Deborah frowned and pleated a bit of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger. Yes, she had to confess that she’d enjoyed Melbyrne’s company very much. There had even been times that she’d felt completely lifted out of her grief…a prospect that aroused both bemusement and guilt. If she had reacted a bit strongly when Lord Donnington had found them, it was only because she would never have done anything to stain her husband’s reputation by appearing the hussy.
Lawrence would never have wanted you to spend your life in mourning. But she had made the decision not to marry again. She had spent three happy years with a husband who had never been anything but a perfect friend. How could any other man provide such loving companionship?
Stella brought in the tea tray. Deborah smiled and assured her that nothing else was needed. Only time to think. To test her feelings and try to understand what they meant.
He likes me, she thought. He wasn’t attempting to mislead her, she was certain of it. But he had given no indication that he had developed a real partiality for her. Surely she was quite safe.
Deliberately she picked up her teacup and took a measured sip. Yes, she quite liked Mr. Melbyrne. But more than that…
She allowed her mind to wander again, finding her way back to the rookeries where she had witnessed so much suffering. She had done very little that first visit; now that Frances and Nuala had formed more ambitious plans for founding a school and delivering additional food, along with hiring new employees to help carry and distribute it, Deborah was determined to contribute all the funds, time and work such a worthy project required. If she had been a bit frightened by the man with the knife…why, she would overcome that fear. And it wasn’t as if all the men in Whitechapel were like him. One only had to remember young Ioan Davies.
Another sip from the cup proved the tea to have grown cold, but Deborah didn’t pour herself another. She set down the cup and leaned back in her chair.
Ioan Davies. A most unusual fellow. She remembered his hazel eyes very well…the steady, proud way they’d met hers even as he showed her the respect due a lady, their sharpness when he’d confronted the troublemaker, Bray. He had been quick and light on his feet, courageous, gallant in spite of his worn workman’s clothing.
He’d had no reason to defend her. No reason but simple decency. Decency; yes, that was a word that suited him very well. He was not particularly tall, not nearly as handsome as Melbyrne….
She started. The very idea of comparison between the two men seemed most odd. It wasn’t as if they were in any sort of competition. And they came from very different worlds. One Welsh, one English. One wealthy, one poor. One merry and loquacious, one sober and serious.
And why shouldn’t he be, given the life he must lead?
A twinge of guilt brought Deborah up out of her chair. Lawrence had always been generous to the poor of Paris, but he had known he couldn’t solve the world’s problems. Ioan Davies was certainly not the sort of man who would accept charity from her, or any woman. Aside from helping with Frances’s work, there was nothing she could do for him.
Why did that knowledge make her feel so very inadequate?
With an effort she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Save for the bedstead, a small armoire and her dressing table, it was completely bare. She called Stella to help her change from her afternoon dress to one more suitable for a casual dinner with friends. This evening she could look forward to viewing Nuala’s portrait and meeting with the other Widows, whose company she always found stimulating and diverting. No more thoughts of men, poor or otherwise.
Stella finished hooking her bodice and stepped back. “The blue suits you, your ladyship,” she said with satisfaction. “Shall I pack the grays away?”
The question startled Deborah. Pack them away? She studied herself in the mirror. The “blue,” as Stella called it, was really more a sort of gray…wasn’t it? It certainly wasn’t a bright blue. She touched her hair, still safely caged in its severely simple style. Ought she to change again? She wouldn’t wish anyone to think…
No. The color was well enough, though she must watch her choices in future. She would not put the grays away, even though the other Widows had given up mourning. Not that all of them favored bright colors. Julia and Frances both preferred browns and other sober tones. Nuala’s dress was always just a little reserved, as if she preferred not to attract the attention of anyone in Society, let alone that of men.
Yet she had attracted them. Deborah hadn’t failed to notice the sparks that flew between her and Lord Donnington. It had seemed very odd. And the earl had stared and stared at Nuala in such a way that Deborah couldn’t decide whether he loathed her or wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her.
