The Look of Love

by Kelly, Julia

  Sir Kier rose to his feet, clutching his bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. “I’ll not be threatened like this.”

  “You can’t leave!” cried Mrs. Coleman. “Mrs. Sullivan, make him stop.”

  The man sneered. “Try.”

  No one moved when Sir Kier marched to the door.

  “Excellent,” she said as the door slammed shut. “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”

  No woman should be saddled with a husband like Kier.

  Mrs. Coleman swung round, her eyes pleading. “You must fix this.”

  “I plan to,” said Moira.

  “This happened under your roof,” Mrs. Coleman continued. “How could you invite such an odious man?”

  “Aunt Jacqueline,” Miss Duncan chided, “Mrs. Sullivan isn’t to blame for Sir Kier’s actions.”

  “But he was a guest in her home,” her aunt pressed. “If she didn’t keep such inappropriate company, none of this would ever have happened. All of those artists and poets and libertines.”

  Clawing her way up the social ladder from poor relation to dancing mistress to wealthy man’s wife until finally she was a woman of independent means had instilled in Moira a higher degree of tolerance for insult than most; however, even she had her limits.

  “He wasn’t a guest,” she said, her tone low and warning. “He was brought by someone without my knowledge, and you can be assured there will be consequences. However, those artists and poets you speak so derisively of are welcome in my home, and I will not have them maligned.”

  “My apologies. I spoke without thinking,” said Mrs. Coleman quickly. “This is all most distressing.”

  At least on that they could agree.

  “This still happened under my roof, and I’ll take responsibility for the safety of Miss Duncan.” Moira’s expression softened. “Did he hurt you?”

  The young lady shook her head. “The heel of my hand stings a bit, but that’s because I used it to hit him.”

  “Good,” Moira said, even though she could see that the skin exposed by Ina’s ripped cuff was covered in goose bumps from shock. “Then I’m afraid it’s time to face the fact of the matter.”

  “What is that?” asked Mr. Barrett.

  Moira shrugged. “As Mrs. Coleman says, Miss Duncan must marry.”

  For the second time that evening, it felt as though the bottom had fallen out of Ina’s stomach.

  “No,” she said at the same time her aunt said, “It’s high time.”

  “No,” she repeated more emphatically. “I don’t want a husband.”

  “I’m afraid your options are limited, my dear,” said Mrs. Sullivan gently. “Unless you wish to recede from society.”

  For a moment, she weighed the idea. The prospect of sculpting without calls or suppers or balls interrupting her was thrilling, but giving up society would mean losing so much. Already Anne’s mother didn’t approve of her, and she wouldn’t hesitate to bar her daughter from seeing Ina. Lana, an artist’s model, and Christine, an opera singer, would be free of such pressures, but even being seen walking in the park with a ruined woman would eventually wear away at their careers. She’d have to give them up for their sakes. She’d have to give up Gavin.

  Her heart ached at the very thought for, although she knew he’d want to stand by her side through whatever came, he couldn’t afford a friendship with a notorious woman. The second son of a baronet who received only a nominal allowance from his father, he’d been supporting himself on the proceeds from his first novel, but she knew those must be drying up. He needed work, and she couldn’t stand the thought that associating with her might make cautious editors think twice about him.

  “There must be another way,” she said, twisting her hands.

  Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. “I don’t see one.”

  The unfairness of the entire situation stung. She’d not fended off three proposals in five years only to end up married to a stranger. What if he disapproved of her sculpting? What if he disapproved of her friendship with Gavin, preferring his wife to keep only female friends so there could be no whispers of impropriety? She couldn’t take those risks.

  “I’ll not marry a random man,” she said.

  “You should’ve accepted Mr. McDonald’s proposal,” her aunt sniffed.

  “I was never going to say yes to him. He wanted me to give up art entirely,” she told Mrs. Sullivan.

  “And he’s twice her age,” muttered Gavin from his corner.

  “I’m familiar with the gentleman, and I can honestly say that Mr. McDonald would’ve been entirely wrong for you,” said Mrs. Sullivan with a sympathetic smile. “Miss Duncan, I need you to know that what I’m suggesting is in your best interest. You would have been too young to remember this, but I was a friend of your mother’s a long time ago.”

  Ina’s heart squeezed in her chest, and her fingers wrapped around the tapes of her crinoline through the heavy fabric of her green skirts to ground her to something—anything—real. Her mother’s friend. There weren’t many women who’d admit to that any longer.

  “I didn’t know,” she said, her voice thick.

  “She was delightful company—the sort of lady who would’ve been more at home in Paris, where uniqueness is seen as a virtue. You remind me of her in that regard.

  “I should have been a better friend to you over the years. I see that now,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “but your father and I were never easy in one another’s company.”

  Ina bit her lip to keep from saying, “Not many people are.”

  “I want you to know that I’d never try to force a girl to marry if she didn’t wish to, but your situation must be addressed immediately before rumors begin to spread. I can’t pretend that I ever knew your father well, but he’s never struck me as the sort of man who would invite gossip and scandal into his home.”

