by Nicole Byrd
The servant looked sympathetic. “May’ap I can do something about that, milord. Miss Psyche’s father–his set of razors might still be put away, for sentiment sake, like. I’ll ask the housekeeper if she could oblige.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel told him.
When the footman left the room, shutting the door behind him, Gabriel smiled grimly. Despite his losses, they had still been very lucky. He realized, more than any of them, how fortunate the footman was to still have his throat uncut and his head in one piece. Gabriel had not expected the band of ruffians to be so intelligent as to detect another man coming to fetch his cases.
On the other hand, the servant’s livery had likely caused remark in such a lowly inn. It was too late now to regret his actions; fortunately, the servant would heal, and Gabriel himself must deal with the loss of his wardrobe. With precious few coins left to spend, that was enough of a blow. Gabriel winced at his own pun. He had to replace his ruined wardrobe sufficiently to be seen outside the house without attracting comment, he had to engage a competent attorney to assure the legal transfer of title of the estate he had won, and he had to replenish his almost empty pockets. And for that, he would have to return to the gaming houses, while still escaping notice of the gang hired to kill him.
“I think,” he muttered to himself, “it will be a most intriguing week.”
In a short time, the footman returned with an engraved leather case and a brocade robe hanging over his arm. “The ‘ousekeeper found a set of razors, my lord, and also a robe. Ain’t no more of the late master’s clothes ’as would fit you. And I took the liberty of ordering the maids to bring up ’ot water for a bath. Your evening clothes will be here shortly, as well, but your–um–drawers are still wet, milord; the laundry maids put them into the wash.”
“I should like a bath very much indeed,” Gabriel answered, keeping his tone calm with some effort. A warm bath in a clean tub–it reminded him forcibly that he was in a real home again, not just another grimy second-rate tavern or inn. This was luxury indeed, almost worth the repeated attempts on his life. Bless Psyche for offering him this haven, this moment of ease that reminded him of all he had lost, and all he meant to reclaim. Even if her offer was a bit involuntary. . .
Grinning, he pulled on the robe, picked up the set of straight razors engraved with H.H.–he would treat them with utmost care–and followed the footman to the large bath, where the water emitted pleasant waves of warmth, and fresh soap and clean towels waited nearby.
“Do you wish me to shave you, sir?” the footman asked, his eyes glinting. Did he have ambitions of becoming a valet? It would be a step up for him, more money and more status. He seemed more intelligent than the poor fellow Gabriel had sent to retrieve his belongings, and Gabriel certainly had no man of his own. It wasn’t a bad idea, Gabriel thought.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready,” he said aloud. “What’s your name?”
The man bowed slightly; he had a lantern jaw and mild, intelligent brown eyes. “Brickson, milord.” He left the dressing room and pulled the door shut behind him.
Gabriel dropped the thick robe and stepped into the tub, sighing as the water swirled around his legs. It had been a long while indeed since he had had a proper bath, not a dip in a stream or a quick wash from a cracked basin. He sat down, and the warm water enveloped him like the security he had lost years ago, the stability he would have sworn he cared nothing for.
Laying his head back against the hard curved rim of the copper tub, Gabriel found that he could relax completely, let down his guard as he never could in an inn or even some friendly harlot’s bedchamber. In this house, he felt at home.
And that was ridiculous, he told himself sharply. It didn’t do to let down his defenses too far. He had dangerous enemies outside the house, and he had a sharp-witted, albeit beautiful, adversary within. Psyche would have him out of this house as quickly as she could.
Except that Gabriel did not mean to go, not yet. He relaxed a moment longer in the gentle warmth of the water, then reached for the soap.
Psyche spent an hour writing quick but polite refusals and worked her way through most of the stack of mail. Then a sudden thought made her reach for the small calendar in her desk drawer, and she gazed at the dates, feeling a rush of dismay.
