River of Fire

by Mary Jo Putney

  Since her mind circled between thoughts of Kenneth and of the danger to her father, the process was not a pleasant one. Nor did she relish the prospect of returning to the place where her mother had died. Would it be possible to stay at Ravensbeck and not see Helen at every turn? She hoped that after a few days the pain would dissipate. It would be cruelly unfair if her pleasure in the Lakes was permanently ruined.

  The coach hit a large bump and she lurched toward Lavinia. A quick grab at the strap prevented her from crashing into the older woman.

  Sir Anthony said from the opposite seat, "Is it my imagination, or are the roads worse than usual this year?"

  Rebecca had to smile. "You say that every year. Your memory mercifully obscures what a wretched trip it is."

  "And you say that every year. It's coming back to me now."

  Lavinia said lightly, "At least traveling at this speed gets us there quickly."

  "That is what Helen always said," Sir Anthony commented.

  There was a short, uneasy pause. Rebecca looked from her father to Lavinia. Once she had thought their relationship casual, but no longer. They had been friends for decades. The trust and easy companionship they had always shared was now supplemented with what Rebecca suspected was a very satisfying physical relationship. She had learned to recognize the signs since her own recent discovery of passion.

  But her father, who carried the guilt of his wife's ambiguous death, might be incapable of reaching out for happiness. A push was necessary. Besides, it would be nice if someone was happy. "The mourning period for Mother will be over soon," Rebecca said. "Why don't you two get married?"

  The silence congealed like a rice pudding as the older couple stared at her, thunderstruck.

  After a long moment, Lavinia said in a voice that wasn't quite steady, "He hasn't asked me, dear."

  Rebecca turned her gaze to her father. "Why haven't you asked her? The two of you are virtually living together. You ought to make an honest woman of her."

  Sir Anthony gasped. "I can't believe that I am hearing this from my own daughter. Have you no respect?"

  "I learned outrageousness under my father's roof," Rebecca said, unrepentant. "Remarrying wouldn't be disloyal to Mother. She would not have wanted you to be alone. There are precious few women who would be as patient with an eccentric artist as Lavinia. She'll do a good job of managing the household after Lord Kimball leaves."

  Looking on the verge of explosion, her father snapped, "If you say one more word, I will put you out to walk."

  "At least my backside wouldn't be so sore," she said tartly.

  Her father gave a snort of disgust and turned to look out the window at the unremarkable green fields through which they were passing. At least a mile went by before Lavinia said in a small voice, "I didn't put Rebecca up to that, Anthony."

  "I know," he said gruffly. "You would continue to put up with my selfishness indefinitely."

  Speaking as if they were alone in the carriage, Lavinia said softly, "Of course I would. I've always loved you, you know."

  "I know that. I've loved you, too, ever since you appeared in my studio when you were seventeen and modeled for the most delicious Jezebel ever painted."

  He swallowed hard. "But I don't deserve the love of a generous, giving woman. I loved Helen, too, but I was a bad husband to her."

  "You were the husband she wanted. And you are the husband I want." Lavinia's tone turned wry. "I've made a vocation of being outrageous, and I slept with a lot of men over the years because I couldn't sleep with the one I wanted. We're neither of us perfect, Anthony. It's better that way."

  She reached across the coach. He grasped her hand convulsively. Rebecca turned her head discreetly to the scenery, ignoring the sounds of Lavinia shifting to the seat next to Sir Anthony and the soft murmurings between them. It sounded as if they were sorting matters out to their satisfaction.

  Cheerful Lavinia would be an easier partner than Helen with her volatile moods. In fact, Rebecca realized, perhaps the reason her parents had indulged in affairs was because they were both so intense and emotional that they had needed relief from their marriage. Helen had found peace with steady George Hampton. Her father would do the same with Lavinia. It would be a different love than the tempestuous bond he had shared with Helen, but nonetheless valid.

  She was happy for them. She really was. Yet as she stared sightlessly at the green countryside, she ached from the emptiness inside her. The brief happiness with Kenneth seemed like a mirage, one she would never see again.

