What she had wished was that he would offer to read to her while she worked, but she merely smiled briefly and answered, “No, thank you. My fingers are fine. I'm hoping to finish this tonight."
Most revealing of all, perhaps, were the social occasions. He had been away for a long time and felt he must invite all the neighbors to dine over the first weeks after his return. So every three or four days they had someone with them in the evenings—the Mardens, Abigail Waltham, the Treyfords (without Francis, who was visiting elsewhere), Dr. Wellow, Mr. Clevedon, the vicar. These occasions were exceedingly pleasant, except for one circumstance. Greywell answered their questions about Vienna and Waterloo.
And he had still never gone into any depth on either subject with her. It somehow hurt her feelings that he would open up to them when he wouldn't to her. Naturally, he didn't describe the grimmer aspects of the latter or the great frustrations of the former at a dinner party, nor did he really make ‘tales’ of either of them. Still, he told these people, relative strangers to her, a good deal more than he'd ever vouchsafed to her. Elspeth did not mention this to him. She played cards with a smiling face, and enjoyed the company of her neighbors, and said goodnight to him, when the time came, with polite, if distant, courtesy.
If Greywell noticed her reaction, he gave no sign. Far from avoiding her society, he sought her out almost every day to suggest a ride. And while they rode, they talked on any number of subjects—farming, the weather, the harvest, the horses, Andrew, the household staff, the local people and politics. He was perfectly willing to give her his opinions on each of these issues, and not above seeking hers. Sometimes, just to see if she could shake him out of his careless equanimity, Elspeth expressed some outrageous opinion. He would laugh and squeeze her arm affectionately, or laughingly scold her for teasing him. Which may, in actuality, have been why she did it in the first place.
It may also have been the reason she frequently suggested they descend from their horses, the fact that he held her as she climbed down. His hands felt so strong at her sides. Occasionally she even allowed her bonnet to become disarranged, because he would retie it under her chin, his fingers so casually adept as they brushed her skin. He never suggested that they lie side by side in the sun-baked meadow or on the dappled ground of the wooded areas. They sat uneasily, not quite looking at one another, and he would often tell of his ancestors, or of some ancient happening in the village, but seldom of his boyhood years.
Impatient, discouraged, Elspeth would eventually climb to her feet and say she was ready to continue their ride. What else was there to do if he wouldn't speak of anything personal? Had he shared all that information with Caroline, and now felt it a betrayal to confide in her?
Greywell would regard her turned back, stiff with indignation, as a decidedly good sign. His wife, in spite of her protestation of loving Francis Treyford, seemed to him to have entirely forgotten the poet in an astonishingly short time. Of course, he knew it might be an act she resorted to in order to convince him of her good faith, but he didn't think Elspeth quite so consummate an actress. No, he felt almost sure her irritation with him was an indication of her wish to have him be more open with her, and he could only count that as a victory. Women in the throes of love weren't particularly interested in acquiring close friendships with other people, in his experience. Lovers tended to seal themselves off from the rest of the world, not seek to include it in their special emotional hideaway.
This increasing tension she felt was confusing to Elspeth, and set her nerves a little on edge. One morning she found herself in the Miniature Room, looking at the tiny portrait of Caroline. She had intended, while Greywell was away, to commission a painter to do a full portrait from it, as a gift to him on his return. He could have kept it in his study, so she wouldn't necessarily have to come across it in the course of her daily route.
He had never invited her into his study, and she could think of no possible reason for interrupting him there. Now the thought of a full portrait of his late wife hanging where his eyes would meet it constantly gave her a sinking feeling. But it might be the best thing to do. After all, Andrew should have a picture of his mother to remind him, and Greywell might appreciate the gesture, coming as it did after her own lack of consideration for him. She had just replaced the miniature on the wall when Greywell himself entered the room.
