“Call me Rose.” She tipped her head toward her sister. “And you can call her Clara. You’ll quickly learn titles have little value here.”
Charlotte stared. “Forgive my…indelicacy, but I was under the impression that when it comes to Haverhall and its clientele, titles are almost as important as the money that stands behind them.”
Rose made a decidedly unladylike noise. “For our regular fall and spring terms, they are,” she said.
Charlotte tried to make sense of that and failed. Regular terms? “I’m still not entirely sure what it is I’m doing here,” she said, ignoring that unanswered question and focusing on the one that impacted her the most.
Clara cleared her throat. “Yes, my apologies for that. I would have given you some warning prior to our unexpected visit earlier, had my brother given me the time. However, he brought this—and you—to my attention only late last night, and he was rather cryptic in his urgency and his request for my assistance.” She strode into the room, her skirts swirling gracefully. “My presentation to your aunt was somewhat crude and shamelessly transparent, but we can’t have anyone believing you’ve been kidnapped for the next twelve weeks, can we?”
Charlotte shook her head, still at a loss. Somewhere, she’d missed something important.
Rose followed her into the room and settled herself on a brocaded chair near the hearth. “I understand that the position that Harland secured for you working in Coventry on the St. Michael’s commission will start immediately.”
Charlotte blinked, shocked excitement suddenly bursting through her confusion. The position that was secured? It couldn’t be that easy. Could it? “So I’m not going to Dover?”
Rose and Clara exchanged a glance, and Clara sighed. “Of course not. That is just a cover. My brother did not confirm this with you before he disappeared again, did he?”
“No?” Charlotte felt like she was feeling her way around in the dark. Should she admit that she had never actually met the baron? “I’m afraid it was all very…last-minute.”
“Ah. Only our two medical students are heading to Dover. You will be traveling directly to Coventry. Mr. Henry Lisbon, the architect overseeing the St. Michael’s project, was a classmate of Harland’s and remains a close friend. He specializes in cathedrals, churches, that sort of thing. We’ve used him before to place our architecture and art students, and even an aspiring mason once.”
Charlotte stared at Clara. “Architecture and art students?” Medical students? Aspiring mason?
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly how last-minute was this all?”
“Very?”
“And how was it that you came to the attention of my brother?”
“A mutual friend?” Charlotte tried, not sure what alternate explanation she could offer.
“I see. And what details did my brother give you about your placement with us, exactly? Or Haverhall, for that matter?”
“Not much?” Charlotte winced. It seemed every one of her answers came out a question.
“Hmph. Well then, allow me to explain.” Clara clasped her hands behind her back. “The students that are part of Haverhall’s exclusive programs, such as this one and the one we run in the summer, are not chosen based on their position in Debrett’s or the amount of coin in their family’s coffers. They are chosen for their ambition and their willingness to defy every preordained expectation put upon them by a society who most often measures their value by their title and their looks. They are selected because they dare to disregard the conventional and possess the courage to do more. To become more.” Miss Hayward was watching her. “To do things denied to them, not by ability or acumen but by gender. Architects. Doctors. Solicitors. Artists.” She paused. “And we help them do it.”
Charlotte stared at Clara, at a loss for words. Her throat felt unusually tight and her heart was racing. For the first time, she understood that she wasn’t alone. That there were others who had circumvented the condescending attitude that had labeled women like her as unnatural. That there were others who had broken themselves out of the cages constructed for them by antiquated attitudes and intransigent expectations.
“Are you all right, Lady Charlotte?” Rose asked from her chair.
“Yes.” She’d never been more all right in her life.
“And you are sure that this is something that you still wish to do?”
“God, yes,” Charlotte croaked.