  * * *

  Kenneth spent the day after the Seatons' departure looking for carpenters, painters, and plasterers. Luckily, an army friend who now worked for the Duke of Candover was able to refer him to reliable craftsmen. Kenneth also called on his solicitor to let him know of Hermione's likely marriage. The solicitor cordially loathed Lady Kimball and could be trusted to look out for the Wilding family interests.

  After dinner, Kenneth wrote out detailed specifications for the remodeling job to guide Minton. The butler had turned out to be a very capable manager. Sir Anthony's next secretary would not have to be as involved in household matters as he himself had been.

  When he finished the instructions, he opened the next volume of Helen Seaton's diary. The closer he came to the present, the more carefully he looked for hints of a secret enemy. She had recorded instances of jealousy, backbiting, and politics. However, he found no anecdotes that suggested possible danger.

  Still, he enjoyed the reading. Helen was an excellent writer, amusing and able to skewer pretensions with a phrase. She had created a vivid portrait of almost three decades of English painting and painters. When he returned the diaries, he would suggest they be published in fifty years, when most of the people mentioned would be dead.

  But there were parts that the family might want to edit out as being too personal. He was struck hard by a description of a miscarriage when Rebecca was about two years old.

  The baby would have been a son. Oh, God, why can't I weep? I miss my mother desperately. At every major event of my life—my betrothal, my marriage, Rebecca's birth—I miss her almost as if she had died yesterday. Yet, still, I cannot weep. Perhaps there is a season for proper grieving, and mine has not yet arrived. Or perhaps I missed the right time and am now doomed to mourn forever, incomplete. My sorrow is like a vast, endless interior ocean, yet I cannot release it with tears.

  Her words touched something deep inside him. He laid the diary down, his face rigid.

  He had known his share of grief. Like Helen, for a long time his misery had been bottled up in his heart, almost forgotten except for a dull, chronic ache. It had taken Rebecca to teach him how to release his private horrors.

  Ironically, she had given him the key to freedom while remaining trapped in her own grief. Like Helen, she mourned her mother's loss, and he guessed that, like Helen, she had never wept. Certainly he had never seen a sign of tears, even when her eyes were haunted by anguish.

  Perhaps, when he saw her again, he would be able to help her find consolation. But for now, he knew beyond doubt that the time had come for him to paint his own last haunting image.

  He headed upstairs to his studio. Watercolor would be best because of its fluid swiftness. He prayed that after he committed the image to paper, he would finally be free to use the emotions of his past as he chose rather than be crucified by them.

  * * *

  Kenneth worked until dawn to paint his last nightmare. Though it was not yet complete, in the process he found a weary sense of peace. The picture could be a commercial success, he supposed. Certainly it was dramatic. George Hampton would be delighted to add it to the Peninsular series. But some things were too private to reveal to the world. Rebecca was the only person he could imagine showing the picture to. The thought that they might never be on close terms again was chilling.

  Again, most of the day was taken up in making arrangements for Seaton House. He pushed himself hard, hoping that in another t
wo days he would be able to head north.

  Though tired from lack of sleep, after dinner he started reading the third and last of Helen Seaton's diaries. In the early part, she revealed a growing sense of melancholia.

  Why is it that the same things that make me happy in May are like ashes in January? This past week, life has been such an active horror that I have wondered if it would be best to go to sleep and never wake up. Certainly Anthony and Rebecca and George would be better off without me. Only the knowledge—gray, without hope, but undeniable—that things will get better keeps me from acting on my cowardice. That, and the fact that I lack the determination even to put an end to myself.

  He shook his head after reading that passage. No wonder those close to her had worried about the possibility of suicide.

  As the years passed, she ceased to make entries during the winter months. He guessed that writing took more energy than she possessed. Either that or she could not bear the misery of her own thoughts.

  Yet he still found no clues as to who might be a lethal enemy. From sheer doggedness he kept reading.

  Then, only a few pages from the end, he found an entry that shocked him into full wakefulness.

