Engraved (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  “For your information I’m getting married soon.” Adam pushed himself a little more upright in the sagging chair. “Unlike you, I stick to one woman at a time.”

  Harry laughed genially. “Always seemed like a terrible waste to me. A man is only young once.”

  “Still spending time with those twins, Harry?” Adam couldn’t recall their name, didn’t really matter.

  Not even to Harry. “Good Lord no. Kept calling ‘em by the wrong name in bed and they upped and left. Took offense, it seems.”

  “One might imagine they were accustomed to the confusion, being twins.”

  “Yes,” Harry gave a rueful grin, one hand scratching his dark curls, “but I called them by other girls’ names, not theirs. Never mind. More trouble than they were worth. Think I might give the two-legged fillies up for a while. Take a bit of a holiday.”

  Dubious about that, Adam smirked at the toes of his boots. “How’s the cotton mill, Harry? Business doing well?”

  “Well enough. Always room for improvement though. You should come up and visit.”

  “Hmmm.” He sank his lips into the brandy, thoughts of a gloomy, northern, industrial town giving him further chills. Adam preferred the mellow country of the south. It surprised him that his eldest brother should take fondly to the north with its soot belching chimneys, low grey skies, and craggy, unwelcoming land.

  “I hear you’ve done well for yourself, Adam. Aren’t they calling you the boy wonder since that last place you designed in London? What was it, a museum or art gallery or something?”

  “I’m not a boy,” he murmured darkly, glowering at the carpet.

  “It’s just a figure of speech.”

  A figure of speech he didn’t care for.

  Harry knew him well enough to change the subject. “Saw your coach horses in the stables, Adam. Handsome beasts. Must have set you back a pretty packet.” Women and horses were on an equal plain in Harry’s mind, just as appreciated and just as collectable.

  A sudden ruckus in the hall announced the arrival of their brother. When they heard him curse wildly, falling over something and crashing heavily into the wainscoting, they knew it couldn’t be anyone but Luke. A few moments later he barged into the quiet morning room, rubbing his shoulder and limping.

  “So the old bugger’s finally gone, eh? I thought this was just another trick of his.” He rubbed his tousled sandy curls and staggered for the brandy decanter. “I need a drink. And then we can get this over with.”

  * * * *

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

  Their father’s solicitor, a small, grey fellow, cowered timidly behind the leather-topped desk in Randolph’s library, peered out through wire-rimmed spectacles with watery eyes, and frequently paused to blow his nose into a crumpled handkerchief. He’d spent close to an hour lumbering painstakingly through the long list of inventory, while the three men sitting before him waited impatiently.

  Adam had just shifted to the edge of his chair and exclaimed, “He always knew we wouldn’t want to keep the house. You can sell it all and we’ll divide the profit.”

  But they learned that their father recently added a small addendum to his will.

  “Mr. Randolph was most concerned about the fate of three paintings, his private collection,” the little man explained, blinking solemnly.

  “Private collection?”

  “Three nudes he painted. Kept for his eyes only.”

  Luke, half asleep in his chair, woke fully. “Nudes?” Their father had for a while fancied himself an artist, but none of his sons knew anything about a private collection.

  “Mr. Randolph was anxious the paintings not be sold off with the rest of the house contents, but rather that they be returned to the models. It seems he promised the ladies their paintings would never be made public. He insists that you, his sons, return them in person.”

  Immediately there were three grumbling protests. None of them had the time to chase about the country, as Luke put it with his usual flare, “looking for three old hussies”.

  Their father’s solicitor snuffled. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, the task is non-negotiable. If you fail in returning the paintings to their rightful owners, the three of you get nothing at all from the house proceeds. It will all go to the housekeeper, Mrs. Murray. Oh,” he checked his papers again, “and her cat.”

