by Kelly, Julia
The hansom cab, hired because there’d been no time to let Norris know to send the carriage to the station, rumbled to a stop in front of Lana’s door. She thanked the driver when he helped her down, and paid him generously. Then she walked up to Lana’s front door and rang the bell.
Lana’s maid-of-all-work, Clara, opened the door. “Oh, Lady Barrett.”
Ina braced herself for an inquiry as to why she was ringing the bell herself rather than sending Ruth ahead to see if the mistress of the house was home to visitors as was customary, but it never came.
“They’ll be delighted to see you, ma’am,” said Clara, stepping aside to let her in.
Ina pulled back her veil, knowing her eyes would be red and puffy, but to the maid’s credit she didn’t even flinch.
“I can find my way up, Clara,” Ina said.
“Of course, Lady Barrett,” said Clara with a bow.
Ina climbed the stairs slowly, her heavy steps betraying her weariness. She was wrung out and empty, tired and unhappy.
Outside the drawing room, the murmur of her friends’ voices floated out to her. She paused with her black glove–clad hand on the doorknob, building up the courage to enter and explain what had happened. Here she would be safe. Here she could mourn.
She bit her lip and opened the door. Her friends turned around in unison.
“Ina,” Lana cried. “We didn’t know when to expect you back!”
She opened her mouth to reply, but instead crumpled to the floor, her dark skirts billowing around her, and wept.
“Have you seen this?” Moira’s dearest friend, Flora, held up a copy of the New Town Tattler.
Moira tilted her chin down so that she could look over the spectacles she’d put on to read a letter from one of her friends in London.
“I haven’t had a chance to look this morning. And I thought you despised the Tattler,” she said.
Flora pulled a face. “How can I avoid it when it’s always lying around your morning room?”
Moira smiled, knowing her friend protested too much. Flora enjoyed the Tattler just as much as any other lady in Edinburgh. And quite a few gentlemen too.
“That paper is excellent research,” she said. “I’ve found some of my very best clients from the Tattler’s listings.”
It was true too. The semi-anonymous items like “The flaxen-haired Miss C—was spotted on the arm of the esteemed Mr. P—, Esquire, at an exhibition held in the Assembly Rooms last Tuesday. Will wedding bells soon ring?” were almost always accurate, given that Mr. Moray had a network of sources nearly as good as her own.
“Well, this is about one of your recent clients,” said Flora, handing over the paper.
“ ‘Lord T—was seen dancing twice with the recently widowed Mrs. J—at a ball held by Mrs. M—last Monday. Will the Merry Widow dance her way into the gentleman’s heart?’ ” she read out before putting the paper down. “I’ve been watching the courtship of Lord Tartent and Mrs. Jesup with rapt attention for weeks now, but neither of them has engaged my services.”
Perhaps it was time for her to send the harmlessly hapless but well-moneyed Lord Tartent her card. A gentle nudge couldn’t hurt the bachelor in his pursuit of the pretty widow and her two thousand pounds a year.
Flora scowled. “Not them. Look at the fourth item down.”
Her eyes skimmed the page, landing on a name she knew instantly, even with the dashes in place.
“The newly elevated Lady B—was seen disembarking from a northbound train at Waverley Station on Tuesday. The lady was unaccompanied by her husband, the new Sir G—, whom she married a mere two months ago. Could there already be trouble in the elegant house on R—Place?”
“Weren’t they yours?” asked Flora.
“Hmmm,” was Moira’s only reply.
“Trouble already?” Flora asked with raised brows. “That doesn’t bode well.”
Moira shot her friend a look as she took off the long chain she always wore around her neck. On the end of it dangled the little silver key to her desk drawer. She unlocked the drawer and peered inside at some of her most valuable possessions: twenty-four red leather notebooks with one letter of the alphabet each stamped on the side. She drew out the book for “D” and shut the drawer again.
“You’re having to refer to your notes?” Flora asked with a frown. “They were only married in March.”
“Are you casting aspersions on my memory?” Moira asked.
A grin spread over her friend’s face. “If I do, will you finally admit that you’re too old to toy with the affections of men and women more than half your age?”
“I don’t toy,” Moira said. “I facilitate.”
That earned her a snort.
Flipping to one of the last pages of her book, Moira read the notes she’d made on Lady Ina Barrett, née Duncan, even though she’d never forget the circumstances of their first meeting. There weren’t many people who could claim their marriage had come after near ruination in her library. Neither were there many who could boast of a proposal that had moved so swiftly from idea to execution.
What troubled her was that the new Sir Barrett had been so clearly enamored of his bride, yet trepidatious at the same time. All had seemed well when the Barrett cook, Mrs. Hart, reported to Moira that the man of the house had made arrangements for a moonlight picnic just a few weeks ago, but that he wasn’t returning with Lady Barrett from his home at Oak Park gave her pause. She’d pay a call on the woman that afternoon as soon as she was done with her correspondence and luncheon with Flora.
