Edyth tore off a chunk of a dinner roll and absentmindedly spread a generous amount of butter on it and popped it in her mouth. When her father and mother had passed away, Uncle Boris had continued to allow her to fence despite his misgivings, thinking it would be a good way for her to move past her grief. And when she had started ignoring fashion and avoided wearing a corset at all costs, he had merely shaken his head at her choice. While he approved of her painting, a pastime that sprang from the art lessons her father had endeavored to teach her throughout her childhood, he had never shown Edyth animosity for her other unconventional choices, and she loved him for it.
Bane leaned over to her, whispering, “You haven’t been this quiet in all the time I’ve known you. Did the fall cause you great discomfort? Do you need to see a doctor?”
She shrugged, thinking she would have to tell Bane about her encounter later when Lavinia was not present. “I’m just hungry.” And bruised and confused.
“Well, ’tis a good thing, because the first course is on its way.” Lavinia clapped her hands as the tomato basil soup arrived, and turned her attention to Doctor Hawkins, speaking in low tones, giggling, and leaving Edyth to fend for herself.
How on earth was she supposed to flirt with her best friend? He would notice it at once and most likely tease her mercilessly. The very thought of him discovering the admiration she had harbored since she had met him sent her stomach roiling.
“I think we are all set for the anniversary celebration,” Bane commented, unaware of her tumultuous state. “And I have you to thank for that.”
“You know I would do anything for my friends,” Edyth replied, fixating on a wrinkle in the tablecloth under the flower arrangement.
“But aren’t I your only friend?” he asked, his brows rising, a teasing lilt in his voice.
“No.” She gave him a light kick under the table before she could remember it was unladylike. “Your sisters-in-law and I get along famously, as you very well know.”
“You need more friends than just the Banebridge family, but I approve of your taste.” He added a wink that softened his words.
She ran her fingers along the perimeter of her napkin. “I have never really been one to make friends easily, so I am thankful to have your family. But, if you should ever forsake me, I have Lavinia now.”
“Well, that is a comfort.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, narrow black box and, to her utter astonishment, slid it across the white tablecloth toward her, drawing Lavinia’s attention at once as Edyth sucked in a sharp breath. “But the reason I brought the anniversary up now is that I want to give you a small token of my appreciation for all you have done in planning the event. I could not have done it without you.”
Edyth sent him a smile and wished she could tell Bane how much she adored him for everything he had done for her and continued to do. “You didn’t have to give me anything, Bane. You know how much I love the fencing club.” And its headmaster. She popped open the box and exhaled, not even realizing that she had been holding her breath. Laughter bubbled up inside of her at the sight of a stickpin shaped like a miniature silver rapier with a single crimson stone set in the handle. She stroked the ruby and giggled in delight.
“You hate it,” he said as Lavinia sighed in open disappointment.
“No! I love it. It’s absolutely perfect.” Edyth removed the rapier from its velvet cushion and pinned it to her bodice above her heart. “I will wear it every day,” she promised. Her gaze found his, and she had never wanted to kiss him more—more even than the time when she was sixteen and first fell for him, or rather, into his arms during a fencing bout that had gone terribly wrong. Bane had lowered his face to hers to be certain that the blade had not left a mark. She could still remember the touch of his calloused thumb stroking her neck. The tiny scar at the nape of her neck was worth the concern and tenderness he showed her in cleaning and bandaging her wound. In that moment, she fell irrevocably in love with Raoul Banebridge.
He grinned. “Well, I won’t hold you to that, but I am relieved you like it. I have never picked out anything for a woman besides my mother, but the shopkeeper insisted that ladies love to wear stickpins as brooches these days, and when I saw the sword set with the stone in your favorite color, I knew it was made for you.”
“What a lovely surprise to see you, Miss Foster and Mr. Banebridge.” The buxom Miss Heather Finley appeared on the arm of a rather stout gentleman and fluttered her eyelashes at Bane, flirting as always.
Heather. She gritted her teeth at the arrival of her former friend, waiting for her to simply walk past them to her own table. Heather and her mother were the reason she had been kicked out of New York’s Four Hundred, and she did not care to relive the painful memory of her disastrous debut season.
The gentlemen rose and bowed as introductions were exchanged, and small talk ensued until Heather flicked open her fan and curtailed the conversation, stating, “Well, we must join the rest of our party, but may I say what a charming couple you two make, Miss Foster and Mr. Banebridge.” Heather directed her smile at Edyth as if knowing Bane’s protest was imminent.
Edyth sighed and waited for Bane to correct her as he had every time throughout the years when someone assumed they were a couple.
“Thank you. I quite agree,” Bane replied, taking a sip from his glass and ignoring Edyth’s gaping mouth.