  “No,” she said. Scandal meant interruptions. Interruptions would take him from his manuscript. Anything that did that sent him into a sulk punctuated by periods of anger.

  Mrs. Sullivan nodded. “I can help you, if you’ll trust me.”

  The funny thing was she did trust this tall, stately woman with stone-gray hair swept back from her forehead and topped with a single, sapphire-encrusted comb. There was something about her manner that was matter-of-fact yet maternal. Mrs. Sullivan was just the sort of person you wanted to tell all of your secrets to, knowing they’d never escape her tightly sealed lips.

  “Tell me what I need to do,” said Ina.

  Mrs. Sullivan’s smile sparkled. “Good. Now, Mr. Barrett, is there any chance you find yourself in need of a wife?”

  Chapter Three

  THE ROOM ERUPTED in a cacophony of protests and questions.

  “You want me to marry Ina?” Gavin asked dumbfounded as Ina’s aunt reared back and gasped. “But surely you can’t be serious?”

  But Mrs. Sullivan didn’t look at either of them. She was focused solely on Ina, who in turn stared at the matchmaker, stunned.

  “You said you couldn’t marry a man who doesn’t understand how important your art is to you,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “What better man to marry, then, than your friend who already supports your work?”

  Gavin. Mrs. Sullivan thought she should marry Gavin?

  She couldn’t marry him. He was her friend. Her best friend. Best friends did not marry, and he certainly would never consider asking her to be his wife. Lord, she didn’t even know the kind of woman he might want to marry—or if he was even looking to end his bachelorhood. All she knew was that if he’d ever given a thought to the woman who would one day stand at the altar with him, she was certain the lady wouldn’t have been her.

  “They can’t marry,” said Mrs. Coleman, giving voice to Ina’s doubts.

  “Why not?” asked Mrs. Sullivan, tilting her head to one side.

  “It’s s
imply not possible,” said Ina’s aunt.

  “He’s an unmarried gentleman. She’s an unmarried lady. There are no other legal or spiritual impediments as far as I can tell,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  Mrs. Coleman’s mouth gaped open like that of a fish floundering on a riverbank. Finally she managed to say, “Mr. Barrett is entirely unsuitable for my niece.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more explicit, Mrs. Coleman,” said the matchmaker.

  “He lacks some of the qualities a young lady such as Ina would want in a husband,” said her aunt primly.

  “She means that I don’t have any money.” Gavin’s voice cut through the room sharp and clear.

  “Well . . .” Her aunt shifted uncomfortably. “I would never presume—”

  “She’s right. I have an allowance of one hundred pounds a year from my father, with an additional fifty from an annuity left to me by my father’s mother,” said Gavin, his voice flat. “I can rely on a few pounds a year in royalties from my novel, as well as a few other articles I manage to pick up here and there. That might give me another fifty during any given year, but the amount is varied, as you might expect.”

  “I’m given to understand that Miss Duncan is not without means,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  It was true, her marriage settlement would be enough to support a husband and herself comfortably in a house in Edinburgh. They’d never own a country estate, but Ina had no desire to leave the city she loved.

  “Arthur will never agree to your marrying Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman.

  “When I explain the situation to Mr. Duncan, I’m sure we’ll come to a mutual understanding,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  “As my niece’s chaperone—”

  “I’d be careful how quickly you claim that title given what happened tonight,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  Ina’s aunt smacked her fan on the arm of her chair. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”

  “I find that very hard to believe,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  “If you think for one moment . . .”

  As her aunt worked herself up into a tizzy, Ina stole a surreptitious glance at Gavin. He was sitting there, staring but not seeing. Anyone else might have believed he was lost in peaceful thought, but the white lines across his knuckles where he gripped the arms of his chair told her otherwise.

  “Gavin,” she said softly. Her voice was swallowed up by the sound of her aunt’s rant. She tried again. “Gavin.”

  His panicked eyes darted over to meet hers.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  He blinked, and the panic was gone. In its place was . . . regret? Sorrow? She couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it made her want to slither under the sofa and hide.

  “You did nothing wrong,” he said.

  “But I did. I left, just as you told me not to.”

  He frowned. “I didn’t tell you not to go.”

  “But you thought it. I know you know me well enough that you would have thought, ‘Don’t go look at the painting, Ina.’ ”

  His jaw clamped shut and he breathed deep through his nose as though trying to calm himself.

  “Gavin,” she said tentatively, “you can be angry with me.”

  He shook his head.

  “I promise I can take it,” she pushed.

  “Not. Angry. With. You.” He ground the words out between clenched teeth.

  “But how can you not be? I was the one who—”

  Gavin shot to his feet. “Mrs. Sullivan, would you be so kind as to give Ina and me use of the room?”

  If the matchmaker was surprised at the abrupt request, she didn’t show it. Instead she rose. “Certainly. I imagine there are things you’d like to discuss in private.”

  “But they can’t be alone together,” said Mrs. Coleman, hand to her chest.

