and his look defied her to argue. “Very well, when I’m tired or I’ve exerted myself, perhaps. But only then.”
“But you concentrate on not limping,” she said, guessing he would hate a sign of weakness in himself. “And I think you touch your scar when it bothers you, not because you’re conscious of it.”
He didn’t speak, didn’t comment, so she was left with nothing to do but finish unwrapping the charcoal. At the exact moment she stepped toward the canvas, her hands began to tremble. After placing the charcoal in the easel’s tray, she pressed her hands together tightly.
What if the other night couldn’t be replicated? What if she couldn’t paint at all?
Before she had a chance to fear it, she picked up the charcoal again and drew a sloping line on the canvas. Darker than most of her sketches, it nonetheless had the effect of mobilizing her. Her fingers flew over the canvas, rendering a sketch in enough detail she had an idea of the composition of the painting.
“Tell me about your wife,” she said.
“What is it you want to know? Her appearance?”
“Among other things,” she said. “I want to know as much about her as you can tell me. A person’s character as well as his appearance is revealed in his portrait.”
“Why do you never call me Your Lordship?”
She placed the charcoal on the tray and wiped her hands clean with a rag from her satchel. Doing so took a moment or two, more than the task required, perhaps, but it gave her time to frame her answer.
“I lived in Russia for some time,” she said finally. “The Russian court is awash in titles. Grand Duchess, Grand Duke. Prince, Princess, an assortment of honorary peerages. I am not overly fond of obsequiousness.”
“You find it obsequious to be polite?”
“I find it obsequious to address you as Your Lordship every time I utter a sentence.” She stepped out from behind the easel to address him directly.
“The upper classes are no different than the lower classes. Each wants the same things from life. Each person I’ve ever met, whether chimney sweep or grand duchess, wants to be happy. Each wants to matter in the world, to be safe. Each wants someone to care for them.”
She looked past him to the window. The icicles clinging to the roof were beginning to melt, turning clear and glistening in the morning light.
“I actually believed, once, that the upper class was somehow infused with higher ideals, that to be a duke or earl was to be somehow superior in nature.”
“You evidently do not believe that to be the case now,” he said.
“No, you’re right. In fact, I would venture to say the lower classes have better morals.”
He didn’t comment.
She continued. “All that’s different between the two groups is the amount of money the upper classes have to waste and the fact they, themselves, believe they’re superior. For the most part, they’ve inherited both their wealth and the titles they wear with such delight. Neither money nor rank makes them more thoughtful, kinder, or more caring. In some cases, they’d been made loathsome and vile creatures.”
“I suspect you’re not speaking in generalities, but in specifics. Do you truly regard me as a loathsome and vile creature?”
She turned her attention back to him and realized she’d said too much, revealed too much. How had that happened?
“What is your first name?” she asked, no doubt shocking him.
But he surprised her by answering almost immediately. “Robert,” he said. “Do you think it proper we should address each other by our Christian names, Miss Dalrousie?”
“The world is not in this room. The only people here are you and I. You are about to tell me the story of your wife, which is probably a very tender tale, if not a difficult one to recount. What does it matter what I call you?”
He didn’t speak, and she found herself a little disappointed in the silence.
“Are you the kind of man,” she asked, “who is defined by his title? Are you not Robert McDermott? Are you only the Earl of Linnet?”
He considered the question for a moment.
“Can I not be both? If your question is must I hide behind my title, no. I have met a great many people in my life to whom I have not presented myself as the Earl of Linnet. They know me as Robert or McDermott. I do not find it necessary to bandy my title about as if I’m a better person because of it. But it is who I am.”
“Then I shall call you McDermott,” she said. “It’s not at all improper.”
“And you? What shall I call you, Miss Dalrousie?”
Tilting her head, she regarded him for a moment. “Anything you choose,” she said as she reached into the satchel, retrieved a folded length of cloth, and carefully draped it over the canvas.
“I’m done for today,” she said, stepping out from behind the easel. She grabbed her satchel and made her way past him, not looking at him as she headed for the door.
“You’re done?”
How remarkably annoyed he looked. Did he think she was going to follow some timetable he’d set for her? He might be an earl, but in this room she dictated the pace.
“Yes,” she said. “I know how I want the painting to look. I know which pigments I need.”