Deborah pressed her hand over her mouth as if she had spoken the thought aloud. Lord Donnington, interested in Nuala? He certainly had no liking for her, nor she for him; their meeting in Hyde Park had made that clear enough. Everyone knew he had only one use for women.
And yet…there must be something between them. Something not entirely pleasant. Still, even if they liked each other, Nuala would never respond to an approach by Lord Donnington. She had no interest in a purely amorous relationship with any man.
Relieved at her conclusion, Deborah rose, thanked Stella and went downstairs again. Presently Nuala’s carriage arrived, and Deborah climbed in. She noticed immediately that Nuala was distracted, and that there was a certain hectic color in her cheeks.
“Are you well, Nuala?” Deborah asked, laying her hand on Nuala’s arm.
Nuala smiled. “Very well, thank you. Did you enjoy the party?”
“Yes. Though I should not like to attend such events every day.”
“Nor I,” Nuala said. “I understand that you and Mr. Melbyrne had much to talk about.”
“He is quite entertaining.”
“As you said, a most personable young man.” Nuala seemed about to say more, but stopped and turned her attention to the view outside the window. Deborah thought again of Lord Donnington, and almost asked Nuala what she thought of the earl. Basic courtesy discouraged her. If Nuala wished to speak of him, she would.
They arrived at Maggie’s house a little before time. Maggie’s footman opened the door with a bow and escorted Deborah and Nuala upstairs to Maggie’s chaotic studio.
As Deborah had discovered on a previous visit, it was no simple matter to negotiate the paint-spattered floor. But her attention was soon caught by the covered canvas propped on an easel near the windows. Nuala herself seemed nervous, as if she’d rather not see the painting at all. Maggie, not she, had been the one to insist that Nuala would be a perfect subject.
“It is finished,” Maggie said with a modestly satisfied air as she wiped her hands on a cloth and pushed her thickly curled red hair out of her face. “I think it may be my best work.”
“Might we see it?” Deborah asked.
In answer, Maggie went to the easel and carefully lifted the covering from the canvas.
Deborah gasped. It was nothing like she had expected. Oh, it was nearly a perfect likeness of Nuala in every respect; long, graceful neck, rather grave, gray eyes, even features and fair skin. But there was something very odd about it, too, and it took Deborah a few moments to recognize the nature of the oddity.
The clothing was all wrong. Whatever Nuala had been wearing during the sitting, it surely hadn’t been this. The dress was a deep mulberry in color, sober and almost forbidding. Every inch of skin above the bosom was covered with a wide, very plain white collar, which matched the cuffs at the ends of the full, stiff sleeves. Over her bright ginger hair she wore a snug linen cap.
Deborah remembered seeing just such clothing in a painting at the Louvre, one of those rather dark Dutch works depicting a domestic scene of the seventeenth century. The Puritans had dressed like this. It was as if Nuala had posed just before leaving for a fancy-dress ball.
If Deborah was surprised, Nuala was shocked. The color had drained out of her face. Deborah wa
s astonished at the change in a woman who so seldom lost control of her emotions.
Maggie appeared totally oblivious to the reaction her work had provoked. She frowned at the left bottom corner of the painting and picked up one of her small brushes.
Aware that Nuala was trembling, Deborah guided her to one of the rickety wooden chairs scattered about the studio. She pulled a second chair alongside the first.
“It isn’t what you expected, is it?” she asked.
Nuala tried to smile. “It…it is a very fine portrait.”
“But you weren’t wearing those clothes when you sat for it, were you?”
Confusion and alarm disappeared behind a mask of calm that Deborah didn’t for a moment believe was genuine. “No,” Nuala said. “I imagine that Maggie chose to change the appearance of my dress for artistic reasons of her own.”
“I wonder why.” Deborah examined the painting a second time, paying greater attention to the detail. “Even the style is a bit odd. It’s as if she had deliberately painted the portrait as an artist might have done several hundred years ago.”