  The housekeeper, who’d been sitting quietly in a corner of the room, jumped a few inches out of her chair as they all now swiveled to look at her. “Me?” she muttered nervously. “I’m sure I don’t…well, Mr. Randolph never said a word to me. I don’t want anything. What will people think?” Plucking at her apron with chapped fingers, she burst out. “I haven’t even got a cat!”

  The solicitor blew his nose loudly. “Then I suggest you get one, Mrs. Murray.”

  Silence fell over the newly aired and cleaned library. Only the skeleton clock ticked on, spinning and circling inside its dome. Adam turned to look at it, out of habit, checking the time with his own pocket watch, because he didn’t know what else to do or say at that moment. It was typical of their father, of course, to engineer a practical joke like this. Must have given the old man hours of amusement to plan this, leave everything to the housekeeper’s non-existent cat, rather than his sons.

  “Isn’t it terribly icy cold in here?” the solicitor murmured, shivering, shoulders hunched.

  They all ignored him.

  Harry growled finally, “Suppose we’d better have a look at these paintings then.”

  * * * *

  Mrs. Murray unlocked the small room in the cellar with a brass key from her chain. “I never knew what he kept in here because he said it didn’t need to be cleaned. I thought it was just more wine bottles and the like.”

  The door creaked open and Harry led the way, carrying a gas lamp. Luke followed him and Adam brought up the rear with a second lamp. Mrs. Murray, apparently afraid the sight of naked women would turn her to salt, waited in the passage, muttering about cats making her eyes run and how she didn’t want any of the old man’s money or people would assume she’d done more than keep house for him.

  Meanwhile, Randolph Blackwood’s three fledglings stood in the arcs of lamplight, bowing under a canopy of shattered cobwebs, opening a large wooden chest. Inside, wrapped carefully in calico, they found the three paintings.

  The first was a blonde woman laying on her belly, looking back over her shoulder at the artist, a slight smile on her lips, while her eyes remained sad and blue. Propped up on her elbows, she held a bunch of forget-me-nots and at the base of her spine rested a bright scarlet poppy, drawing attention to the lush curves of her bare bottom. Her hair, which was almost silver, was piled atop her head, some waves falling to her shoulders.

  “Not bad for an amateur,” Harry muttered gruffly, as if he knew anything about art.

  The second was a brazen red-head stretched out in long meadow grass, a string of daisies draped around her neck, green eyes sparkling in the sunlight as she laughed. A scattering of freckles across her nose gave the illusion of youth, but the rest of her body, voluptuous creamy breasts and the gleaming, copper curls at the apex of her thighs, proved her to be all woman.

  Luke cleared his throat. “The brushwork here is very good. His use of light and color…the way the sun highlights her …” Apparently he couldn’t finish, or perhaps he ran out of all the terminology he knew. All the respectable terminology. They were, after all, within Mrs. Murray’s hearing.

  The third and final painting was of a brunette on a chaise lounge, a crown of orange blossoms around her head, some of the flowers tumbling down the thick, velvety darkness of her hair, falling to her lap where her hands rested as if she might, at any moment, choose to cover herself. But she didn’t. Naked, except for that luxurious sprawl of hair and a pair of stockings with lace garters, she seemed very composed and self-contained, at first glance. But when Adam allowed his eyes to linger, studying her expression, he saw a turmoil of emotions stari
ng back at him through eyes the color of fire-warmed brandy.

  His pulse quickened.

  She was waiting. For her lover perhaps? Posed on that chaise she wasn’t relaxed, but very alert, ready to spring up and greet someone. Or run away.

  She wasn’t decided, hence the turmoil.

  “Interesting,” he managed tautly, his anger a barely restrained torrent.

  Lina.

  For those few months all those years ago, she kept him at arms length, professing herself to be a proper and pious woman, and yet she’d posed like this for his father. In all probability she’d been Randolph’s mistress.

  His sight became cloudy. His jaw was hurting. Brandy and jealousy burned in his gut. One dark thought quickly raced to another, crude and brutal.