  Anthony has painted the most wonderful portrait of me, laughing and looking wicked on the Ravensbeck lawn. He says that I am his muse. He put the portrait in the drawing room so that everyone could admire it after dinner tonight. Malcolm had an odd expression as he looked at it. He said the most absurd thing—that I was Anthony's heart. That without me, Anthony would no longer be a great artist.

  Kenneth stared at the line as the pieces clicked grimly into place. The heart missing from the gimmal ring—that had not been a message from Helen, but from Frazier. He had removed the woman that he thought was Sir Anthony's heart and inspiration.

  Great things had been expected of Frazier when he was young, but he had never fulfilled his early promise. His work had been stunted by the smallness and rigidity of his soul. For almost three decades, he had been condemned to watch as Sir Anthony's star had risen higher and higher.

  What had started as a friendship of equals must have become warped by Frazier's jealousy and resentment. Kenneth remembered Frazier saying sorrowfully that Sir Anthony's work had not been the same since his wife's death. That had been wishful thinking, and the wish hadn't survived the exhibition success of the Waterloo pictures.

  The final insult had come when Sir Anthony announced that he was Benjamin West's choice to become next president of the academy. In effect, he would be the head of the profession in Britain, while Frazier languished as an associate who had never been judged worthy of becoming a full academician.

  Kenneth remembered that Frazier had been shocked and not particularly gracious when Sir Anthony announced the news. The firebomb had been thrown two days later. Frowning, he visualized the brief glimpse he had gotten of the arsonist. It could have been Frazier.

  He pulled out his watch and checked the time. Not quite midnight. Late, but not too late to confront a murderer.

  He wouldn't mind if Frazier resisted; it would be a pleasure to beat the truth out of a man who could kill an innocent woman. Nonetheless, he loaded the small, sleek pistol that he kept in his wardrobe and tucked it into an inside pocket. Frazier was not the sort who would fight fair if he could avoid it.

  To a fast walker, it was only fifteen minutes to Frazier's house. No lights visible, but Kenneth did not become concerned until he climbed the steps and reached for the knocker.

  The knocker was gone.

  He caught his breath as the anxiety he had been fighting for days erupted. Removing the knocker was the usual way of indicating that the owner was not in residence.

  The bastard had left town.

  Chapter 31

  Rebecca was glad they had reached Ravensbeck after dark, for it meant that fatigue dulled her grief at the return. Luckily, Kenneth had sent a message that arrived in time for the staff to have prepared the bedrooms and a hot supper. The travelers ate, then went straight to bed.

  After an exhausted sleep, Rebecca woke early. She slid out of bed and went to the window. She had been coming to the Lakes her whole life. Even so, the first view after months of absence was always breathtaking. Mist lay in the valleys with only peaks of the rugged hills rising above, like islands in a cloudy sea.

  Though she had lived most of her life in London, she was always happiest in the country. Fewer people, fewer problems, cleaner air, and less noise. It suddenly occurred to her that there was no reason not to stay at Ravensbeck all year round.

  She turned the idea over in her mind consideringly. Her father and Lavinia would have the London house to themselves, which would be appropriate for a new marriage. As for herself, she would have no shortage of subjects to paint. The landscape was worthy of a lifetime's work, and the local residents had wonderful strong, weathered faces. It would be as interesting as doing portraits in London.

  Best of all, she would not have to see Kenneth. He was well on his way to becoming established as an artist; if she lived in London, he would be hard to avoid.

  Heart a little lighter, she went down for a breakfast of coddled eggs, toasted bread, and strong tea. Her father and Lavinia had not come down yet. She was glad, for she wanted to go on the first of two private pilgrimages.

  After cutting a bouquet of spring flowers, she rode a pony down to the village. There she tethered her mount by the church and walked to her mother's grave. The grass had grown into a delicate green blanket in the past nine months. The headstone her father had designed had also been installed. It read, helen cosgrove seaton. 1768-1816. beloved wife, mother, and muse.

  The words brought an almost unendurable stab of pain. Rebecca laid the flowers on the grave, then stood with her head bowed for a long time, hoping for a sense of her mother's presence. But she felt nothing except her own grief.