Oh, no! How could she have forgotten? She would send a note of apology–no, no, that wouldn’t work, either. Psyche put one finger to her lips, chewing absently on the edge of her nail, then when she realized what she was doing–a childish trick–pulled her hand away. Oh, dear, oh, dear. She would have to speak to the actor again. Perhaps by this time he would at least have his clothes on!
She made her way back to the drawing room, but found no sign of the man. Frowning, she pulled the bell rope and waited for Jowers to appear. “Where is the–my fiancé, do you know?”
Jowers, despite his slow pace and seemingly slow wits, somehow remained aware of everything that happened in his household. “I believe he is up the nursery with Miss Circe, Miss.”
Psyche drew a deep breath. What on earth– “Thank you, Jowers.”
The butler nodded and withdrew, and Psyche almost ran toward the stairs. To leave her innocent little sister alone with a man of whom Psyche knew nothing–nothing except that his audacity and lack of respect for his employer knew no bounds–this she could not allow.
After a leisurely bath, Gabriel dressed in his evening clothes, foregoing the comfort of his smalls beneath–it wouldn’t be the first time. He recalled one lady whose bed chamber he had left so hastily that he’d barely had time to pull on his outer clothing–the lady’s husband had been pounding on the locked door, as he remembered, uttering grave threats toward the welfare of any strangers found inside. But his jacket and breeches had been brushed and pressed, spots of mud removed, and he himself felt much better after a bath and a shave. He brushed his damp hair into place and thought about what to do before venturing out into the street. Now that the footman was safe, Gabriel was in no hurry; his attire would look slightly less strange if he delayed his errands another few hours. And it was vital that he attract no unwanted notice.
On the stairway, he turned away from his own chamber and climbed another flight, till–by the simple expedient of opening several doors– he found the nursery chamber. His ‘employer’s’ younger sister stood at the end of the room, in front of an easel. It was placed beneath a high window, where the light would touch the painting, and Gabriel’s curiosity stirred. He came forward slowly; the girl was very intent on her brushwork, and he did not want to startle her.
“Hello again,” he said.
Circe looked up at him, then put down her brush and drew a paint-spattered cloth down, hiding the scene beneath.
Gabriel had been curious about her work, but he accepted the silent rebuke with a nod.
“Hello,” the child said. “Are you looking for Psyche? She isn’t here.”
“No,” he answered, making his bow as he would to an adult. “I came to meet you properly.”
Circe curtsied in return, then asked, “Why would you do that?” Her large green eyes met his gaze without blinking. She showed none of the awkwardness or shyness he would have expected from a child her age.
He felt a stirring of interest in this unusual young lady. “As your future brother-in-law, it is only polite for me to address you properly.”
She smiled suddenly, and her whole face changed. The too-serious look that she usually wore vanished for an instant, and he saw another side of her, playful and free. Just like her older sister, this child had more to her than met the eye.
“Ah, but I know it is all a hum, the engagement, I mean,” she said very low. Gabriel realized that an older woman sat in the far corner of the room, nodding over a lapful of knitting wool.
“But that does not mean that I should be rude,” Gabriel retorted, his tone teasing. “We must keep up the pose, you know, not forget our lines.”
“I suppose not,” the child agreed. “It is like one of your
plays, yes?”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “And besides, you are an unusual young lady. I think I should like to know you better.”
She considered that for a moment, then nodded in apparent agreement. “Would you care for some tea? The maid brought it up for me a while ago, but while the light was good, I could not afford to stop.”
“I apologize for interrupting you at your work,” he said, giving her one of his best smiles. He expected her to display the usual polite denials or even a shy flirtation. He was ready to reply to her reassurance that his presence was far better than any silly painting. But she flattened his over-puffed ego like a sharp knife slicing into a souffle.
She shrugged, apparently immune to his charm. “It’s all right. The best light has gone.”
Suitably chastened, he followed her to a battered round table, where Circe took a chair and poured out the tea. Gabriel sat down across from her and accepted a cup. The liquid was tepid, but he sipped politely, looking in interest at the child whose motivations were so different from the average young miss. Instead of a head full of fashion and shopping and romantic yearnings, she seemed to care only for her art.