  “Mrs. Coleman, please,” said Gavin.

  “I can’t allow it,” said her aunt.

  Enough. Ina was tired of people talking over her. About her. Half an hour ago, her greatest worry had been settling on a subject for the Royal Sculpture Society’s exhibition. Now her aunt and Mrs. Sullivan were arguing over whether she should marry her best friend to save her reputation from ruin, and no one had stopped to ask either her or Gavin what they wanted.

  “Gavin has been visiting my studio without a chaperone present for years,” she said. “And given the events of the evening, I hardly think our speaking together in Mrs. Sullivan’s library will compromise my virtue further.”

  “But the kitchen is just down the corridor from your studio, and the servants are always so nearby,” said Mrs. Coleman, sounding not entirely convinced of her own argument.

  “My late husband’s study connects to this room,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “If we retire there, we will be right next door.”

  Her aunt relented, and the matchmaker hustled Mrs. Coleman out of the room, her long train of indigo silk sweeping the floor behind her. The door shut with a click, and then it was just Ina and Gavin. Alone.

  She squared her shoulders and faced him, ready for whatever displeasure he wished to throw at her. She could take it. She was a woman of twenty-three—old enough to know the rules, yet young enough to be punished for breaking them.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” said Gavin.

  “How am I looking at you?” she asked.

  “As though you expect me to blame you for everything that’s happened.”

  She tilted her chin up. “I suppose I am.”

  He let out a long breath in a whoosh and shoved his hand through his hair. “The only person I blame is myself. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  She placed her hands firmly on her hips. “Are you my governess?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Answer it,” she said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then it isn’t your responsibility to monitor me at all times. I knew there was risk in slipping out of the drawing room. I never could have guessed that horrid man would be here, but I was the one who walked out.”

  “I could’ve stopped you,” he said.

  She scoffed. “When have you ever been able to stop me from doing exactly as I please?”

  If she’d thought her words would reassure him, she was sorely mistaken. Instead he set about pacing in front of her, his face red and a vein on his forehead standing out.

  “I should’ve been there,” he muttered.

  “You couldn’t have known,” she said.

  He turned on his heel and passed by her again.

  “Gavin . . .”

  He whirled around, stopping just inches from her. “Don’t you understand what it was like running into that room and seeing you in a torn dress with blood all over you?”

  Oh. He’d been worried about her. He was angry because he was scared.

  “It wasn’t my blood,” she said softly.

  “I didn’t know that!” he shouted.

  She shrank back a step, unfamiliar with his rage. He rubbed a hand over his now-weary eyes. “I should know better than to tower over you like that after that brute attacked you. Forgive me.”

  Cautiously, she laid her hand on his forearm. “I know you’d never hurt me, Gavin.”

  He gave her a weak smile. “Perhaps I shouldn’t worry so much. From the looks of it you can take care of yourself.”

  “Only because you taught me.”

  “How did you hit him?”

  “With the flat of my palm,” she said, holding out her hand to show him. “I know you said a good knock across the jaw can be just as effective, but I didn’t want to risk breaking a finger. It’s hard to sculpt with a broken finger.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I’d never want you to compromise your sculpting career.”

  The mention of her art s
obered her, and she let go of him so she could settle on the sofa. She toed off her slippers and tucked her feet under her as best she could in her full evening gown.

  “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

  Rather than take the chair across from her, he settled on the floor, his back propped against a low, heavy table piled with books. Sitting like this he looked more like a boy of eight than a man of twenty-eight. A lock of his hair had come loose and hung in a curl over his forehead creased with worry lines. She hated that she was the source of his troubles.

  “Tell me what you’d want with your life if none of this had happened,” he said.

  “To sculpt,” she said without hesitation.

  He nodded. “What else?”

  Oh, there were so many things, but she wasn’t ready to tell him or anyone else about them. How could she admit that she dreamed of the day when she could walk into a museum and see one of her sculptures on display? She wanted to be written up in journals and studied by critics. She wanted to be approached for commissions and for people to proudly say, “That’s one of Ina Duncan’s statues,” when they went to church or walked around the city.

  The Royal Sculpture Society would be her first step—an anonymous test to see if she really could stack up against all of the other artists who would submit. Then, if it was a success, she might begin to show people she was more than a lady who dabbled in art to fill her days.

  “All I want is to be left alone to sculpt,” she said.

  He pursed his lips and then nodded again. “Mrs. Sullivan is right.”

  Her brow crinkled. “What do you mean?”

  “You need to marry, and it’ll need to be quick. The world judges you more harshly than it does others. I’ve seen you bear that burden for a long time.”

  He didn’t need to list all of the things working against her. She was acutely aware of them all. Daughter of a recluse and a flirt. Granddaughter of a shipbuilder. She might have a dowry, but her money was too new for society to forgive the fact that her family’s wealth had been made in trade. She’d always been the subject of speculation, acceptable enough, but not one of the inner circle of ladies who made up Edinburgh society.