“What do you have written down there?” her friend asked, trying her best to peer at the notebook from her seat.
Moira snapped it shut, unlocked the drawer again, and refiled the book back in its place between “C” and “E.” “Nothing for your eyes to see. As always.”
Flora settled back into her chair and picked up the Tattler once again. “You can hardly blame me for trying.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Moira said, and picked up the letter she’d been reading once again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
INA LEANED BACK against her workbench with a glass of wine cradled in her hand. In front of her stood Hero and Leander. Finished.
She’d spent two days sanding the marble after she’d finished the last of the detail work. Then there’d been half a day of rubbing it down with the raw side of a piece of leather, transferring the oils to the stone to give it a soft finish. Now the marble glowed like skin, and her tragic lovers looked almost like they could move.
She took a sip of wine, trying to enjoy the satisfaction of finishing the job she’d worked at for months, but she couldn’t help the sadness that crept in. She’d hoped to share this moment with Gavin, but she hadn’t heard from him since she’d left Oak Park.
Why would he want to see you? She’d been the one to leave. Not a day went by when she didn’t regret that decision of nearly three weeks ago, but she knew it had been the right one. Better to rip the plaster off the wound all at once than to subject them both to an agonizing bit-by-bit unraveling of their marriage.
At least that was what she told herself to get through the days. The nights were infinitely harder. All alone in her room, she lay awake wishing he’d come through the connecting door. Sometimes, when she could sleep, she’d start awake, hoping it was him, only to realize the sound was nothing more than the scullery maid laying a fire in the early hours of the morning. Each time a dark disappointment would spread through her like spilled ink and she’d huddle a little further under the covers to try to block out her loneliness.
She took a long draught of wine and then stole a glance at the packing crate that sat in the corner. In her bedroom, tucked between the pages of a book, was the note Gavin had sent along with the box. She’d taken it out time after time, rereading the affirmation of his faith that s
he was good enough to compete along with the best sculptors in England and across the Continent. All she needed to do now was give Norris the word that Hero and Leander were done, and he’d call upon the workmen, who’d winch the work into the crate and carry it off to the Society. It was the last step before the mysterious I.R.D. made her debut at the exhibition in barely two weeks.
A knock at her studio door pulled her out of her reverie. She looked up and found Norris waiting patiently for her.
“Good evening, Norris.”
“Evening, madam. I wonder if you might be home to Mrs. Sullivan,” he said.
“Mrs. Sullivan? What time is it?” she asked.
“Just past eight o’clock,” said the butler.
“Hardly the conventional calling hour.”
“She indicated it was urgent and a matter of some delicacy,” he said.
She sighed. “I’m sure it is. Please show her in.”
“Here?” he asked. He might as well have asked, “And while you’re wearing that?” considering that she intended to receive the grand lady dressed in her work clothes and covered in dust and polishing sand.
“If she’s going to call right now, then she can surely tolerate the sight of an artist at work.”
“Very good,” said Norris.
She set her glass down and retrieved its companion from the tray Norris had optimistically brought along with her wine and sandwiches. The butler hadn’t said anything yet—he was far too well trained for that—but he and the rest of the staff must have been wondering where Gavin was. Well, they’d have to become accustomed to the idea of working for a separated household.
She was just pouring the wine when Mrs. Sullivan strolled in in an elegant plum gown shot through with silver thread.
“Good evening, my dear Lady Barrett,” said the matchmaker a touch too cheerfully. “You must forgive me for dropping in on you like this.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Sullivan. Wine?” she asked, holding out the glass.
“That would be just the thing.” The woman accepted and then turned to the sculpture. “Now, this is quite a triumph.”
Despite her melancholy, Ina warmed a little at the praise. “Thank you. I just finished polishing a half hour ago.”
“May I?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.
Ina nodded and watched as the woman circled the sculpture, scrutinizing it.
“The detail is incredible, so lifelike. And the thinness of Hero’s veil is incredible, almost as though you could believe it’s transparent.”
“Thank you,” Ina said. “I’ve admired Giovanni Strazza’s Veiled Virgin for some time now, although I’ve never been fortunate enough to see it in person. I’d hoped to emulate some of his technique.”
“The wonders of photography and its ability to increase our knowledge never cease to amaze,” said the matchmaker. “Will you be entering this in the Royal Sculpture Society’s exhibition?”
Ina took a delicate sip of wine before responding. “Women aren’t allowed to enter.”
Mrs. Sullivan threw back her head and laughed. “Somehow I doubt very much that a simple obstacle like that would stop you, Lady Barrett.”
“Ina, please,” she said. “It seems preposterous for you to address me so formally when you know all my secrets.”
The other woman smiled. “Then you must call me Moira. And I doubt very much I know all your secrets.”
Ina blushed. “Please make yourself comfortable. Norris said you had something urgent to tell me?”
Moira seated herself on the settee and took a sip of wine. “I may have fibbed to your butler that just to get in the door.”