“What are you painting?” he asked, his tone polite.
She narrowed her eyes at him over her own cup of tea.
“If you wish to talk about it, that is,” he said, afraid she would retreat again into careful silence.
“If you really are interested–” she stopped, studied his expression, then seemed satisfied and continued. “I made a study of French villages when I visited the Continent with Psyche and Aunt last year. Our visit was too brief, but I did get some watercolors done that I was–almost–happy with, and I sketched more scenes.”
“I would love to see them,” Gabriel said.
Circe didn’t answer. “Would you like a macaroon?” She offered him the plate.
Gabriel accepted his put-down and took a biscuit. It was light and sweet, and he nibbled it, watching her. “So you enjoy water colors?”
She sighed. “I do, but I should really like to try oils, only it’s very slow, trying to learn on my own, and we haven’t been able to find a decent teacher. Young ladies are expected to dabble in water color, you see, but oils are for serious artists. Oils suggest more avenues to fully express one’s work. Mr. Turner achieved his Avalanche in the Grisons by applying his paints with the use of a palate knife–is that not intriguing? I should so like to expand my skills. ” For the first time, her tone sounded forlorn.
“That is too bad,” Gabriel murmured. At her slightly suspicion glance, he said, “No, I mean it. I can see that it matters to you.”
Circe’s narrow shoulders relaxed just a little. “Yes, and in addition, I am interested in landscapes, not portraits or still life sketches, and that is not considered quite the thing for ladies, either. You know what Sir Joshua Reynolds said about the object of painting.”
Gabriel didn’t, but he tried to maintain an air of intelligent interest. “Yes?”
“He believed that painting should not copy nature but idealize it. And he preferred historical subjects, the ‘grand style’ that would elevate the observer’s spirit, though mind you, he did enough portraits, too, but that was for bread and butter. But personally, I don’t see why a artistically-pleasing vista cannot do the same–elevate the spirit, that is!” Circe observed, with more passion than she had so far displayed.
“Quite right,” Gabriel agreed, fascinated by her zeal, if not by the topic.
“But it’s most unfair; even if I could be admitted to the Royal Academy School, which I can’t, as I’m female–” Circe sighed– “landscape painting is not taught. One must apprentice to another artist, but finding a master who will take a girl . . . well, it’s enough to make one quite downcast.”
Gabriel stared at her clear eyes, sparkling now with the depth of her feelings. “But you will not give up,” he predicted, and was rewarded with the child’s sudden brilliant smile, which always vanished almost as soon as it appeared.
“No, indeed!” Circe agreed. “We are hopeful, Psyche and I, that on the Continent we might find a painter–poor, perhaps, in need of a paying student–who would be more open-minded. My mama always said that females should be allowed to exercise their talents just as men do, you know. Most people find that view shocking.” She paused to observe his reaction.
Gabriel smiled quite genuinely. “I have traveled enough to be, perhaps, more open in my thinking. I see no reason why a talented woman should not express her genius fully.”
Circe flashed another wide, dazzling smile.
He had a sudden increased understanding of how Psyche must feel about this adorable, if quite different, child. No one else was left to nurture her incredible spirit nor protect her from the confines of a conventional existence except her older sister. Psyche must feel the burden of her responsibility; no wonder her facade was so cool and her shell so hard to penetrate. She had assumed the weight of a parent’s responsibility at too young an age.
“Some day,” he remarked, “I hope you will allow me to view your work. These macaroons are excellent, by the way.”
When Psyche reached the nursery suite, she hurried inside. To her relief, she found Circe sitting at the round table where Psyche herself had once conducted tea parties with her dolls. The actor sat across from her, and they were both drinking tea and eating macaroons, Circe’s favorite treat.
“Circe, what are you doing with this–this man?” Psyche demanded, her tone too sharp. “Where is Telly?”
“Here, Miss, did you need me?” The governess, Miss Tellman, sat up with a jerk. She seemed to have been napping in her chair in the corner of the room.