Nestled in the open carriage beside Edyth with Miss Birch and Doctor Hawkins seated across from them, Bane kept thinking over his revelation of Edyth being more than a respected friend. After all these years, he found it strange that after seeing her in stylish clothing once, his view of her had shifted, and it excited him to discover what that shift could mean for them. He wasn’t even certain Edyth wished to court, not with her weekly gentle rejections to would-be suitors. She loved her independence, that he was certain of, but wasn’t she also much more attentive to him than anyone else? He shook his head to free it from his churning thoughts.
The carriage rolled to a halt, and Bane waited for the other couple to disembark before stepping down and offering Edyth his hand. Her fingertips pressed into his palms as she hopped out, and a spark ignited in him. Bane knew he had to explore this new feeling for his old friend without her knowing in order to protect their friendship.
“Thank you for a lovely evening and my sword pin,” Edyth said, brushing her fingertips over the piece and giving him a smile.
She moved to follow Lavinia inside, when he grasped her elbow, staying her, “Edyth, wait—”
She turned abruptly as he stepped toward her, and her face met his chest in a cloud of powder that shot up his nose. Edyth jumped back as he sneezed before wiping his hand over his cheeks and jaw to find a film of white powder that smelled like the scent Edyth was wearing. “What on earth?” he coughed out.
His eyes trailed from her mortified, pallid expression and the bits of powder flecking her face to the front of her gown, but she whirled around and dusted off her bodice and the bow at her throat that secured her cloak. “Good heavens,” she mumbled.
He sneezed again, and with her back still facing him, she handed him a handkerchief over her shoulder. He accepted, his fingers wrapping around her wrist and turning her back to face him. But she wouldn’t look at him. And then he spotted the source of the powder, sending his gaze dashing aside and mirth swelling in his chest. He couldn’t contain it, and threw his head back and laughed. “Why would you—?”
“Raoul Banebridge. It is not humorous in the least. I have never been so embarrassed in all my days. I never should have listened to Lavinia. This is one of her gowns, and the maids only had time to hem it, so, well … I won’t say it, but it was necessary, I assure you.”
Checking his laughter until his eyes watered from the suppression, he rubbed his finger over her cheek to wipe away a trace of powder. “Edyth Foster, you never cease to astonish me.”
She looked up at him sharply, as if to read his meaning, and her lips quirked into
a half smile. “So, before we were distracted, was there something you needed to tell me?”
He glimpsed behind them to find that Miss Birch had already stepped inside with Doctor Hawkins. Now was as good a time as any, but his words stuck in his throat. Perhaps he should wait. Yet, one look into those dark eyes, and he knew he could not. How had he missed noticing that enchanting light all these years? She really was his dearest friend, and the thought of another gentleman laying claim to her heart sent him a much-needed burst of courage. “Would you like to keep walking? There is a coffee shop down a few blocks that might be nice.”
“It sounds lovely, but don’t you have a private session with me first thing in the morning?”
“It’s not far.” He grinned and held out his arm to her. “Besides, when have you ever been concerned with getting enough rest?”
“True.” She laughed and wrapped her hand around his arm and stepped beside him, waving to her doorman to let him know not to hold the door for them any longer.
They walked in silence for a couple of blocks until he pointed to a shop on the corner with the warm glow of candlelight spilling from the windows. “There it is, but, uh, so about what I wanted to ask before …” He ran his fingers through his hair as music from somewhere nearby drifted out onto the street and enveloped them in the sighing strains of violins. This was harder than he thought. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I do believe we have a party to attend in the evening.” Edyth sent him a smile and rolled her eyes. “First you forget the morning lesson, and then the party. I hope you will remember to attend.”
He cleared his throat. “I meant to ask what you were doing during the day. I was hoping to attend the new exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
“The Metropolitan? You?” she asked, her brows lifting.
“Well, with you, after our lesson, that is. One of my students mentioned that a Cephas Thompson donated almost two hundred drawings this year and uh, they are on exhibit now.” He ran his fingers through his hair again. “Mostly Italian works, I believe.”
She blinked. “But why? You have never expressed an interest in art before.”
“Because”—Bane thought quickly—“it’s the other half of your thank-you present. You are always going on about your art and, well, I think it would be nice to see why.”
She squeezed his arm, her cheeks a pretty pink in spite of the lingering bits of powder. “I would love that, but I believe your sister-in-law mentioned you are practicing your dancing with her tomorrow afternoon?”
How does she know my schedule better than I do? “Well, perhaps I could cancel that appointment if you wouldn’t mind a slow waltz now?” His pulse thrummed in his ears as he halted, turning her to him and grasping her hand, sliding it to his shoulder.
She laughed and glanced about. “Out here on the sidewalk?”
He shrugged. “No one is around, and besides, I don’t want to embarrass us when we open the dancing.”
She smiled, rested her hand in his, and stepped close to him as he placed his hand against the back of her slender waist. “You should know by now that few things embarrass me.”
