by Jo Goodman
Sir Arthur considered this last observation for a moment before he answered. “No, I do not think that accounts for it. Tell me about the emotion you observe.”
Restell could have told him that it was not observed emotion that set the painting apart, but felt emotion. He held that comment, appreciating for the first time that it would not necessarily be comprehended by this artist. “There is humor in the Fishing Village, or at least I found it there. Here it is joy of the moment.”
“You do not find it disturbing?”
“Disturbing? No, not at all.”
“I wondered if perhaps it is not a trifle vulgar. Does it strike you as such?”
“It is not a word that comes to mind.”
“These young women here…” Sir Arthur pointed vaguely at the canvas. “You do not think they appear to be lacking a certain moral firmness?”
“May I speak plainly?”
“Please.”
“Are you asking me if these women look like tarts?”
Ruddy color suffused Sir Arthur’s thin face. “I suppose I am.”
“Then, no. I do not see them at all in that light.” Restell’s eyes darted between the painting and Sir Arthur, and he observed that Sir Arthur’s study was as intent on the canvas as his own had been. “Who else has seen this?” asked Restell.
“Mr. Charters has had occasion to visit.”
“While Emma was here?”
“He may have. I cannot say.”
“Your daughter? Has she seen it?”
“Marisol rarely ventures up here.”
It was not precisely an answer to his question, but Restell let it pass. “Servants?”
“No. Emmalyn takes care of this room for me. I don’t trust anyone else to leave things as I like.”
Restell’s lips thinned a little, but he bit back the comment that came to the tip of his tongue and asked instead, “What of Lady Rivendale? I understand you have been together of late.”
Sir Arthur chuckled. “So Emmalyn is not entirely silent.”
“I had it from my mother.”
“Oh. Well, she is quite right. The countess is altogether fascinating, I must say. She has been here on several occasions, but I cannot recall if she viewed this particular work.”
Restell had heard enough. “I apologize for disturbing your rest, but I am glad of your permission to view this latest piece. I’m afraid, though, that I must take my leave.”
Waving the apology aside, Sir Arthur said, “I wish you success of this evening.”
“Success?”
“With Emmalyn…returning to her good graces.”
Restell considered this a moment before he answered. “What I need to do, Sir Arthur, cannot be accomplished in a single evening, but you have made me hopeful that it can be accomplished.”
Emma was waiting for Restell in the entrance hall. When he appeared at the top of the stairs she nodded to the butler and the door was opened for her. She stepped outside unassisted and went to the waiting carriage. She was already situated inside by the time Restell reached the doorway.
Restell observed Emma’s progress with interest. Anger had its place, he supposed. It certainly had a liberating effect on his wife.
Following at a deliberately slow pace, Restell could see Emma’s profile through the window. She stared straight ahead, purposely not looking in his direction, he thought. Just above an hour ago, her behavior would have irritated him. Now it merely made him smile.
He schooled that smile before he boarded the carriage. There was nothing to be gained by allowing his sudden good humor to nettle her.
“You spent rather more time in the studio than I would have credited,” Emma said. Although she made an attempt to communicate a neutral tone, there was still a clipped cadence that let her know she fell far short of the mark. Fearful she would simply begin to weep, she could not bear to look in Restell’s direction.
“It was not my intention to linger. Sir Arthur awakened.”
“He awakened?”
“He did not comment on our disagreement,” Restell said, lying without compunction. “I think he did not hear us.”
“Or perhaps he considered it the wiser course to remain well out of it.”
“Naturally that is a possibility.” Restell leaned into one corner of the bench and tipped the brim of his hat forward so that it shaded his eyes. He folded his arms across his chest. “I think your uncle is quite taken with Lady Rivendale. He speaks kindly of her.”
“So that is what detained you,” she said.
“You sound relieved.”
“Do I?”
“Was there another topic perhaps that you feared was under discussion?”
Emma put forth a remarkably even voice when she replied. “You entertain peculiar notions.”
He shrugged.
Emma’s jaw tightened at what she considered to be a lack of response. “Will you not tell me what he said to you about the countess?”
“Of course. He said that she has visited his studio on more than one occasion.”
“Truly?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No. I knew she visited, but I was unaware that she’d made the climb to the studio.”
“It suggests there is mutual interest.”
“They share a passion for painting,” said Emma.
One of Restell’s eyebrows kicked up. “When I spoke of mutual interest, I did not mean painting. I believe they share passion.”
Emma felt heat rising in her cheeks. She glanced at Restell and saw that he was not looking at her. His eyes in fact were closed. “Did he say anything else?”
“I believe he called her fascinating.”
“Fascinating.”
“Indeed. Has he never said as much to you?”
“He has only mentioned that he enjoys her company. Marisol has more to say but very little of it is fit to repeat.”
“Is that why you’ve never spoken about your uncle and Lady Rivendale?”
Emma frowned. “You have someone watching my uncle every time he leaves his home. What can I tell you that you don’t already know?”