“No, that’s all right,” Psyche said, her tension fading a little. But her eyes were still narrow as she turned back to the actor. “And what is your purpose here?”
“I thought I should pay a courtesy visit to my future sister-in-law,” Gabriel said, exhibiting his usual lazy smile.
“That’s ridiculous,” Psyche snapped, then pressed her lips together before she could give too much away. Circe knew all about her scheme, but Telly did not, and the elderly governess was not above a little judicious gossip with the other servant.. “I mean, I appreciate your sense of the proprieties, but–”
”I thought it was very nice of him,” Circe said, with her usual direct gaze turned toward her sister. “He didn’t forget me or ignore me, like some people, just because I’m not out yet, nor wearing long skirts.”
“Oh, Circe,” Psyche’s anger faded into contrition. “You know I always think of you, dearest.”
“Oh, not you,” Circe explained. “I meant Percy, who never seems to think that my life will be altered beyond bearing, too, if he should marry you. In fact, it would be hideous, living with Percy and Uncle Wilfred.”
Psyche nodded. She would never leave her sister behind if or when she should marry; Circe needed her too much. And when her sister leaned forward and whispered, “It’s a game, Psyche, we’re pretending, just like a play,” Psyche surrendered to the inevitable.
“Have a cup of tea, Psyche,” her sister added, playing the role of hostess with aplomb. “It’s cooled a bit, but it’s still very nice.”
“Yes, thank you,” Psyche agreed, drawing up another chair. Her sister, at twelve, could be alarmingly mature one moment, and very much a child the next. Psyche could hardly blame Circe for being curious about this impostor, but she did not like his association with her sister. After all, she knew next to nothing about him, or his past.
It seemed that Circe did. “Lord Tarrington–” her sister said carefully as she passed the cup of tea, “has traveled extensively, Psyche. He was telling me about some French paintings he has seen.”
Psyche tried not to show her surprise. If Circe had talked to the actor about her painting, she must have decided he was worthy of trust. Circe hated above all things being patronized, and her painting was not a hobby, although since their parents had died, only Psyche and p
erhaps Telly really understood the passion and the talent that this young girl revealed. And child though she was, Circe had a keen instinct for judging people’s characters. She had always detested Percy.
Psyche stared at the actor who sat so at ease at this nursery table, sipping his tea; the man continued to surprise her.
“I told him of my interest in oils, Psyche,” Circe told her sister. “He feels that I should be able to study the use of oil, and also landscaping, just like any young painter.”
Another surprise, that Circe should be so open so quickly. “And so you should,” Psyche agreed.
“When I was in Spain, I viewed some remarkable scenes by El Greco,” Gabriel said thoughtfully, reaching for another macaroon. “His study of Toledo–quite striking. Two hundred years old, of course, but a definite mood to his paintings. I agree with Circe that landscapes should be more than mere studies of topography.”
Circe beamed, and Psyche’s mood softened even more. Circe had so few people to discuss art with, seriously discuss. She hated adults who tut-tutted and told her not to neglect her needlework and piano, which would be more important to young lady of fashion, after all. How did this actor know anything about art, anyhow, or was it all just another illusion, a clever fiction he was spinning for her sister’s benefit?
Seeing the sparkle in her younger sister’s eyes, Psyche almost didn’t care.
The man seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts. “I fear that I am ignorant at art compared to your sister,” he said to them both. “But I know enough to appreciate genuine passion when I see it.”
Psyche was pleased again, both by his candor and his seemingly honest appreciation of her sister’s talents. “Yes, she cares deeply about her work. That is why I’m trying to find her the right instructors.”
Circe had smiled, but now she frowned just a little. “I keep working on my own, but it’s difficult. That harbor scene I did at Calais wasn’t too bad. But I’m still trying to capture the special quality of sunlight from behind a cloud, you know, not quite opaque, but that faint shimmer. . .” Circe’s voice trailed off as she looked away from them, as if envisioning an image visible only to her artist’s eyes.