  She’d turned him down because she was fucking his father.

  Perhaps that was why her husband had come up to the manor with a gun. It had nothing to do with Adam’s clumsy attempts to seduce her at all.

  For a few minutes no one spoke, too enthralled by the paintings and their own thoughts.

  Mrs. Murray called out in a thin, fearful voice, “Are you all right in there?”

  “Rather more all right than expected,” Harry muttered distantly.

  Luke swore quietly, breathlessly, his trembling hands holding the red-head up to the light.

  Adam was silent, gaze still pinned to Lina in the portrait. She had beautiful breasts, high and firm, their fullness accentuated by the long hair that swept around them like a rich, velvet cushion holding treasured pearls. He read her expression and knew she was thinking she should have covered her breasts with all that hair. But it was too late now. He saw. And he lusted like a peeping schoolboy. He bit his lips so hard he tasted blood.

  When someone said, “So what are we going to do?” Adam didn’t know which brother spoke. He was angrily, resentfully admiring the soft, smooth skin of her belly and then her hips, imagining his hands on them holding her so she couldn’t get away, could never deny him again. The arousal was fierce, violent, rebellious.

  “I suppose we’d better do what the old man wanted,” Harry said carefully, a sentence he’d never before uttered.

  “We’ll each take one,” Luke agreed. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble to find them.”

  And Adam said quite innocently, “I’ll take the brunette.”

  Chapter Three

  She gazed at the lines crossing the small, clammy palm. “Ah yes, Miss Clark. I see a young man, a rare young man of grace, civility, and kindness.”

  “Oh.” Twitching under her bonnet, Miss Isobel Clark exhaled a small cry of part alarm part excitement. “Indeed? I wonder who it might be.”

  “He wears a long black coat and…yes…I see something at his throat…”

  “Oh.” The young woman’s right hand tightened in her lap. “Could it be a man of the church?” she whispered, fraught.

  “I daresay it could be. But he is a man also of poetry, I think. A man who enjoys other great works as well as the bible. A gentle, spiritual man of sensitivity.”

  “Goodness. I cannot think who it might be.”

  Smiling, Evangeline released the young lady’s hand and stood, swiftly palming the coins left for her on the cloth. She was always pleased when she managed a little matchmaking on the side. The new young parson was a favorite of hers and she’d observed him admiring Miss Isobel Clark from afar, but he hadn’t the courage to approach. Today she nudged the young lady a few steps closer. Hopefully the parson would find some gumption to narrow the gap further. “He is very near, Miss Clark. I suspect you’ve noticed him before, but perhaps not opened your eyes to see him…” Through the curtains, she caught sight of young Peter Dockley ambling along the path, hands dug into his pockets, a whistle on his lips. “…clearly.”

  She gathered the tea things on the tray, anxious to be rid of her client, but Miss Clark was looking around the small parlor, taking it all in. No doubt to report back to her mama who was a stern-faced, unpleasant woman. Evangeline had been astonished to see the timid Miss Clark on her doorstep that morning. But her surprise soon turned to wry amusement when she realized the girl was there to spy for her mama, who, while she dare not come herself, was eager to condemn the services performed in Evangeline’s parlor.

  “You have no crystal ball, Mrs. Phillips?”

  “No.” She’d been thinking of acquiring one just for a touch of glamour. There was little point explaining she didn’t need a crystal ball. Most people and their motives were transparent enough without it.

  The doorbell rang. Her client rose hastily, checking her bonnet with fluttery hands.

  “Good day then, Miss Clark.” She lifted the tea tray. “And please do come again.” They walked through to the hall as the bell rang again. No sign of her maid to answer it. “Mary!” she called out impatiently.

  No reply. Mary, a sullen nineteen-year-old hired by her husband because she was cheap, made it quite clear she had no interest in her duties. She was probably out in the back garden, chatting over the wall with the neighbor’s maid.

