by Mia Ross
“Oh, August, I’ve made such a mess.”
He had leaned down and gently taken her by the elbows to draw her to her feet. When she was standing he did not release her and they were near enough to embrace—to kiss. “It’s a piece of fabric, Jeanne,” he’d said, cupping her cheek with his palm. He certainly could have kissed her then and she would not have refused him, but he had not. They were friends, fellow art lovers.
“An expensive piece of fabric,” she’d replied, stepping away as she’d tried to steady herself in the wake of the flood of emotions she had felt being so near to him.
“Ah, but you’ve told me that you don’t care about money. If you did you would have stayed with that man you almost married in America.”
“No, I would not have—even for money.”
He had looked away then, stepped over to an orchid as if to admire its bloom. “Would you have stayed for love?”
So there it was. She had told him the story of her father’s downfall, told him of her choice to come to Paris to paint rather than marry her father’s wealthy business partner. He knew everything about her.
But what did she really know of him? Tomorrow, first thing, she would insist that he tell her everything.
Chapter Fourteen
The following morning Jeanne arrived early and bypassed the garden path that led to the little studio August had set up for her in the greenhouse. Instead she walked straight to the front door and banged the ornately cast knocker several times.
“Miss Witherspoon.” Charles was as implacable as ever but clearly curious as to her sudden appearance at the front door. “I’m afraid his lordship is otherwise engaged. Did he not mention that he would be unable to pose for you this morning?”
She had forgotten. “Yes...no... I’ll wait.” She placed her canvas bag and sketchbook on one of two tufted leather benches in the foyer and then sat down.
Now Charles seemed to unravel a bit. “It could be some time before his lordship...”
“I’ll wait,” Jeanne repeated. “Thank you, Charles.”
“Very well, miss.” Charles cast an eye toward the closed doors of August’s library. “Perhaps a cup of tea while you wait?”
“Thank you. That would be very nice.”
Clearly relieved to have some mission to accomplish, Charles glided down the narrow corridor that led to the kitchen. A large clock ticked off the seconds and at the top of the double spiral staircase Jeanne saw two housemaids polishing the furnishings and brass candelabra on the landing.
“She’s quite pretty,” one of them said. Jeanne strained to hear their conversation and was grateful that August’s household staff was mostly English.
“Do you think he’ll marry her?”
“Well, I heard that her family fortune is gone and she came to Paris to find a rich husband. The duke would certainly be the perfect candidate.”
Jeanne bristled. Could it be true? Did people actually believe she was trying to seduce the duke into marrying her? She was on her feet and at the foot of the stairway instantly, but the servants had moved on to another floor.
From the library came a thud followed by childish giggles followed by a crash and a shout. She edged toward the door and eased it open a crack. Three children huddled under the large heavy table in the center of the room. The stand that normally held an enormous dictionary had toppled over. Piles of maps and books were scattered across the floor. Surely she should intercede. These children were destroying valuable property.
She stepped into the room, banging the door back and startling the giggling children. “Now see here,” she began, but the words were barely out before she was grabbed from behind and lifted off her feet.
“Put me down this instant,” she ordered, twisting in the arms of her captor so she could face him directly.
“August?”
His shirtsleeves were rolled back and he wore no collar, his hair tousled, a blindfold shielding his eyes. His arms tightened around her as he set her down and then pushed the blindfold onto his forehead.
“Uncle Augie, you look like a pirate,” one of the children exclaimed.
“She’s quite right,” Jeanne said, trying hard to stem the tide of her own giggles.
“Have you come to play?” Another of the children tugged at her skirt. Jeanne looked down and into the eyes of a boy of six or seven.
“What is the game?”
“Blindman’s Bluff,” the older child, a girl, declared. “Now that Uncle has captured you, that makes you ‘it.’”
August grinned as he held out the silk blindfold, and Jeanne could not help herself. She grinned back and donned the blindfold. The children squealed with delight and scampered away while August held her shoulders and turned her around several times to disorient her.
When she felt him let her go she whirled around, certain he would still be there and she could tag him. But her hands grabbed only air. Slowly she made her way around the grand room, bumping into furniture and knocking over things as she went. She could easily have followed the children’s giggles and tagged one of them, but she had larger prey in mind.
Her hand closed around something solid that felt like a muscular arm. “Aha,” she cried and ripped off the blindfold to discover she had tagged a suit of armor.
Chapter Fifteen
The children collapsed in peals of laughter.
Jeanne curtsied to the suit of armor. “Sir, while I have not had the pleasure, I do believe you are now officially ‘it.’” She tied the blindfold over the headpiece of the armor then turned to the children who were now watching her with fascination.
“What? You don’t believe he can play?”
“He’s not real,” the six-year-old whispered.