“Yes.” Nuala’s hands knotted in her lap. “I shall have to ask her why she chose that particular style.”
And so shall I, Deborah thought. Just as she had felt that there might be something going on between Nuala and Lord Donnington, Deborah sensed that there was more to Maggie’s choices than met the eye.
“There,” Maggie announced, straightening from the painting with her brush triumphantly raised. She turned to Nuala and Deborah with a grin. “Do you like it?”
“It is lovely,” Nuala said warmly as she rose. “Quite breathtaking.”
Maggie chewed on the end of her brush. “There is something missing,” she murmured. “I shall know what it is after a day or two. And it must finish drying. But I shall be able to deliver it to you in a week.”
“I shall be very honored to give your gift pride of place in my house,” Nuala said.
“Hmm.” Maggie’s eyes had taken on that glazed look so typical of artists immersed in their work. Nuala smiled at Deborah, and the two of them left the studio.
“If you don’t like it,” Deborah said once they were in the carriage again, “you needn’t display it except when Maggie calls or the Widows meet at your house.”
“Oh, I truly do like it,” Nuala said, too brightly. “I am sorry if it appeared otherwise.”
Deborah was still far from convinced. But soon the carriage had drawn up in front of Frances’s on Wilton Crescent, and they were being greeted at the door by her parlor maid. Frances kept no male servants in her home.
The other Widows—all but Maggie, who would doubtless be late—had already gathered in the drawing room, which was as neat and sensible as Frances herself. The few select pictures on the walls were all of prominent women of the past: Boadicea, Queen Elizabeth, Joan of Arc.
“What a day!” Lillian exclaimed, vigorously plying her fan. “I had such difficulty with my orchids, especially the Chysis bractescens. She was extremely naughty and uncooperative when I attempted to repot her. I only hope she will perk up again.”
Clara gave Lillian an indulgent smile. “I’m sure your loving hand will soon put her to rights,” she said.
“And how goes your latest experiment, Clara?” the dowager Duchess of Vardon asked. “Does it progress well?”
“Very well, Tameri. And I must say that your party was elegance itself. Lady Winthrop was most envious of your garden.”
As always, Tameri accepted the praise as her due, though she nodded graciously. “Lady Winthrop is most prone to envy. It is not an attractive trait.”
“She is also prone to simpering at every man of position she meets,” Lady Selfridge said acidly. “And to lying with as many of them as she can take to her bed.”
The room fell silent. No one was really shocked by Frances’s candor; she was unfailingly blunt when it came to the relationships between men and women, at least when she was among friends. During the first few days of Deborah’s acquaintance with the Widows, Nuala had attempted to shield her from Lady Selfridge’s more astonishing pronouncements. She had long since abandoned the effort, though she now cast Deborah a probing glance.
“There is one man she will never have,” Julia Summerhayes said, startling everyone. As all eyes came to rest on her, the shy young woman ducked her head as if she might disappear into the ill-fitting gown she wore.
“Who is that, Julia?” Maggie said, walking into the drawing room. She plopped into one of the chairs, rubbed at the smudge of paint on her chin and gazed at Julia curiously.
Julia didn’t answer at once. Instead, her gaze fell briefly on Nuala, and her brown eyes grew opaque. Nuala appeared not to notice.
“Let me guess,” Lillian said with a teasing smile. “Mr. Erskine. I have heard that he absolutely detests the woman.”
“So you do occasionally notice what goes on in Society,” Clara said.
“Far more than does Maggie, I assure you,” Lillian said with a bubbling laugh.
Maggie glanced about, half-bewildered. “More than I do what?” she asked.
“Maggie is fortunate that she has more enriching work than gossip to occupy her thoughts,” Frances said.
Nuala shifted uncomfortably. The portrait, Deborah thought.
“Julia has not told us who this man is,” Deborah said. “I suspect that it must be one of the Forties.”