Restell tipped his hat back and regarded Emma frankly. “No one is watching your uncle any longer, at least when he is gone from home. It isn’t necessary. Not since we were wed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sir Arthur is not at risk for harm, Emma. Not his physical person. He could be immeasurably harmed by you or Marisol being hurt, but he does not require someone looking to his safety.”
“You are quite certain?”
“Yes.”
Emma nodded slowly. “Well, that is good, then,” she said quietly. “You have less with which to concern yourself. You are still watching Marisol, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And I am living in your pockets, so all is well.”
“Is it? It does not seem that you live in my pockets of late.”
Emma glanced out the window as the carriage slowed. The timing of their arrival could not have been more fortuitous as far as she was concerned. When the door opened she quickly took the exit offered her and hurried up the walk. It was a temporary reprieve at best. She could sense that Restell would have his reckoning.
It was not as if she could hide from him, Emma thought as she was relieved of her bonnet and shawl. He did not precisely dog her steps, but he was already at the foot of the stairs by the time she reached the top. She rang for her maid as soon as she arrived at the suite of rooms she shared with Restell. Her pounding heart masked the sound of Restell’s tread, but she knew that he had to be close. Emma fled into the dressing room and shut the door.
She was a thorough coward, and a glimpse of herself in the cheval glass confirmed it. Beads of perspiration gave her flushed skin a sheen. Tendrils of hair fell raggedly about her face because she had all but torn the bonnet from her head when she’d reached the house. There was a wildness to her eyes that spoke to being hunted and a stillness in her
frame that spoke to being found.
The scratching at the door almost caused her knees to buckle. Instead of sinking to the floor, she leaned against the armoire for support.
“Mrs. Gardner?”
Tears of relief welled in Emma’s eyes. It was Bettis, not Restell, at the door. “A moment, Bettis.” Emma poured water into the basin on the washstand, then splashed her face. She remained bent over the stand for several long moments as she collected herself. The weight of dread that made her shoulders stoop and her chest ache gradually lightened so that she was able to stand and draw a full breath. When she was sufficiently calmed, she told Bettis to enter.
Restell dismissed the maid with a pointed look and waited for her to vacate the suite before he opened the door. By then, Emma had called for her a second time. “You will have to be satisfied with my services,” he said. “I recall one occasion that you welcomed them.”
“I want Bettis.” Emma looked past Restell’s shoulder. “What have you done with her?”
“Done with her?” Restell shook his head. “Are you able to hear yourself, Emma?”
She could hear herself. She could hear every mean-spirited thing she thought before she said it and still could not stop. “I don’t wish to speak to you.”
“Then you don’t have to. I will do the speaking. Unless you wish to clap your hands over your ears, you will do the listening.”
It was not encouraging that he knew the bent of her mind so well. “I wish to bathe. I smell of turpentine and paint.”
“I will not be put off, Emma. If you wish to bathe, then it will be in my presence. You will have to hear me out while you do it.”
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Then I give you joy of the stink of me.”
Restell stepped out of the way as she marched determinedly for their bedroom. She looked ill-tempered enough to desire to push him out of the way. “Here?” he asked. “Or our sitting room?”
In way of an answer, she made for the door to the sitting room. She turned on Restell once they were both inside. “Well?”
Restell sighed. “You are purposely making this difficult, more so for yourself than for me. It’s precisely what I have come to expect since our wedding night. You need to comprehend, however, that my patience is not infinite.”
“And what will you do when you have reached its end?”
“I will tell you what I will not do. I will not strike you, Emma. No matter the provocation, I will not raise my hand against you.”
“You make it sound as if that’s what I want you to do.”
“Do I? I suppose that’s because I’ve suspected as much of late. I think you would willingly suffer the blow so that I might suffer in the aftermath. If I can no longer trust myself to deal better with you, you would have your divorce. It makes no sense to try to protect you from others if I cannot protect you from myself.”
Emma shook her head, but there was no vehemence behind it. She took a small step backward as though a physical blow had been delivered. Restell reached for her, but she avoided his hand by pivoting suddenly and presenting him with her back.
“Tell me what I’ve done, Emma. Tell me what I can do. I want to make this right between us.”
Emma’s fists clenched at her sides. “You cannot make everything right.”
Restell took a steadying breath. Already he knew he had begun the thing badly, starting out where he’d meant to end it. “Won’t you sit? Please, Emma, allow me to explain.”
She hesitated, her head turning sideways as she surveyed her options. Finally, she nodded and went to the upholstered window bench. She plucked a heavily embroidered pillow from the seat and held it in front of her as she sat. Her fingertips ran along the short, fringed ends that bordered all four sides.
Once Restell saw that Emma was settled, he went to the drinks cabinet and poured them each a glass of sherry. He handed her the drink, then stepped back to the sofa where he sat. He sipped his drink, regarding her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass.