“Truly?” Jeanne knocked on the metal forehead. “Hello? Anyone at home?”
The children giggled, then took up the new game tapping on the armored legs and arms and calling for someone to come out.
“Leave me alone,” a deep voice intoned, and both the children and Jeanne leaped away with a shriek.
August stepped out from behind the armored statue and smiled. “I believe introductions are in order,” he said. “Miss Witherspoon, this is my niece, Samantha, and those two rowdies are my nephews, Frederick and Otto.”
The children bowed and curtsied then studied Jeanne more closely.
“You’re American,” Samantha guessed.
“And pretty,” the youngest, Otto, added.
“And fun.” Frederick grinned. “Do you play other sports?”
“Miss Witherspoon is an artist,” August explained. “She paints pictures of people like me.”
“I have my sketchbook with me,” Jeanne said. “Shall I sketch the three of you?”
“Yes, please!” all three children shouted.
“Then while I get my things and have a word with your uncle, you should put this library back in order, don’t you think?”
The children looked disappointed and glanced at August. But he just shrugged. “It sounds like a fair trade to me.”
With dramatic sighs, the children set to work. Jeanne went into the foyer to retrieve her bag and sketchbook.
“I thought we had agreed not to work today, but I’m so glad you came anyway.”
She hadn’t realized that August had followed her, and closed the doors to the library behind him.
So here it was, the moment she had imagined throughout the long, sleepless night. She handed him the roll of sketches. “To give you these.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I cannot finish the painting, your grace.”
“Jeanne...”
“I had thought—hoped—that you had chosen me on the basis of my talent. I have recently learned that there were other motives.”
He laid the sketches aside and ran his hand through his hair. “What motives? What...” A light dawned somewhere in the depths of those eyes she had come to cherish. He frowned. “I would never have thought that you of all people would be swayed by idle gossip, Jeanne.”
“People say you wish to marry and have children—heirs. Is that gossip?”
“Of course I wish to have a family, but not just any family...not just any wife.”
“But a younger wife and one with a certain amount of social grace would suit your purposes.”
“Stop this,” he ordered as he took her by the shoulders and forced her to face him. “You know me.”
Jeanne refused to struggle against his hold. “I have spent hours painting you, telling you tales of my life. I know very little of yours.”
“But you do know me,” he argued. “It is there in your work. You have seen...”
“What?” she challenged, just as the library door opened.
“Will you draw us now, Miss Witherspoon?”
Chapter Sixteen
At the same moment the children appeared, so did Charles. “Your sister and her guests are waiting for you to join them, your lordship. I’ve made arrangements for the children to have their lunch in the garden.”
“We’re having our portrait done,” Otto informed Charles.
“Perhaps Miss Witherspoon would like her lunch served in the garden as well, then?” Charles directed this to his employer.
“I’m not sure Miss Witherspoon will be staying.”
All eyes swung to Jeanne.
How could she disappoint these dear children? Surely she and August could resolve their problem later. “Lunch in the garden would be lovely.”
Once they had devoured their lunch and Jeanne had made a couple of sketches, both boys lost interest in having their portrait done and went off to search for slugs and snails. But Samantha was clearly fascinated by the way a few quick strokes could evolve into a recognizable likeness.
“It’s amazing,” she said as she watched Jeanne work.
Jeanne handed her the sketchbook and charcoal. “Try it.”
“What shall I draw?”
“Draw me.” Jeanne struck a pose designed to make the girl smile. In moments, the two of them were lost in the exercise, until Jeanne saw August coming their way. “Perhaps we should stop for today,” she suggested.
“But could we practice again tomorrow?”
“Miss Witherspoon is quite busy, Samantha. Perhaps...”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jeanne said at the same moment. The look she gave August pleaded with him not to draw his niece into their problem.
“Go,” August told Samantha. “Your mother wants you to meet her friends.”
They watched the girl run toward the mansion. Jeanne found it difficult to look at August. Her feelings for the man were in such turmoil.
“Could we walk together for a bit, Jeanne?”
She nodded and he clasped his hands behind his back as if to keep them under control. He had changed into business attire and once again looked every inch the powerful man that he was. Had it been only that morning that he had seemed so boyish and approachable?
“If you like I could come tomorrow and give Samantha another lesson, your grace,” Jeanne said, her voice as stiff and formal as her posture.
“Please stop that, Jeanne. You claim not to know me at all, even after these hours we have spent together. What is it that you want to know?”
“Oh, August, what does it matter?”
His eyes darkened. “You want to know what everyone wants to know—what happened the day of the sailing accident.”
“It’s none of my business,” she protested.
“You want to know how she died.” His tone was that of a man devoid of feelings.
“No. I want you to tell me why this portrait is so important to you and why you have selected me as the artist.”