“Good. Though I warn you, there are conditions that come with this placement you should be aware of before you fully commit.” It was Clara who tapped the toe of her half boot against the side of Charlotte’s trunk that contained her clothes. “You won’t need anything in here. You will travel not as Lady Charlotte, but as Charlie, to facilitate your ability to freely focus on your work and not the reaction or biases of those who may be working with you. Your appearance, like your identity, will be drastically altered. We—and Mr. Lisbon—have learned from experience that these measures, as unfortunate as they are, work best when we have students who are placed directly in their chosen field. Not everyone is…open-minded enough to see your value. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“You have no idea,” Charlotte said harshly, the frustration that had festered for so long igniting. Her brothers and parents had never regarded her as anything more than a decoration when she was a child, though not pretty or witty enough to display. As a debutante, she’d been called an epic failure. Now, as a woman, she was considered as nothing more than an embarrassing duty. From the time she’d been small, Aysgarth had always been her parents’ solution to her shortcomings. Out of sight, out of mind.
Charlotte was done with being invisible.
Miss Hayward arched an elegant brow. “Should you go through with this, you cannot reveal your identity to anyone, Lady Charlotte. You need to be aware of your conduct, your mannerisms, and even your knowledge of certain matters. It won’t always be easy.”
“No, I don’t expect it to be,” Charlotte replied, the frustration that had risen fading fast amid her growing excitement. No, excitement was too pale. What she was feeling now had crystalized into something more pure. Joy. Anticipation. Determination to succeed.
“How dependent are you upon servants?” Clara asked. “Can you make your own pot of tea? Boil an egg? Lay a fire?”
“Yes to all of those,” Charlotte said. All those years she’d been ignored and left to her own devices, free to range over the dales of Aysgarth and the empty rooms of Jasper House, had suddenly become not a penance but priceless.
“Good.” Rose stood and approached Charlotte, untying the bundle she still had in her hands and rolling it out over the top of Charlotte’s trunk. A comb, a razor, and a pair of shears glinted in the light, and she gestured to the chair that Charlotte had vacated. “I’ll start with your hair. It will grow back, of course, and upon your return, we have an entire host of excuses you may use for the alteration.”
I doubt anyone will notice, Charlotte thought to herself.
“We’ll move on to your clothing and your mannerisms,” Rose continued. “You’ll need to look—”
“Mannish,” Charlotte supplied. “I’ve heard that word already applied to my appearance more times than I can count. My jaw is too square, my face too wide. My height too cumbersome, my figure too sparse. Your task should not be difficult.”
“Predictable fools,” Rose hissed under her breath, and Charlotte was momentarily taken aback at her venom.
“It’s never bothered me,” Charlotte murmured.
Rose impaled her with a long look.
“That much,” she added more truthfully.
Rose looked as though she wanted to say something further though her sister interrupted.
“Perhaps you should get started,” Clara suggested tactfully.
“Yes,” her sister agreed, making a visible effort to temper her animosity on Charlotte’s behalf. Rose reached out and fingered a long strand of hair that had come loose from its pins. “Are you
ready to be introduced to a new Charlotte?”
Charlotte took a deep breath, the prospect of that freedom positively intoxicating. “I’ve been ready my whole life.”
Chapter 3
Flynn Rutledge shifted on the uncomfortable pew and gazed up at the massive windows that soared up into the heavens. His eyes roamed the colored glass, windows crafted with a delicate detail that artisans centuries ago had perfected. It was almost dizzying, the way the brilliant morning light streamed through the collage of color, dappling everything around him like a field of wildflowers. He let his head fall back, the sheer grandeur and size of what had been built by human hands so long ago almost as humbling as the skill in which it had been done.
Flynn sighed and straightened, glancing down at the sketchbook he held in his hands, frowning at the empty pages. Amid all this majesty, he was going to have to come up with something magnificent if he was going to accomplish anything over the next months. God knew it would be up to him to save this damn project. The corners of his mouth drew down farther.