“Is that so?” she asked cautiously.
“I have something important to speak to you about and, although it’s not urgent, I always believe it’s best not to tarry. I understand that Sir Gavin has remained at Oak Park.”
Ina’s heart squeezed and she felt sick to her stomach all over again. She should be used to it by now, given how often it happened.
“His responsibilities keep him there,” she said.
“And yet you’re here,” said Moira.
“My work requires me to be in Edinburgh, where my studio is.”
Sympathy softened Moira’s eyes. “Is everything all right, Ina?”
All at once, Ina began to shake. It wasn’t the delicate, quick chills that sneak up on one, but the hard, wracking ones that come from trying to hold back a sea of emotion.
The matchmaker silently stood, took her wineglass from her, and folded Ina into a hug.
Ina clung to her like a child, her hands wrapping around the pleats at the woman’s waist as though she could somehow be saved if only she hung on a little tighter. She’d tried to be strong the last weeks, but she was miserable. Utterly and undeniably miserable.
“There, there,” murmured Moira, softly stroking her hair. “Everything is going to be all right.”
“How can it?” Ina asked as her body quaked. “I can’t even cry properly anymore. It’s as though I’ve run dry of tears.”
“Tell me what happened,” said Moira.
“It was too hard,” Ina gasped out. “It was simply too hard.”
Moira lifted her face with a gentle finger hooked under her chin. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”
Ina nodded. “It was such a change, and I thought that it would ruin everything. Now my chance to tell him is gone.”
“There are always more chances,” said Moira.
Ina shook her head emphatically. “No. He doesn’t want me. He told me he was done, that I’d wasted too much time. And now I’ve left him in that horrible house with her.”
“With whom?” asked the matchmaker in confusion.
It was a small comfort to know Moira Sullivan didn’t know everything.
“Grace.”
“Mrs. Barrett?” Moira asked.
“He loved her once a long time ago, and she’s just the sort of wife he needs.”
“What sort of wife would that be?”
“One who’s bred to be a baronet’s wife,” Ina said.
“My darling,” said Moira with a smile, “Sir Gavin isn’t even a peer. It isn’t as though he’s a duke who must marry a woman whom fourteen different branches of his family approve of. And besides, that man loves you.”
It felt as though a giant had wrapped his arms around Ina and was squeezing all of the air out of her lungs. She’d struggled in vain over the last weeks to forget about her husband. Forget about all that had happened—as though she ever could. Now Moira wanted to drag all of it back up.
“He doesn’t love me,” Ina whispered. “Not anymore.”
Moira let go of her and planted a hand on either hip. “I’ve seen many forms of love, my dear, and I can tell you that a man as stricken as your husband doesn’t fall out of love that quickly. He loves deeply and forever.”
“But I left him.”
“And do you still love him?” the matchmaker asked.
“Yes,” Ina murmured.
“Then you’ll have to fight for him even if it means risking a broken heart,” said Moira. “Do you think you can do that?”
“It’s already broken. I don’t think it can hurt anymore.”
“Good,” said Moira with a smile. “Now, to wage a war for love, you’ll need to call in all the help you can get. Are you acquainted with Mr. Moray?”
“I am.”
“Then prepare your sketch pad, for here’s what we’ll do.”
Gavin hunched over his desk in his study, worrying over the account books.
He hated this. That was the truth. He hated what had seemingly come so easily to Richard and his father, and it no longer pained him to admit that. He’d rather be writing.
Moray had been remarkably understanding about his altered situat
ion, asking him only to let him know when he would return to Edinburgh. Therefore, the only writing he’d done had been of endless letters to solicitors and other men of fortune with whom he wished to do business. It was becoming soul-crushing, and the longer he stayed here, the more he feared he’d lose himself in the estate.
At least so long as there were accounts and decisions to be made with Chase, he could stay busy. That was the only thing that had kept him from jumping on a train and heading straight back to Edinburgh after Ina. Well, that and a considerable dose of pride.
Her leaving still hurt with a power he hadn’t expected, but now it mingled with his own guilt. He’d driven her away in a cloud of his own anger and frustration. He’d waited for seven years to finally earn her affection. Couldn’t he have waited just a little bit longer?
But what if she never came to love him?
The truth was, he couldn’t bear the thought of living without her any more than he could stand the idea of a lifetime pining for her under the same roof.
He rubbed his forehead, trying to ease a tension headache that threatened. Just another hour burying himself under these damned ledgers and then he could retire to his room with a brandy.
He was just dipping his pen into his inkpot when he heard the soft pad of women’s slippers on the carpet of his study. He expected it to be Mrs. Riley, but instead it was Grace.
A long time ago, her appearing before him in a quiet room would’ve been a dream. When he was just eighteen and freshly returned from school, he’d lived and died by her whims. A stolen kiss on the cheek could send him heavenward just as a perceived slight could shatter his confidence. She’d controlled him with the wave of her little finger, for he was too lovesick to think clearly. How that had changed.