He was surprised to find her there, and immediately thought her presence had something to do with the snuffboxes. It never occurred to him she might be studying his first wife's miniature. He had himself come to look at it, because he found his memory of her already dimming and he wanted to refresh it, if for his son's sake as much as his own. Absently he straightened the miniature on the wall before he turned his gaze to Elspeth. “Are you still worried about the snuffboxes? Did you want me to put them somewhere else?"
She had no intention of telling him why she was there. “No, no, I've become quite fascinated by them. Would you ... tell me a little about them?"
His expression was quizzical, but affectionate. “I never thought I'd see the day,” he said with a laugh. Selecting one of the oblong boxes with a rural landscape, he held it out to her. “This one is from the York House factory. The plant at Battersea lasted only three years before Jansson went bankrupt in 1756. Henry Delamain managed the plant, and John Brooks was the designer and engraver. This is one of the best of the English enamels with transfer-printed decoration. They cover an engraved copperplate with printer's ink that will sink into the engraved lines and can be wiped off the remaining surface. Then a piece of paper is placed on the copperplate and pressed with a hand roller, and the inked lines are transferred to the paper. Next the paper is fitted to the enameled surface to be decorated and placed in a muffle kiln until the design has again been transferred and fused on the enamel. The paper burns away."
"It's beautiful.” Elspeth ran a finger gently across the gleaming surface. “Do you know that much about all of them?"
"Most of them,” he admitted, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I've always been fascinated by the craftsmanship. As to the snuff itself, well, I'm not the expert Petersham is on that. He's made an art of mixing, moistening, and blending his congue and Pekoe and Souchong. I simply buy mine from George Berry and let him do all the work. Petersham swears he has a different snuffbox for every day of the year, and I wouldn't be surprised if he did. I only carry half a dozen or so of them. Not all at once! The rest I keep as artifacts."
"Tell me about this one,” she said, lifting an oblong box with rounded corners, slightly convex lid and bombé sides. A metal foot rim was simulated by a row of gilt dots painted around the bottom edge of the box, and the cover and sides were painted in a midnight blue shading to purple. Reserved against the ground was a painted scene with the underside left white.
"That's a Staffordshire box. They're hard to date because of their consistency of style. More often than not they have a scene of a lady and two gentlemen fishing, or a couple walking in a park, or a bullfinch perched on an overturned basket of fruit, engraved by Hancock."
"How did you find this one?"
"That's an interesting story.” He glanced up as Selsey arrived at the doorway to announce that luncheon was served. “I'll tell you over our meal."
And thus began Elspeth's lessons in snuffboxes.
Chapter Thirteen
Elspeth's original intention in getting Greywell to tell her about the snuffboxes had been to distract his attention, but she soon found herself fascinated by them. Not only did he begin to open up about himself when he was telling her how he'd acquired a particular box, but her interest in his collection won his instant approval. She was sure of it, because he spent a great deal of time with her, paying serious attention to her requests for information, even finding her some books which would be informative on the subject.
What was perhaps most rewarding about these sessions with him was the contact they promoted. Elspeth grew to love the way he handed a box t
o her, carefully placing it in her hands, his fingers brushing hers. And the way his eyes were so intent on hers, willing her to understand and appreciate the beauty of the delicate little boxes.
In the evening he would draw his chair beside hers, so close their arms touched as they examined a porcelain box from Nymphenburg or a silver box from Paris. Now, too, he began to give her some account, in sketchy details at first, of his recent travels. As the evenings passed, however, he became more informative not only on the externals, but on his thoughts about his various occupations. Elspeth liked the way his mind worked, optimistic but practical, always taking into account the realities of a given situation. She doubted if Francis would have had the least interest in the complexities of the issues Greywell patiently explained to her.
At first Greywell didn't bring out the more risqué of the boxes, but a time came when they had considered each of the others. Elspeth was aware of his hesitation, and she herself gathered three of those with naked nymphs to present to him in the evening for his usual lecture. The one she handed him first was one of the Battersea boxes of Paris awarding the apple to Hibernia. Paris was, of course, clothed, and there was a female warrior behind a shield, but Hibernia stood with her garments well below the bustline.