  She whispered, "No more melancholia, Mama." Then she turned and walked away.

  As she came within sight of her pony, she was surprised to see Lavinia standing by another of the Ravensbeck mounts.

  "I didn't want to disturb you," Lavinia said quietly.

  Rebecca smiled a little at the bouquet the other woman held. "The gardener is going to be very cross with us."

  "We can tell him to plant flowers here to spare his garden." Lavinia hesitated. "You truly won't mind if I marry Anthony?"

  "I truly won't," Rebecca assured her. "My father needs someone to take care of him when he becomes too involved with his work. It won't be me, since I'm no better."

  "And of course you'll be marrying soon yourself."

  Rebecca's face froze. "I doubt it."

  The other woman's brows drew together. "The situation with Kenneth is that bad?"

  "Yes," Rebecca said shortly. Not wanting to discuss Kenneth, she looked out across the vividly green valley. "Strange to think the Seaton family estate is less than ten miles away, yet I've never set foot in it. I met Lady Bowden this spring. She was nice in spite of the family feud."

  "Margaret has always been a gracious lady. The feud is entirely by Bowden. I think Anthony would be glad to end it."

  "You know Lord Bowden?"

  "A little. He despises me." She smiled faintly. "He'll set another black mark against Anthony when we marry."

  "The more fool he." Rebecca gave a parting nod and mounted her pony so Lavinia could have the same privacy she herself had wanted. Then she rode back to Ravensbeck. The first pilgrimage was over. Tomorrow she would make the second, more difficult one: to the cliff where her mother had died.

  * * *

  A ride in the black and maroon Royal Mail coaches made flogging look merciful. Dedicated entirely to rapid delivery of the mail, their creature comforts were nonexistent. The passengers were jammed together like herrings in a barrel, and stops for food were brief and infrequent. But passengers tolerated the discomfort because the Royal Mail was by far the fastest way to travel.

  In a burst of extravagance brought on by his imp
roving finances, Kenneth bought two seats for himself because the only way he would fit into the standard sixteen-inch width was if he were cut into pieces. The discomfort was worth it, for he would reach Kendal, the town nearest Ravensbeck, in a mere two days—only a day and a half after the Seatons themselves arrived.

  Throughout the long journey, he told himself that he was starting at shadows. There was no reason to believe Frazier had gone to the Lake District to cause more trouble. So far, his campaign against Sir Anthony had been sporadic, to say the least.

  But the amateur bomb that had set fire to Seaton House had seemed like a declaration of war. The risk that Rebecca might be caught in the crossfire was not one Kenneth wanted to take.

  His anxiety built steadily as he traveled north. At Kendal's largest inn, he used his title and military manner shamelessly to hire the landlord's own horse. It was a powerful beast, easily able to carry Kenneth and his modest luggage. He set off immediately for Ravensbeck.

  He had never been in the Lake District before, and he was fascinated by the desolate splendor of the countryside. On any other trip, he would have been stopping to admire the views, perhaps to sketch or do a swift watercolor. This time, he pushed on as quickly as he could. There would be time to enjoy the scenery after he knew Rebecca was safe.

  * * *

  Lady Bowden finished the last of her tea and set the cup down with a delicate chink of porcelain. Then she raised her head and regarded her husband gravely. "I'm told that Anthony and his daughter have arrived at Ravensbeck for the summer."

  Bowden froze, his teacup halfway to his lips. "And what concern is that of yours, Margaret?"

  Lady Bowden linked her hands in her lap. "It's a lovely day. I am going to drive over to Ravensbeck to offer my condolences on Helen's death, as I should have done last summer."

  Her husband slammed down his cup. "We will have nothing to do with any member of that household!"

  "Perhaps you will not, but I will," she said in a steely voice. "For all of the years of our marriage, I have ignored your obsession with Helen and your hatred for your brother, but no longer. Anthony and Helen fell in love and married. That was unmannerly, but hardly a crime. It was pure malice to hire that nice young man to try to prove that Anthony is a murderer."