“Where is it you go, Emma?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, I suppose you don’t. I hardly do myself. I watch you slip away, yet I could easily take your hand. You are closer to me when you are gone from home than when we are dining together. What is happening to you no longer happens only to you. It is happening to us, Emma, and it is happening so quickly that I cannot make any sense of it. We are not grown distant by separate interests and years of disaffection and indifference. Our marriage can only be measured in weeks, not months, and already there is a rift so wide that when we speak there is an echo.”
Restell thought she might say something. Her lips parted as though it was her intention, but she stayed the thought and continued to sift the pillow’s fringe with her fingertips. He was put in mind of an old Indian gentleman he knew who did the very same with worry beads. Her glass of sherry, he noted, was still untouched. He took another sip from his own glass.
“I have kept things from you,” he said. “It has been done of a purpose, but it has failed to make a difference. It seems to me that you should know all.”
Emma’s fingers stilled. The hand that held the glass of sherry was lifted to her lips. She took a large swallow, then said, “You are speaking of the drawings you brought back from Walthamstow.”
“In part, yes. Would you like to see them now?”
“I would have liked to have seen them every other time I asked.”
“No. It is no good pretending that it’s so. You asked several times, true enough, but you were not prepared any better to view them then than you are now.” He held up his hand. “Before you disagree, consider that you have not answered my question in a straightforward manner and allow me to pose it again: Would you like to see them now?”
Emma’s hand tightened on the stem of her glass. She worried her bottom lip as she considered the consequences of her answer. She finally nodded.
“I need to hear you say it, Emma.”
“Yes,” she said. Her lips moved around the word, though it was largely inaudible.
Restell set down his glass and stood. “The drawings are in the library. It will take me but a few moments to retrieve them.” He left then, and was as good as his word, returning with the drawings in time to see Emma finish the last of her sherry. He took the glass from her hand, placed it on a nearby table, and sat beside her. The drawings had been rolled into a cylinder and secured by a string. He untied the string, pushed it into his pocket, then unrolled the drawings. They did not remain flattened. As soon as he let go of one end, they snapped into a curl.
“Perhaps if you give them to me one at a time,” Emma said. “How many are there?”
“A dozen.”
“So many. I hadn’t realized.”
“They are different perspectives of the countryside around Walthamstow. After speaking to the innkeeper and his wife I was able to narrow the direction from which you approached the inn. Mr. and Mrs. Broadstreet were most eager to assist me. Mr. Broadstreet served as a guide as I tramped around looking for evidence of your passing. He is also the one who suggested Mr. Matlack when I inquired about an artist.”
Hoping he had not badly misjudged the timing of his presentation, Restell offered the first sketch for her examination. It was of a wood just beyond Walthamstow. It might have been any stand of trees along almost any route from London, except for the posting at the fork in the road that marked direction and distance to the village.
“Do you recall seeing this?” Restell asked.
“No.”
“All right.” He gave her another, then another. They reached the fifth one before she reacted to what she saw. Restell removed the watercolor from her hands before she crumpled it. “This cottage?” he asked. “Or another like it? There are many similar in the area.”
“No. The exact one you showed me. The little brook that ran next to it, did you notice?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what
I followed when I escaped.”
“So you remember that.”
“I do now.” Emma turned to Restell and regarded him with some astonishment. “How is that possible?”
“I have no idea.” He handed her another drawing. “Look at this one. Perhaps it will nudge another memory loose.”
Emma shook her head at the pastoral scene he showed her. The gently rolling hills and winding stone fence were unfamiliar to her. “This looks to be a view from an upper window. Is that right?”
“Very good. That is precisely the artist’s perspective.” He took back the sketch on her lap and gave her yet another. “What of this one?”
The drawing was also from a window view, but this time the artist was almost in the boughs of the trees he drew. The winding brook was just visible beyond one corner of a thickly thatched roof. “I left the cottage by this route,” she said slowly. “Your artist is looking out on the same view I had.” She poked her finger at the thatching as if she could test the strength. “I did not know if it would support me. It did not look as thick as this when I slid out the window. The kitchen is below, I think. Is that right?”
Restell nodded. “Did you leap to the ground or go to the trees?”
“The trees.”
“I thought you might have. I found bits of fabric in the bark that suggested someone had been there. It seemed possible that it might have been you.” They had only a few more drawings for her to study. Restell looked from them to Emma and began to shake his head. Her complexion was almost as pale as salt and her breathing was both shallow and rapid. “It is enough,” he said.
“I will see all of it.” Emma took a deep, calming breath, held it, then released it slowly. As evenly as was possible given her racing heart, she said, “You cannot decide for me, Restell. Not at this juncture.”
“Very well.” He passed her another. She glanced at it and pushed it back at him. “That is the room where I was held.”
He nodded. “And this one?”
It was another view of the wood but from deeper inside it. The cottage could be seen at a distance through a break in the trees. Emma looked at it for a long time. “Who was the artist?” she asked.