“And if I tell you, will you stay? Will you finish the work? And after that, will you...”
“All right, I will complete the portrait—whether you choose to answer me or not.”
“Why?”
“Because I gave you my word and I am a woman who honors her promises.”
“And I am a man who honors his,” he replied. “Walk with me and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Chapter Seventeen
August led her to an arbor bench and waited for her to sit. He drew in a deep breath and watched a squirrel scurry away. “Where to begin,” he murmured.
“Begin with the painting,” Jeanne replied, realizing that for reasons she did not fully understand she wanted to make this as easy as possible for him.
“The portrait is to hang in a gallery in the Musée d’Orsay planned for the exhibition at the turn of the century. I am donating my collection to the museum.”
“Oh, August, that’s so incredibly generous of you and all the more reason you should have some renowned artist doing your portrait.”
“Which brings us to my choice of you. That day at the café I saw how you had captured LeClercq’s inner spirit as well as his outward features. He has a certain elfin quality and it was right there in your simple sketch.”
“And what inner trait is it that you so need for total strangers seeing your portrait to recognize?”
“Innocence,” he replied and took a seat on the small bench so that they were facing each other. “Jeanne, I want people to know when they look at that portrait that I had nothing to do with Gerta’s death.”
“But Yves said there was an inquiry and you were exonerated.”
“Officially, perhaps, but in the minds of others? So many believe that it was my social position and wealth that swayed the decision.”
Jeanne cupped his face in her palms and forced him to meet her gaze. She stared into his eyes for several long seconds. “Tell me what happened that day.”
“Gerta proposed a sailing trip. She had packed a picnic and asked me not to take a crew because she wanted me all to herself. I told her the weather was predicted to turn by the afternoon, but she insisted.”
“Was this unusual behavior?”
“In hindsight, yes. Gerta was given to moods of sadness and depression and she was especially gay on this particular day. I think I was so happy to see her looking so radiant and contented I would have done anything she asked.”
“So you went sailing.”
“It was quite calm at first but then the wind picked up and the sky started to darken. I told her I thought we must go back but she begged to continue. Looking back, I can see everything I missed that day.” His eyes filled with tears and Jeanne brushed them away with her thumbs.
“Go on.”
“She went forward to set up the picnic. I called to her to be careful, that I would find a cove where we could picnic and wait out the storm. She looked back at me and lifted her hand—I thought in agreement, but I now know it was in farewell.”
“She jumped?”
“Yes, while I was bringing the boat about. I didn’t hear the splash and didn’t realize she was gone. Then I thought she had been knocked overboard. I was frantic. I anchored the boat as quickly as possible and jumped in to find her. I dove and dove, but the wind had stirred up the silt in the water and it was impossible to see. Some fishermen in the area helped, but it was of no use.”
“How do you know she didn’t fall overboard, that it wasn’t all a terrible accident?”
“Because...” His voice broke. “Because when I climbed back aboard and saw the picnic basket, it was open and empty. I looked around but there were no signs of a picnic. I had carried that basket aboard and it had been quite heavy. I had teased her about it. Then when her body was finally found there were sac
ks of stones tied around her waist and inside her pockets.”
Jeanne acted purely from instinct as she pulled August into her arms and held him. “You must have loved her very much.”
“That’s the point, Jeanne. I didn’t love her at all.”
Chapter Eighteen
“But you felt affection that might have someday...”
“The marriage was arranged—political and financial in nature. Complicated, but suffice it to say that Gerta and I were strangers in so many ways, just beginning to get acquainted.” He stood and paced back and forth before her, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “Might I have come to love her? Who can say? I prayed nightly that we might forge a union that would be strong and offer our children the opportunities we had both known.”
“And what of those children? She could not conceive and...”
“That was gossip. No one ever knew—how could they? There had been no doctor’s report, no accident or illness that might have proven such a thing. And yet in their search for motives, that is what the gossips settled upon. That because she could not give me an heir...”
“And yet you love children,” Jeanne reminded him. “It’s so obvious in the way you are with your sister’s children.”
“Of course. What man doesn’t long for a wife and family? A true home—not some...” He waved a hand in the direction of his mansion. “Not some mausoleum devoid of activity and laughter and life.”
“Why did you settle here in Paris instead of returning to London?”
“The people here did not know me and the French are more forgiving in some ways. Of course, I had no idea that the rumors would haunt me, follow me no matter where I settled.”
Jeanne took several moments to digest everything he had told her. Did she believe him? Yes. Why? She could not say, but there was not a doubt in her mind that he had told her the truth. “August?”
“Yes.” He sounded distracted, his voice clipped and impatient.
“Could we go to the studio? I’d like to work on the portrait.”