  Muttering under her breath, Evangeline set the tray on the hall console table and hurried to the door, shepherding Miss Clark gently forward. Through the stained glass panels she could see nothing but two dark shadows moving about. Peter was expected, late in fact, but who else could it be? Perhaps one of the hopeful local bachelors paying her another unexpected visit or a tradesman with an overdue bill. She sought for an answer, but found none in her vision. Those mysterious, deeper instincts chose to show their evanescent capabilities on this occasion. Later she would wonder if they did, in fact, tell her what she wanted to know, but she deliberately ignored the signs.

  When she opened the door, standing aside for Miss Clark, the first, brief flick of a discerning eye told her the second man was very well dressed, tall and broad-shouldered, in his mid to late twenties. He was neither tradesman nor suitor. Swiftly she turned her attention to Peter, waving him in with an impatient hand.

  Miss Clark, passing through the open door, came to a lurching halt, staring up at the unexpected gentleman with wide eyes, one hand holding her bonnet. A quick flush brightened her face and she smiled mawkishly.

  The man on the path looked at them both and politely raised his hat, but his eyes settled on Evangeline. His perusal swept her thoroughly.

  Her belly tightened, her lips were dry, her throat constricted.

  The boy hot-head had returned. Under no circumstances would she introduce him to Isobel Clark, who would immediately take the information back to her mother, the biggest gossip in East Lofton.

  “Good day, Miss Clark,” she repeated firmly, holding the door open, still not looking at him. “Do give your mama my regards.”

  The girl made an odd braying noise and slipped by the young man, hurrying for the gate.

  Nothing for it now but to look at him.

  She caught her breath, having forgotten how he could take it away, rip it out of her with one ardent, knowing glance. He was despicably beautiful for a man, but five years ago it was still an untended, unmanaged beauty. He had been like a young hound dog, all big paws, recklessly wagging tail, and sloppy tongue, yet to grow into his skin and learn a little self-control. Now he’d matured into his looks and no woman was safe. None. His dark eyes were thickly lashed below artfully carved brows that seemed, like his slender lips, almost always prepared to lift in amusement at her expense. The only thing that kept his face from too much perfection was the scar across the bridge of his nose where he once broke it.

  “Mrs. Phillips, how pleasant to see you again.”

  She squinted up at him, one hand shading her face from the bright, spring sun. “Yes,” she replied warily, wondering why he was being very formal. “Good morning, Mr. Blackwood.”

  He bowed again, stiffly, only from the neck this time. “My father is dead, Mrs. Phillips. Did you know?”

  “Yes. I was so sorry to hear it.”

  She’d forgotten how dark those e
yes could be, just like Randolph’s. “I’m sure you were,” he replied, slowly, almost menacingly. “You were his housekeeper for a short period some years ago.” The way he said housekeeper was evidently meant to suggest something else. His lips parted, showing a sudden, brief flare of white teeth that might have been a smile or a snarl. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Phillips?”

  So he’d seen the painting. His assumption, although expected, pricked at her temper, made her consider closing the door in his face. Instead she curbed her sudden fit of pique. What did he know, or understand, about anything? He was just a boy. With a slight hint of condescension, she replied, “About ten years ago I worked at The Grange for a few months. I left when I married my husband.”

  He’d never asked her about working for his father before. Apparently he’d been prying into the past. Well, she had nothing about which to feel ashamed. Nothing.

  “I must have been away at boarding school,” he remarked.

  “Yes. I expect so.”

  There was a pause. He took his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced at the time.

  “Is there something you wanted, Mr. Blackwood?” She decided to be formal, too, act as if they were strangers, as if he had not tried to seduce her twice. Once on a hot afternoon under the great oak on the common; and again on Christmas Eve, following her home in the snow after church, when any other respectable person had Christian thoughts in his heart.

  Those dangerous, raven eyes narrowed and she could no longer tell which part of her he looked at. “I’ve come to make you an offer.”