He waited and counted to three with the music before slowly turning with her, and he was surprised to find that dancing with her felt natural. While he had stumbled over his feet in lessons as a boy and avoided the dance floor as a man, he found that dancing was not completely unlike the fencing patterns on the piste. But with the moonlight bathing her face and dark features, all thoughts save of kissing her vanished.
Ending the waltz, he drew her closer, and the air charged between them. He leaned down, pausing a breath, then two, when a figure lingering by a lamppost caught his attention. Not caring for the man’s leer directed their way, he regretfully twirled her out of his arms and extended his hand. “I think it might be best if we head to the coffee shop before you regret accepting my invitation to accompany me, a man who cannot draw a star, to an art gallery.”
Chapter Four
In my deepest troubles, I frequently would wrench myself from the persons around me and retire to some secluded part of our noble forests.
~ John James Audubon
Edyth paused inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art in front of the stunning piece by Edward Burne-Jones, simply entitled Head of a Young Woman.
Bane turned his gaze from her and back to the portrait. “This woman looks a great deal like you, or is that the first sign one is dealing with an amateur art critic?”
“It is my mother.” Edyth smiled at his slack jaw and stepped aside to allow a couple to pass them. “My grandfather and the artist were friends, and Edward Burne-Jones asked to practice his sketching with her posing. As Mr. Burne-Jones had already painted the one of Grandmother that hangs in our parlor, Grandfather eagerly agreed.”
Bane rubbed the back of his neck. “Pardon me for asking, but if this is your mother, why is her picture here? How did the museum get ahold of it?”
Edyth fanned herself with her museum literature pamphlets against the stifling air brought from too many bodies in one building. Tucking her sketchbook under her arm, she removed her lace-trimmed handkerchief from her beaded reticule and dabbed at her temples, remembering Lavinia’s statement that gentlemen do not find a perspiring lady attractive. Too late for that. Fencing was not a sport for the delicate. “This piece wasn’t meant to be locked away. I have kept it to myself for the past decade even though my parents had intended to donate it following the example of Cornelius Vanderbilt II, who donated nearly seven hundred of the old masters’ drawings. But after the accident I couldn’t bring myself to let it go and selfishly kept it until last year.”
“No, not selfish. You were grieving.” He took her gloved hand in his, sending a pulse radiating through her arm.
She stepped away from the artwork, and to her surprise, he didn’t release her hand. What is he about? Certainly, it was nice to have his comfort when speaking of her parents. Nothing had been the same since their passing. She shook her head, willing away her thoughts lest they turn from happy memories into shards of pain as they usually did. She lingered in front of the recently donated black chalk work of a colonial couple by an unknown eighteenth-century French artist. “Tell me what you think about this piece.”
“Figures in a Landscape. That doesn’t give a fellow much to go on,” Bane muttered. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and cleared his throat before tilting his head, squinting at the lines, and releasing her hand to step back. “Well, it’s certainly interesting.”
“That’s all?” She wanted to laugh but did not wish to discourage him from returning to an art museum. “Why do you think the artist chose to sketch this couple? What of the execution of the lines?”
“Well, I think it’s rather overly simple to be anything special and on display.” Bane stuffed his hands into his pockets. “But, in its own way … you could say it is beautiful because the couple looks like they are in love, and one could argue there is nothing quite as beautiful, nor powerful, as love.”
“Raoul Banebridge has taken me to an art museum and is now speaking of love?” she teased to distract herself from the hope blossoming inside her that, with all his talk of love, maybe, just maybe Bane was beginning to notice her. Why else would he have brought her here and be saying such strange things?
“After all, didn’t one of your favorite artists say that ‘a work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art’?”
Her mouth fell open. “Now you are quoting Cézanne? Who are you, and what have you done with Bane?”
“Bane has been listening to your art ramblings for years.” He chuckled and nudged her playfully with his shoulder. “Maybe one day your sketches will be displayed next to this artist. Yours look just as good and not nearly so simple, so I suppose that makes them better than this piece.”
Still shaken from his comments, she couldn’t help but giggle at his summary that an artist in the Metropolitan was not as accomplished as her amateur
drawings. “Thank you for your vote of confidence, but the only way I could get my work to appear here is if I give the museum a rather sizable donation on the condition they display my work for a short period.” She drummed her fingers over her sketchbook cover. “My style is not exactly what the critics would call classic.”
Bane nodded to the sketchbook she was clutching to her side and reached for it. “May I see?”
She reluctantly allowed it to slide from her fingers and into his calloused hands. “I suppose, but only if you promise to look at the back half and not the front. I have had that sketchbook for quite some time and my artwork has changed. I only brought it in case you grew bored and left me—”
He immediately flipped through the first few pages, a gleeful smile reaching his ears as he hooted. “What are all these sketches of me that I see here? Edyth, there are dozens upon dozens.” Bane lowered his brows and grasped his chin between two fingers in the brooding expression she loved to capture, but he could not hold the stance for laughing.
The Gray Chamber Page 4