"This one was engraved by Simon-François Ravenet after James Gwim. It's one of the Battersea boxes, with the monochrome transfer-printed decoration.” He flipped the lid open to reveal a portrait of the Countess of Coventry attributed to John Brooks after a painting by Francis Cotes. “As you can see, this isn't in as good condition as some of them. Surprisingly, the outside seems less affected than the inside.” But he held it open, nonetheless, where the perfectly uninspiring portrait stared up at them.
Elspeth took it from his unresisting hand and closed the lid, staring down at Hibernia's high, full breasts. “Do you suppose she really accepted her prize that way?"
"I doubt it,” he said with a chuckle. “And I think it would be very uncomfortable for her to play that lyre in her uncovered state."
"Do you ... admire that kind of figure in a woman?"
Greywell considered Hibernia's body, with its long, rather muscular legs, as though the artist had accidentally used a male model for the lower half of her. “Not her legs, particularly, though she would probably ride rather well."
His answer was not at all what Elspeth was getting at. Her own legs, she felt sure, were unexceptionable, but her breasts were much smaller than Hibernia's, and not nearly so high. Well, really, who did have breasts that high, after all? They were almost up to the woman's shoulders!
Instead of pressing him for a more satisfactory answer, she presented him with another snuffbox, this one of a group of nymphs disporting themselves in an idealized woodland clearing. It reminded her of another woodland clearing, but she firmly put that occasion from her mind. The box had a diamond thumbpiece, on which Greywell concentrated.
"This one is German,” he said, “with a particularly fine diamond, the original, I feel sure. The gold is good, but the enameling hasn't stood up as well as it should have. Probably from the early 1760s."
The women were round and pink, and again full-breasted.
"Do you like that kind of figure?” Elspeth asked, tapping the box with one finger.
"It's a little full-blown for my taste.” The lamp between their chairs flickered, the flame falling and rising again, making it look as though the figures moved. Greywell grinned. “But I wouldn't mind seeing a bevy of naked women dancing about in the woodlands. There's something quite enchanting about the idea."
"Humph.” Elspeth passed him the last box, which was gold set with Sèvres porcelain plaques. The man and woman were partially draped, with a cupid above and to the left, arrow in bow aimed at them. The man's hand was on the woman's breast. It was an oval-shaped box with plaques of cherubs or cupids around the sides. Elspeth made no comment as she watched Greywell turn the box over in his hands.
"Paris, about 1763, I'd say. A friend of mine gave me this one, a few years ago.” He handed it back to her. “Part of the body of the box is a replacement by P. F. Drais in the ‘70s. The rim is engraved ‘Madame Du Barry au Bien-Aimé.’ I don't know how he came by it, but he thought it would be a special addition to my collection."
On second thought, perhaps the man's hand was not on the woman's breast, but only appeared that way because he was pointing to something off to her left. Elspeth felt slightly flushed as she set all three boxes on the table beside her. There was an undertone of amusement in Greywell's voice when he spoke.
"You don't have to bring out all the boxes, you know, Elspeth. You could probably identify most of the workmanship on them by now."
"But I want you to tell me about every one of them,” she protested. And then, a little hesitantly, “Even the ones in your study."
"When you undertake a task, you do it thoroughly, don't you? Well, tomorrow, come to my study and I'll tell you about the ones I keep there."
Elspeth dropped her eyes before his curious gaze. He reached across and took her hand, pressing it gently. “I'm not making fun of you,” he said. “Your interest pleases me. You have a quick and retentive mind. I had thought you scornful of my hobby, my collection."
His seriousness evaporated as his lips spread in a wide grin. “But then, I had thought a lot of obviously incorrect things about you. For instance, that you had no interest in fashion. Your taste in finery hasn't escaped me, you know. Perhaps I must congratulate Emily Marden for getting you to the shops, but I think I have your own choices before me each day. And they're delightful.” He touched the puff of figured muslin at her shoulder, running a finger along her bare throat to the locket that hung down close to her breasts.