Charlie Beaumont. The name of the man Lisbon had given him as the other artist Flynn would be working with. He’d never heard of him. Nor had any member of the Royal Academy he’d questioned, though there was no way to tell if any of those sanctimonious blackguards were being honest with him. But the apprentices Flynn had asked had offered the same answer, and none of them had any reason to lie. This Beaumont had seemingly appeared out of thin air, unknown. And if Flynn had never heard of him, how was he supposed to believe that this man had sufficient talent for this commission?
Flynn needed this project to go right. His eyes wandered to the framed canvas that was set on the dais of the apse. It was an image of Mary, her expression soft and serene, the baby Jesus settled in her arms. When Flynn had painted it five years prior, he’d had the copy he’d seen of Raphael’s painting of the Madonna del Granduca in his mind, the brilliant colors and beautiful lines providing all the inspiration he’d needed.
And he’d executed that portrait extraordinarily well, Flynn thought, feeling another wash of the aching, angry sadness that festered every time he looked at it now. That portrait had earned him a place on this commission, but all the enthusiasm and ambition that he had possessed five years ago had since been lost. Destroyed, perhaps, would be a better word. And now he found himself adrift and jaded, cynicism replacing the joy he had once—
“It’s exquisite.”
“What?” Flynn started, realizing that he was no longer alone. There was someone standing in front of him, his form and features half obscured by the light behind him.
“The portrait of the Madonna and her child. You captured her inner peace with incredible skill. Raphael would have approved.”
Flynn scowled, shifting and squinting against the light to better see the person who seemed as familiar with his previous work here as he was with a Renaissance master. He sounded young, whoever he was.
“My apologies if I’ve intruded. Mr. Lisbon indicated that I could find you here. I wanted to take the chance to introduce myself.”
Flynn pushed himself out of the pew and stared at the youth before him. He had a bulky canvas bag slung over one shoulder and a long, leather-covered tube for rolled canvases strapped across his back. Dammit, had Lisbon gone against his wishes and hired him an apprentice? Did he think Flynn had the time for such foolery? His scowl deepened. “Who are you, exactly?”
There was an uncomfortable pause. And then, “I’m Charlie Beaumont.”
Flynn goggled at the boy. He was tall and lanky, with short brown hair that fell carelessly around his ears and over his forehead. Eyes the color of warm caramel matched the hue of the baggy, slightly rumpled coat and trousers he was wearing. His voice was soft and raspy, his cheeks smooth above his bright red scarf, and Flynn wondered if the boy even shaved. This was Charlie Beaumont?
Jesus Christ.
“You can’t be serious,” Flynn snarled. This was the last thing he needed. His own twenty-nine years had been questioned as being inadequate to execute a project of this magnitude, so to have a…a child as a partner was ridiculous.
“I can assure you, Mr. Rutledge, I am quite serious.” The boy simply gazed at him with steady eyes, shifting his bag on his shoulder. If Flynn’s manner fazed this boy, he wasn’t showing it.
“How old are you?” Flynn demanded.
“You first.” The response was cool.
God help him, the whelp had an insolent tongue to boot. If he didn’t need this commission, if he hadn’t been forced to— Flynn stopped before his mind could go down that pointless path. Again.
The boy cleared his throat. “Look, Mr. Rutledge, it seems we got off on the wrong foot. I only wished to introduce myself and say that I am looking forward to working with an accomplished artist such as yourself—”
“Where is Lisbon?” Flattery would get this pup nowhere. And nowhere was exactly where Beaumont would be going once he got to the bottom of this.
“I believe he is still working at the rear of the nave.”
Flynn stalked by the boy, the soles of his boots echoing on the stone floor. This was not the nursery of some country house that they were painting with bunnies and birds. This was a work that would be judged by those who had the means and the power to offer him a key to their world. A world where he could stop struggling and have access to everything that artists like Thomas Lawrence or John Crome did.
“Lisbon.” Flynn spotted the architect leaning over a set of schematic drawings that had been laid out across a narrow table just inside the wide doors. Behind him, a handful of masons were working to prepare the area where the painted panels would be mounted.