“Why?” Frances asked. “I imagine that most of them have already enjoyed Lady Winthrop’s favors.”
Lillian tittered in a way that was far less annoying than endearing. Tameri, her arms jingling with golden bracelets, permitted herself a smile. “Julia,” she said, “you must finish what you began.”
But Julia only shrank deeper into her chair. “I…I am very hungry. May we not go in to dinner now?”
Clara laughed. Frances smiled and shook her head. She summoned her butler and soon the ladies were in the dining room, applying themselves to a hearty meal. Frances refused to let any of the Widows pick at their food like frightened sparrows, nor did she hesitate to enjoy her own after-dinner port and cigar.
Tameri left soon afterward, protesting weariness. Maggie simply drifted away, an almost ghostly vision in her loose-fitting Aesthetic gown. Soon Lillian retired, as well. Nuala remained in the dining room, talking with Frances and Clara. Julia sought solitude in the drawing room, where Deborah found her. She chose a seat close to Julia’s.
“What did you mean when you said that there was one man that Lady Winthrop could never have?” she asked.
A good meal had brought some color back into Julia’s cheeks, and she didn’t shrink away at Deborah’s question. “It was only foolish speculation,” Julia said. “I was wrong to speak of it.”
“Why? There is no harm in gossip among friends conversing in a private home.” She leaned closer. It wasn’t just speculation, was it? It was one of your visions.”
Julia flinched. “I don’t have visions, Deborah,” she protested.
“But the spirits speak to you. Clara told me about your last séance. Even she was convinced by it. It is not as if any of us refuses to believe—”
“Why should the spirits inform me about so unimportant a matter as Lady Winthrop’s affairs?” Julia said, her eyes snapping with sudden spirit.
“Because it really wasn’t about Lady Winthrop at all.” Deborah forged ahead, knowing that her own suppositions rested upon the most slender of threads. “I saw you look at Nuala immediately after you spoke.”
Julia hesitated. She and Deborah didn’t know each other well as yet, nor had Deborah seen evidence of Julia’s gifts with her own eyes, but there was no earthly reason why she and Julia shouldn’t trust each other.
Mrs. Summerhayes seemed to reach the same conclusion. “You must not share with anyone what I am about to tell you.”
“You have my word.”
“I am worried about Nuala.”
Then I wasn’t entirely mad, Deborah thought. “Wh
y are you worried about her, Julia?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Julia shook her head. “It is only a feeling, really. Sometimes I glimpse what is in other people’s thoughts.” She gave Deborah a long look, as if waiting for her reaction. “Does that frighten you?”
Deborah swallowed. “Can you see into my mind?”
“Not now. It usually only happens when someone feels very strong emotions. And I try very hard not to intrude.”
Deborah tried to imagine what it must be like to actually know what someone else was thinking, and saw at once how extremely unpleasant it could be. One might hear the ugliest secrets, glimpse the darkest sins that existed among men. How could one live with such intimate knowledge?
“You understand,” Julia whispered. “I’m afraid few others would.” She smiled, an expression so rare on her face that it turned her from plain to pretty in an instant. “I wish…” She sobered again. “Something is troubling Nuala. Something about her past. People dressed in strange clothing—”
“What sort of clothing?”
“Dark, very plain, with wide collars. And there are people crying. Screaming.”
“How horrible! When did you first…hear these thoughts?”
“Just when Nuala came into the room.”
And she and Deborah had come directly from viewing Nuala’s portrait. The portrait in which Lady Charles had been wearing a dark, plain gown with a wide collar.
“You can’t see anything else?”
“Not about that. And I won’t force myself into her thoughts. That would be very wrong.”
“Of course.” Deborah frowned. “What has this to do with Lady Winthrop and the man who won’t have her?”
Julia bit her lip. “Have you met Lord Donnington?”
Deborah suppressed her excitement. “Yes. He was at the garden party today.”
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