His touch made her tingle, but she repressed the delicious shudder. “I have a miniature of my mother in the locket,” she said breathlessly. “Have I ever shown it to you?"
"No.” He opened the locket where it hung, being careful not to brush his sleeve against her bosom. “She was a lovely woman. You greatly resemble her."
Elspeth laughed a choked little laugh. “Not so very much, I'm afraid. On me her features are not so delicate."
"How can you say so?” His fingers followed the course of his catalogue. “Your eyebrows are perfectly arched. Your eyes are magnificently wide and your cheekbones high. No one could ask for a more aristocratic nose, and if the chin is a little pronounced, well, I like it that way. It rather indicates your determination, I think. Now, your lips..."
He shook his head, staring at her lips. “They don't quite fit with the rest of you, somehow. The rest of your features are rather cool and exquisitely self-contained. But your lips are full, almost sensuous. When a woman has such a wide mouth, you expect her to be ... hedonistic, for want of a better word. Still, on some it is merely a sign of geniality, isn't it?"
She swallowed with some difficulty. “I don't think anyone would describe me as above the average in geniality,” she confessed.
"Ah, well.” He shrugged. “You are perfectly genial with everyone I know. Our neighbors are enchanted with you; our household admires you. No one ever said that such an indication as sensuous lips was an infallible indication of personality."
"In what way would it be an indication?"
Greywell made a dismissive gesture with one hand, the hand that was not running along the length of her lips. “Women with generous lips are often generous with their bodies. Not in a vulgar way, necessarily. They're just more giving, more receptive of physical pleasure.” He found no difficulty at all in making up the argument as he went along. “They enjoy giving quite as well as receiving, which of course is a very Christian sort of thing to do, isn't it?"
"Yes,” she murmured.
The way her eyes became sultry intrigued him, and he removed one hand to each of her shoulders so he could better observe her. The lips he had so recently touched were slightly parted, almost in invitation. He resisted the temptation, with a certain effort. In fact, he was finding the e
ffort entirely too much and he released her to sit well back in his chair. “I'm sure you come by your lips quite legitimately,” he said, in a teasing voice meant to break her spell over him. “Would you ring for tea, my dear?"
In something of a daze Elspeth tugged the bell rope. She was unable to sit still, however, when she had done it, and got up to pace across the Axminster carpet to the windows. Her body felt somehow swollen and achy, from the lips that had thrilled to his touch to the very core of her, where everything was chaotic. Elspeth felt as ripe as the moon that beamed down on her through the slightly rippled glass, as heady as the evening fragrance from the flowers in the garden beyond.
This was not, of course, a completely new sensation to her, but the fact that Greywell inspired it in her was confusing. She tried to concentrate on Francis for a moment, but found the thought of him left her cold. It was only Greywell she wanted to fill her mind, with his nearness, and his gentle fingers, and his warm eyes. She wanted the sound of his voice in her ears, whispering of .. what? Telling her he desired her? But of course he didn't, with his memories of Caroline. Telling her he admired her, that he had come to love her? Is that what she really wanted, or did she merely want to join her body with his, to feel again that glowing sensation she had felt, only more so? She wanted to run her hands over his body, to feel the strength of his shoulders and the softness of his skin. Her longing made her feel giddy.
"I think, if you don't mind,” she said, not turning to look at him, “that I'll go to bed now."
His voice was full of concern. “Aren't you feeling well, Elspeth? It's early."
"I know, but I'm a little tired."
A footman entered to her previous summons and she directed him to bring tea for Greywell. When he had left she turned almost, but not quite, in Greywell's direction and bid him good-night before hastening from the room. Greywell watched her departure with a thoughtful expression, then slipped the neglected snuffboxes in his pocket.
Lord Greywell's Dilemma Page 20