Henry Lisbon looked up, his expression of slight distraction giving way to a frown when he saw Flynn approaching. “Rutledge.” Lisbon’s green eyes skipped past his shoulder, and Flynn glanced back to find that Beaumont had followed him. Of course. Because that is what puppies did.
“I see you’ve met Mr. Beaumont,” Lisbon said. “Please tell me you’ve come to share your design ideas with me.” There was an edge to his words. “The bishop has been asking for more detailed drawings.”
“May I have a word?” Flynn tried to arrange his face into what he hoped was composed reason.
Lisbon glanced down at the drawings. “Go ahead.”
“In private?”
The architect’s frown deepened, and he made a noise of impatience. “You have two minutes.”
Fine. This wouldn’t take one. Flynn followed Lisbon’s substantial frame back down the aisle until they reached the first transept pillar.
“Is there a problem, Rutledge?” he asked, pushing dark hair in need of a barber from his face with irritation. He couldn’t be more than five or six years older than Flynn, but silver had started to streak his temples.
“Charlie Beaumont.”
The architect dropped his hand. “What about him?”
“Who is he? Where did he come from?”
Lisbon put his hands on his hips. “This isn’t Almack’s, Rutledge, and I am not your damn chaperone. I thought I’d leave the introductions and the getting-to-know-you part to the two of you.”
“I’ve not heard of him.”
“So?”
Flynn took a deep breath. “Is he any good?”
Two dark brows shot up. “You’re questioning my judgment now?”
“Of course not.” Flynn pinched the bridge of his nose. “But this work has to be spectacular. My name is going to be on this.”
Lisbon’s expression darkened. “So is mine. And as such, I’ve hired the best. But if you are reconsidering—”
“No. That’s not— I’m not reconsidering anything.”
“Good. I’m glad we had this talk.” Lisbon brushed by him.
“But Beaumont is a mere boy.”
“He’s an artist.”
“At the very least I think I should take a look at some of his—”
The architect spun. “Listen carefully
, Rutledge. I did not hire you because you went to the right schools or studied in the right countries or exhibited your work in the right places. I hired you because of your skill. What makes you think I hired Beaumont for anything less?”
Flynn could feel his teeth clench. Why did this man have to sound so reasonable?
“The next time you have something to share with me, Rutledge, I am confident that it will be on paper. Now go do your job, or I will find someone who will.”
Flynn watched the architect retreat, trying, with effort, to relax his jaw. He took a deep breath and turned to stare sightlessly in the direction of the apse. He needed to relax. Getting frustrated with fate was one thing. Taking that frustration out on Lisbon or Beaumont or anyone else in the chain of events that had deposited him here was not helpful.
“I believe this is yours.”
Flynn jumped. Dammit, the boy moved like a cat. “What?”
“Your sketchbook.” Beaumont was holding out the heavy book of pressed paper to him. “You left it on the pew.”
Flynn took it from the boy’s hands. Delicate hands, he couldn’t help but notice. Long, tapered fingers that had not suffered manual labor but were stained with colorful pigments in the crevices of his nail beds. Flynn supposed he should find that somewhat reassuring. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, wondering how much Beaumont had overheard.
“I’d enjoy seeing any sketches that you might have for the panels,” Beaumont offered, sounding hopeful.
Flynn scowled. He couldn’t show the boy sketches because he didn’t have one he was happy with. Everything that he had done so far seemed…less than impressive, even the rough preliminary drawings that he had submitted months ago to Lisbon. They were missing a dimension, as though the soul of each was absent. And that terrified him to no end. Because no matter how many drawings he did or how many sketches he started, he couldn’t seem to reclaim something that had once come so easy to him.
There were two panels to be completed—each as tall as two men and as wide as one, both to be mounted on either side of the interior doors of the church. They would be highly visible, and they would be the last thing people would see as they left. And Flynn intended to make them memorable. He just wasn’t entirely sure how.
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